I am not Magritte




Spring. A premonition

Gloria in excelsis
and a flock of cranes
over my head, as I
cross the bridge.
Dark sands flowing.
A sigh, a soft wind
from above, almost
but not yet.
The exit wound
of the world
is bleeding.
One moment.
On the first winter's
day my feet
stray on the side
of dancing

(Warszawa, 2017)




Sky came apart, hangs flaking
over dark moldy river.
It is almost clear,
breath turning sharper,
all adds up.
Then the levee breaks
thing come forward: mud and stars,
figs, thistles, and bile.
Fishes and stones
jump upstream -
in this barren harvest
of winter. Let us stop
and listen:
something gives way.
Something roars.
is sung
into being.

(Warszawa, 2017)


Sista december

När varen kom för sjätte gången
detta år, steg det upp
små virvlar i luften
i ett fågelrus.
De två kvinnorna
med långt grått hår,
sittandes på muren vid sjön -
Demeter och en äldre,
visare Persefone,
vände sig varmt mot varandra.
Deras himmel och min
flöt samman för en stund
och jag såg:
ingen älskar så starkt
som dessa två, och ändå kan
inte ens de göra allt bra.
Kära mor, allrakäraste dotter,
förlåt oss alla våra fel,
men mest av allt
vår likgiltighet.
Den som förädlar
och som får oss
att verka fulländade.
Hjälp oss, små
flyktiga varelser att alltid
bevara det allra finaste vi har - vår

(Marsaxlokk, 2017)


Old lead mine
Their eyes were dull,
their veins a cold descent


The tiny dark
only a child
could work
seven days a week,
except one hour
each Sunday,
reserved for Chapel.

A vein of galena
worth a thousand sparks
of love and spirit.
Roots growing upwards.

England, here lies your Grail
into underground rivers,
the lives never lived,
the tears never shed.

(Sheffield, 2018)


Snake Pass
The valley closes,
snow folds like dough.
Night clouds slip down the slopes,

and curl up,
side by side.

We arrive at the stone house,
and then

wheels balk,

we slide

all the way down backwards -

to land softly
in a nightful of murmuring mermaids.

(Sheffield, 2018)


10:21 to Leeds

The man on the train
in the thick mildewed coat
staggers and kneels.


down by the rail tracks
the cabbage field glows,
the cabbage heads blush.


He gets up,
brushes off
his knee

but everything has gotten back
to drab beiges and browns.

(Sheffield, 2018)


The fairytale girl

Love does not
conquer all.
The hook always
brings up something
red and shivering.

When it all fell away
what remained
was a handful of gold:
rings and chains,
grains of red
burning sand.

Please, let me cry up
a sea where
it can
fall down,
and sleep.

(Petworth, 2018)



Brexit song

I don't answer that question
I say: I'm from Sheffield
It�s as close to the truth
as nothing these days

I am a walrus
I eat pierogi
I've been to Baker street
in a submarine

My mother looked lovely
in her light Biba dresses
She liked pierogi
She dreamed of gardens
green hills

I've come
from the land
of ice and snow
I watch raindrops fall
as right as
back then

I won't answer that question
You can't fool the children
Will we ever walk
the mountains
the hills

Do widzenia, do jutra!

(Sheffield, 2018)



A game of running and weaving:
Athena the magnificent
is not moved,
she enjoys hurting you,
but not much.
She still does not care.
The riddle is inside
the tapestry, but in order
to solve it, you would need to
all the rejection
you had accepted from her as a gift,
that you thought you could spin
into that other thread.
You should have known better:
that story too does not
end up well.

(London, 2018)


Home comet

Umbilical cord of dark matter

Protons, electrons gush

through the room, the one with the windows

full of tramways and trees

Dark neutrinos spill off

the book shelves

alphabetically ordered

(but some books hang on, fondly, by the ear)

nothing is left out in the library

(except… except…)

The presentable hi-fi,

and the generous table,

the big, wrinkled cloth

rooms with open arms,

in much more than a gesture

I remember

a time when the radiators

hummed, and the smell of coffee

conquered all,

an unfinished

bottle of red wine and

two glasses, two flip-flops; really,

what more

does one need to believe

in kinship. Unconditional


The place with strings

of morning sunshine,

the promised home, even if

not promised. Whatever.

The dark lining has always been there.

Dark gravity that

filters through ribcage

Starry hunger,

old wound, old bond.

(Sheffield, 2018)



Taki niebieski
Moje miasto jak nowe w tym niebie
Do twarzy nam obojgu,
do tańca

Jak mogłabym
ten kolor bloków osiedla
za Żelazną Bramą,
w domyśle tramwaj za tramwajem,
cała gama chodników i spóźniony

Tak samo jak wtedy wierzę
we wróble w włosach, w bliskość tafli
światła, schodzę po schodkach
w sam środek mnogolistnej kotliny,
gdzie można schować się tak,
że absolutnie
nic się nie dzieje

Jest tylko to, co jest:
Kropla kosmosu

(Warszawa, 2018)


Of spring feet
and eyes tickle
starstuck winter.
It holds
hoarse frost.
One angel just
turned into salt.
The ticking
is not a bomb,
the whirr not
We are not pipe dreams.
I am not Magritte.

(Warszawa, 2018)



To źródło przestało
bić dla ciebie, Ateno.
Pora stać się człowiekiem.

(Warszawa, 2018)


Marzec 2018

Ani liścia, ni źdźbła,
chodnik – biały dywan,
Widzę w twoim oku
moje, z twoim, i tak
aż do dna.

słychać ptasi okrzyk ulgi,
puls żywicy uderza
do głowy.
Słodki śmig ziemi
już prześwituje.

Wiosna wstrząśnie światem.

(Warszawa, 2018)


Stopami, stopami

Nic nie przeczuwając,
Warszawiacy codziennie przechodzą
pod czeremchą,
przechodzą pod gniazdem wron,
przechodzą pod niebem,
pod jemiołą,
pod palmą na oknie.
W studzience dudni.
W uskoku cegły
oczy małe zwierzęta.
Coś oddycha w ścianie.
Przechodzimy codziennie przy sobie,
bark koło barku,
biodro przy biodrze.
W ziemi schował się grzmot.
Tramwaj, zanim nadjedzie
brzmi w szynie.
Przechodzimy codziennie obok siebie:
kropla w kroplę,
lud Ziemi.

(Warszawa, 2018)


You could meet anyone.
Who knows who walks
silently here,
and I have seen two of them
Early you still
see footprints
follow. They cross
the floor.
A presence rubs benign against
the building's ribcage,
than this shade can hold.
The floors flicker.
The stillness barely happens.
It is the tide
against the pulse, shadow
longer than angle's fall.
Never white,
not once.

(Warszawa, 2018)


Dowód na istnienie światła

My tacy skromni tutaj
stopami na trawie,
rękami na biodrach.
Wiosna zerwała ludziom
ważność z piersi. Nagle
tacy gibcy w pasie na tej ścieżce,
tak skłonni szumieć w liściach,
giąć się, jakby miasto
było śpiewką.
Gdzieś między piętą a dużym palcem
jest punkt oparcia;
ruszyła bryła.
Jakby nikt nigdy serio nie brał
ni władzy, ni śmierci.

(Warszawa, 2018)



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