The beginning

This world was created
by Kronos, vomiting
stones and gods into being,
rivers, fields, and clouds,
the rainbow,
Inside out.
The insides of Kronos
became the blue womb.
The blue skies
around us



Awkwardness, blunt space

the oh so familiar sense

of not fitting in

hello strangeness

here I come, enchanted



How can it be?

How can it spring

from this nest of givens

The accidental foot, bone,

worldview, the call of duty,

a swift twitch in the bloodstream

Don't be the name

Become the naming

the aiming

the ing

come on, spit it out


Ode my Muse

Sing for me, Muse

I will follow you

I am following you

like love, like sleep

like a sudden gasp of nausea

I want to sit near you

up on a hill

In the plentiful garden

The wind shall pass trough

but you are not in it

a fire shall burst through

but you are not in it

You are

shadow and ash

Speak to me;


with the breath,

the word,

not with avowal,

but with the waves,

the tightened embrace

just as we fall

- We are falling -

The spirit is sucked into

the lung

You, Muse,

right at the centre



The mind lies

at the intersection

of worlds.

Some are on the outside

and some within;

they all have rules

that define them,

that allow us to move

in them. Of so many

we know

nothing these days,

yet we leave our imprints

in them, waves upon waves.

We - swimmers,

we - travelers,

erratic and blind,

who choke on the depths,

seek cures for infinity,

while things


in endless



What comes up

to the surface

is froth:

the thing we call time.


The trees

What shall I do?  Both my parents gone.

My mother, the smooth walnut tree,

cut down in her prime.

She who cradled me,

consoled me,

told me stories

that no one can match.

Where shall I go now?

Where shall I go when I hurt,

when I have done something wrong,

when no tears can wash

my eyes clear? I am


My father, the oak tree

up on the hill,

who taught me that courage is a power of mind

to reach beyond structures,

to think the unthought,

he who taught me to grow.

One day he was struck by lightning,

his roots died slowly.

Now I am alone,

no mother, no father

in this world,

no one to tread before me,

no one to call me child.

So take this my song, my adoptive mother,

black swallow,

take it to weave with it

a nest

in the shadow

of each fallen tree.



(for JK)

This is how it began:

I learned to fly,

I wrote about dreams;

then the angels arrived.

They bustled, stirred,

their feathers rustled,

they whispered words to breathe in,

but not

to repeat;

then, dropping the ladder,

they fled, laughing, laughing,


(from an excess of love

       - but what is there to say?

       not even angels can cope).



Decade of the Fish  

(for JK)

The decade if the fish: the man giving voice
to the managed, against the voice of the managers;
I find a home: to build and to be (but it’s not the same place);
hope is cherished as a sister of faith;
a whole hour of poetry on mainstream TV.
How to survive so much life?
My brain is overwhelmed.
I must ask the birds.



Watcher of the skies

Skies roaring with autumn,
the evening rises
slowly, like dust
strewn in my eyes.
Somewhere else, hurricanes
tear at the Moon.
In my solitude
I can clearly hear her
hoarse, muffled voice.
What song is she singing,
what tune so electric
is calling on us: wolves,
lunatics, watchers
of the skies?



The point where I celebrate

This is where I celebrate:
both here and there,
yesterday and
the blue skies of August and the crouching November,
the raptures,
all the tears I have shed,
as the snake sheds its skin,
the misery, the poisons that flowed
from black grisly hearts,
and the love, oh the love!
I am taking it with me
- traveling light I shall take nothing more,
only love -
Every breath, every step
that has brought me here,
to this point,
the point
where I celebrate.



Blood on the stone steps
full moon floating by
The tyranny of strangeness
washing down the night
Have we ever been this close,
this city and I?
Bone of my bone
stone of my stone
piercing, caustic



Stronger than gravity

stronger than fear

is the runaway dream

of forgiveness

of leaving

it all


starting again

reborn and untied

at once young and old

Oh blessed is the one

who sits on the plane

watching the ground

swirl like a river

Toes travel faster

than trains and tornadoes


I truly am

a legend

(Over Britain, 2014)


Jesus and the beanstalk

My brother Jesus
climbed up the beanstalk
up to the sky.
He spent fifty years
all alone, in a rapture,
it was very cold.
Now he looks down
now he sees
the city
under his feet.
So he spreads his broken arms
and he flies
down, down, down
Here is
where we meet.

