{"id":350,"date":"2025-11-10T12:42:36","date_gmt":"2025-11-10T11:42:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/?page_id=350"},"modified":"2025-11-10T15:56:54","modified_gmt":"2025-11-10T14:56:54","slug":"poetry-english","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/?page_id=350","title":{"rendered":"Poetry – english"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

=>> Wiersze w j\u0119zyku polskim<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Library<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Do you have something to return?
Has anything changed for you \u2014
an address, a number,
a heartbeat perhaps?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know how to fill
these shelves of time
with stories of goodness
and the slow turning of pages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Do you have something to return?
A heart? A hand?
No \u2014 the heart is gone,
it died waiting through the years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pain<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Clouds gather in my eyes,
I cannot think clearly.
The bulb is off \u2014 darkness.
My space narrows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rhymes no longer flow
with the river of true emotion.
I do not know if I\u2019ll survive sleep \u2014
perhaps I\u2019ll fall as a real corpse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pain binds the eyes,
twists the mind with ribbons of fate.
How to live a day creatively
with so much pain, so much weight?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A tram ride won\u2019t help,
nor a book \u2014 it only sticks
into one heavy mass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pain leaps on cobblestones,
creeps through sand like a snail\u2026
and wrestles with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll Tie My Shoes for Spring<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll dress in thoughts of green,
buy flowers, as always,
and wash my face clean
of the ache in my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll drink strong coffee
that stirs the blood
on this cloudy day,
and opens my eyes to rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With flowers I\u2019ll return
to a house asleep with emptiness,
place them in a vase
filled with heavy, silent tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cisza<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Silence)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Naked bodies, tender,
wandered through the sheets.
Thoughts were so real
they found love in the whiteness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They didn\u2019t seek comfort
in corners of the room \u2014
they began to die within the body,
and in their dying,
they drank from you
all calm, all patience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They fell beside \u2014 no longer thoughts.
They are gone.
Silence spreads through the body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dla Ciebie<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(For You)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll paint you on canvas \u2014
a portrait, maybe indoors,
with your favorite poet\u2019s book,
lost in thought, with a woman near.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ll paint you with morning coffee,
in the whiteness of a robe, at breakfast,
with mist behind the window,
a curtain\u2019s lace,
and crimson glass half-lit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Changing the font for something finer,
and a jug,
an ordinary day \u2014 without haste or race,
without cars, crowds, or stores.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your hands reach the zenith,
and in wordless bloom,
silence flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dla c\u00f3rki<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(For My Daughter)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

To give momentum
and deep meaning
to a rhymed verse
of an old date.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today is a sad day
of remembrance for the gone.
It\u2019s hard to rhyme
when life is still young.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Too few experiences,
small-lived days at home,
and all my sense, my reason \u2014
is only in you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Emigracja<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Emigration)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I leave every six months,
and never arrive \u2014
not to that promised land
from the papers,
of golf fields and palm horizons,
sea breeze and pelicans
with fresh fish in their beaks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A space of highways, cars,
glass and metal,
of new possibilities,
where anything seems
possible \u2014
so it seems<\/em>\u2026
foreign lands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Etap<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Stage)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I forgot how to write,
lost the lightness of spirit.
I no longer see
the ladybug, the bird,
the brush, the butterfly, the beetle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mist no longer moves me,
forests stand like walls.
I am featherless now \u2014
no longer flying, it seems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer gets stuck in my throat,
tears have dried into freckles \u2014 forever.
How to wake at last?
How to shake the whole self awake?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The water no longer circles,
the sand marked with a stick \u2014
no pain from any jab.
A bird lies dead beneath my window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where color fades into darkness,
where mist becomes morning,
I slowly sink into nothingness,
and turn to stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gdy co\u015b boli<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(When It Hurts)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

When it hurts \u2014
hang your fingers
on the edge of the last shelf,
press your forehead
to the cold grain of the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you have hung yourself there,
stretch every string of the body,
tighten your throat \u2014 to scream.
Drive your gaze like a nail
into the place where thought once left a mark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When it hurts,
fall asleep \u2014
but know:
you may wake
to greater pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jednym haustem<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(In One Gulp)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drink my coffee,
hoping it will heal
the ache in my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sun hides at last \u2014
uncertain \u2014
into the house of eternal hunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I curl like a kitten
or a ball of yarn,
catching a thread of blanket with my claw.
Lonely is the pain
of a night-time head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Papierosy \u2013 rzuci\u0142am<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Cigarettes \u2013 I Quit)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cigarettes \u2014 I quit.
Flowers \u2014 I don\u2019t get any.
Injections \u2014 there are none.
Valentine days \u2014 gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What remains is a quiet room,
an afternoon of unoffered gifts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dom<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Home)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home is a quiet corner
where the floorboards remember your steps,
where dust settles like old letters
and the air smells
of yesterday\u2019s sunlight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A chair leans slightly,
not yet worn out,
as if waiting for someone
to tell the room
that it is enough \u2014
that it is whole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

S\u0142owem<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(With a Word)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a word,
I can build a bridge
over the abyss of my thoughts,
or a wall
to hide the trembling heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each word is a seed:
it sprouts, grows,
turns into a forest
where silence whispers
the things I cannot say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jesie\u0144<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(Autumn)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn comes softly,
like the shadow of a bird
falling on a garden path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Leaves curl into themselves,
like memories
that we pretend to forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind hums
a low, old song,
and I walk
through streets of amber and rust,
gathering
the quiet of passing time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stage<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve forgotten how to write,
lost that feather-light spirit.
I no longer see the ladybird or bird,
the brush, the butterfly, the winged hush.
The mist no longer stirs me,
the forests turn to walls.
Now, stripped of feathers,
I do not fly\u2014though it seems I should.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer clings to my throat,
tears have dried into freckles\u2014forever.
How to awaken at last,
how to shake myself whole again?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The water makes no circles now,
and the sand\u2014touched by a stick\u2014feels nothing.
No wound stings anymore,
a bird lies beneath my window, fallen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where color fades into darkness,
where fog becomes the morning,
I slowly sink into nothingness
and turn to stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When It Hurts<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When it hurts, hang your fingers
on the edge of the last shelf,
press your forehead
to the cool of wooden walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you\u2019ve hung yourself there\u2014
stretch your throat to scream,
nail your gaze with thoughts
to the place where a trace remains
of eyes once fastened
by hands more beautiful than yours,
by thoughts more kind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When it hurts\u2014
sleep.
Though know\u2014
you\u2019ll