(Sheffield, 2014)


The dream about a mountain

I dreamed about climbing
the top of a while
and blue mountain
A voice told me to
lie down, enjoy
despite the biting cold
before everyone else
gets here
The moment that
is a sculptor
cutting deep
cutting away

(Warszawa, 2014)


Airport dreaming

Awake in an airport
shards float in and out
of the line of vision
Godot never promised
he would come
Hundreds of wheeled suitcases
crashing in
The incessant vomit of attractions
Postcards from anywhere
Swallow anything
then fall down on your knees
in the faithless chapel
These are your own
fingers of ice
like Brutus and Cassius
your repellent reflections
in procession of mirrors
Crowd belching forth
Nothing matters
all is long lost
The cleaner will sing for you
a sad lullaby, leaning
against his big chummy machine
You must look up to the tables
blinking, glittering
of times and places
If you miss the one
then it
gets real

(Sheffield, 2014)


The prefect passage

Black veins bursting

Waves of darkness pulsing, washing the shores of me

In a space shutting down

I dreamed of a room full of old books

Oh the smell of dust of home

Wherever I go, you follow guardian devil

erasing my footsteps

I'm a phoenix

I can summon hope

- erasing, erasing -

Hearts burst in my guts

small pointless bangs

nothing registers

You are always near me,

so composed sincerely erasing,

not stopping even for yourself

everything goes

so selflessly

Only the chill

reveals your perfect passage

(Sheffield, 2014)



Lightning from above
you, struck
like a ripe apple
right into my hand
poisonous and wild
My ally, my brother
never born to this world
You are he to whom
I owe the air that I breathe
the earth I walk on
(it is I who am your shadow
it is you who are real)
You are the gasp of ice in my innards
the echo of silence
just before every word
Brother, cast
in nothingness
I meet you in of my dreams

You wait for me
as faithful as death

(Warszawa, 2014)


July 2014

(for Jadwiga Dziekan-Michalik)

One glorious summer day
my mother turned into a swift.
She then had long ceased to eat,
now she stopped drinking,
she grew light as a bird.
One day, as she looked
up at the sky
the air turned soft as honey -
and she flew.
Right out of the cocoon,
her light, tiny body,
her beautiful face,
her hands.
It all fell away like silk,
like stars.
She never looked back.

(Fier, 2014)



The antidote to love

is forgiveness.

The last, the final


when, like a sea cucumber,

one has vomited up oneself.

In vain trying to contain

the body

bursting out of itself.

The mind is at last stilled.

The void

- a polished diamond -

from deep within,

thrown up last.

Like hope.

When there is nothing left,

not even this,

I see you, so human,

waving on the other side.

You cannot see me.

Such things happen.

It is time to go,

my mother, my child.

(Sheffield, 2014)


Ora pro nobis

Ora pro nobis
lupus mundi
The world is murmuring
biding its time
the world is dark
Dreams forming shades
over sweet sister Earth
Run, wolf, run for us
howl for us
pray no dream is spilled
when it's time to wake up
Wolf of the world
wolf of good counsel
ora pro nobis
pray for us
pray with us

(Paris, 2015)


Spirit of '68

I am a prophet
of Imagination,
I come in peace,
I have no ambitions,
only nine billion dreams.

This land is echoless
and the king in dying
in his palace of gold.

I have lost my way.

Please, come and find me,
walk with me.
Dream gravity pulls
everything lightwards.

(Sheffield, 2015)


Kassandra's song

Times of insomnia,
white noise in the bloodstream.
I am a stranger
in a normal world,
piercingly awake.
With no one to call me daughter,
mother, or father,
I'm nobody's sister and nobody's brother.
The day is adrift.
The light has sunk into the earth:
Munin does not return

(Sheffield, 2015)



Strange times:

a gigantic theatrical vortex

like a beating heart

So many stories

drawing in

but then failing

to unravel

Roles suspended in mid-thrust

Such times like a dream of waking up

Like a ghost dam

Like Odin


(Sheffield, 2015)



The world spinning

only out of habit

Reluctant Zephyrus, numb Boreas

sweeping London's streets

To sail is necessary

but no port in sight

just billions of beacons

The birds are singing louder

we can hear them

through the heavy traffic

Everything they say

is vital

Redemption is there

such a pity

none of us understand

(Sheffield, 2015)



One is still young
who cries
of loneliness

who forgets to eat
from sadness

One is still young
who fears it
may be too late -

I could have loved
each of you,
man, woman, city

There is promise
if one looks for light
into nighttime windows

Even when
no invitations
come forth day or night

For what is a bone
in the face of rock

What is a soul
when the mountains are shaking
with anger and grief

I could have loved you
devil, human,

(Sheffield, 2015)


The T-shirt

Who are you?
asked the man's T-shirt
I don't know
I was someone
I am someone
and tomorrow
is another thing

(Sheffield, 2015)



Chasing aurora borealis
on the highway to Gdansk

I realize things are
on the brink

of bursting out in whisper

I must try to remember

their names

The journey knows itself

the traveller
is its recurring dream,

the snake without a tail

The night is hollow

in need of consolation

But neither she nor I

can hang on till the end

(Warszawa, 2015)


Hello, summer

Hello summer,

will you marry me?

Will you stay,

will you be glorious?

Honeylight, fragrant

shadows, sparrows' bacchanalia,

and rivers of asphalt

under my feet -

All this you give me

and yet

you keep your distance

as if you

don't know me at all?



don't go just yet

Be glorious.

(Sheffield, 2015)


The revolution

The revolution
will not be televised
It will be sung and howled,
it will be danced,
on rooftops,
bled in the streets,
it will turn bombers
into butterflies.
It will be dreamed
and dreamed again,
until it bursts alive

(Epidauris, 2015)


To Boreas

Don’t love me, Boreas,
I don’t have wine
for you,
if I smiled
it was ever out of human kindness,
nothing more

There is nothing I want from you
I don’t want to wear
your broken heart
like a crown of thorns

I don’t love you, Boreas,
I don’t want to save you
Please give up on me
I have seen your dreams and I
do not like them
You are not of my kind

Yet you have such lightness
among brothers and sisters
so many lines
of untameable flight

Please go away, Boreas,
but if you choose to stay,
I’d rather freeze
than walk with you

When you are around
a cold vein
bursts right under my heart
and a black stream of void
is discharged
into my blood

Don’t love me, Boreas,
you mistook humanity
for boldness;
I wouldn’t walk with you on water,
I wouldn’t walk with you
on the bridge.

(Warszawa, 2015)


I was wrong

I thought I desired
but I was so wrong!
Fame would have only
disappointed me.
What I wanted was love,
brave, unconditional,
blue skies
and the Tree of Life
right across my living room floor,
the sweet breath of Gaia
on my brow.
All I wanted was everything
bees, summer and honey,
to see Hugin and Munin
returning with rainbows.
I just wanted God's
pure undivided
attention, a guardian angel
proclaiming peace,
while preparing sandwiches for the road:
it's allright, this is home.
The great walnut of Love
landing, bursting
in everyone's heart.

(Sheffield, 2015)



We arrive by noon
red mud lending
us Golem’s legs
The host, slightly drunk
and his spindly wife
cleaning steps, Zen-like
over giant broom
The town centre
two hours’ walk behind us
with huge empty buildings
made of money and glass,
with some scabby donkeys,
roadside watermelons
an placated rails
This is the heart of the countryside
or, rather, its liver,
certain to regenerate
Small tawny dogs
sniffing for news in the backyard
And then:
a roar cutting through the dust
the huge TV screen rocking with trumpets
announcing the glory
of one football team, somewhere,
and of kingdom come.

(Sheffield, 2015)


Bob D.

One night in late November
there was an angel
hanging around, smoking
outside my window.
City below,
full moon up on the hill.
It's alright,
he said,
I'm a Bob Dylan song.

(Sheffield, 2015)



Enblued, engreened,
I walk down the solar streets of Warsaw
Hit by a sudden smell of ether
I turn around:
It’s the statue of Mickiewicz
so lonely
standing there behind the fence
so much not his
(we used to sit on the steps,
imagining the poet loved us,
such as we were)


This city has a bulletproof heart
like an armadillo
or a vampire
Will it ever heal?
For months now
I haven't felt like writing
in my native tongue


As the sparrows sing
their song of Warsaw
the city
the cosmic string
sounding the music of the spheres
wrapped up
in the greens and the blues
that line the city
can almost
bring myself
to believe them

(Warsaw/Sheffield, 2015)


Ned Beg Hom Ruy, a poet from the Isle of Man

When he walked in the fields,

he didn’t stop

to pick up a stone,

like all the people

He was always looking

slightly up and away

They said: he has his head in the clouds

When the hard times hit

and forced him away

from the island,

he just kept spinning around

and around

He did not last long. The stones

would not match the clouds

the songs and the waves stayed separate

The horizon had shifted.

When in Cregneash, look at the sky

slightly up and away: there

you will see


(Sheffield, 2016)


one day
the temple

the wise one she's been pursuing all those years
does neithr care nor listen; will not
notice her gone

such loneliness,
self-possessed and foolish,
the fig leaf from before the Big Bang

absence to absence,
make a perfect shield
a minute's silence for nothing -
that is all.

(Sheffield, 2016)



I dreamed of watching the moon

from my window in Warsaw.

I was amazed

when I saw:

it was a huge ice-cream in a cone.

I took a photo of it

with my mobile phone.

The one that takes long sideways pictures.
Then it grew ice cold.
Huge -

the ice-cream was.

(Sheffield, 2016)


Professor A.Z.


He said: until disproved
we are immortal;
one day, someone
will end up not dying.
He said: I don’t go to funerals,
but I promise
I shall go to my own.
He said he was a staunch believer
in changing his mind.

(Sheffield, 2016)



I dreamed the music
of the peace of the world.
It held on to my memory
for a while, upon awakening,
it dissolved
in my body

(Sheffield, 2016)


Midday train

Sister in grace,

when I see you on the platform,

halfway between, as I am

on the train,

you smile

right through me.

Your smile tickles

my throat.

Then I see a heron, half asleep

in the same


(Sheffield, 2016)


Ides of March

There's a suggestion of a smell of spring.
Not quite of blossom, fresh
sprouting; rather, a premonition
enclosed in the response
of earth to the step,
the way the dust stirs
the breath,
the afterimages in the shape of white swirls
formed by the tang
of sunshine.

Yes, it can happen.
Redemption and revolution

(Kraków, 2016)



The Earth is not our sister
and she is not dying.
But the chill we can feel is real: she has
ceased to love us.

The breath she is drawing is not
her last. When you wake up just before dawn
next time, hold yours and listen: how deep it is.

She inhales and her eyes
ale closing.

(Warszawa, 2016)



As night approaches, winter
comes. This time it comes
as an absence.

Jar open wide,
empty. The seeds
of frost

start rising

by the wayside.

Meanwhile, everything is spoken for.

The treadmill matches music
of the spheres to

your stride.

All has been said and done. Nothing

is left, silence long gone, the rest

is a cackle of cacophonies, not a single crack.

Nothing to offer. Nothing left but


(Warszawa, 2016)


Songs of Betrayal

The moon wind is blowing on my balcony,

the sirens are rubbing their

fish tails on the floor that clings

to my ceiling, my concrete

ceiling. I still cannot

bring myself to write in any of my childhood tongues.

Sometimes I wake up from dreams

recited like revelation, in rose hip

language. There was this music filled passage in the

underground station, the old town, Gamla Stan,

on my way back from a concert,

where I was standing in a doorway, a crowd around me,

the jamb pressed against my cheek, oil-paint

off white,

a small step, a wind;

I could have spoken in the tongues of men and angels.

Rosa canina, Rosa dumalis, Rosa glauca,

pray for us, Rosa obtusifolia, Rosa tomentosa, have mercy

on us. May the music



(Warszawa, 2016)


Mourning is the most radical thing we can do these days

Daedalus lost his head, not his
wings. Master craftsman - I found
the headless body lying
in a street
of Warsaw. It’s spring

and the city
is filled with fragrance,
the sublime
lilac smell of weddings and funerals.

Someone has to bury all those dreams.

The roles we were playing with zeal,
the work, well intentioned, the
dependable guts, the ways
we were good against
the dark background, the hope and the hopefulness
against hope. The ghosts
imprisoned beneath the victor’s tale.

I must
- we need to -

his tight, splintered body
fallen, in the kindness of dust.

(Warszawa, 2016)



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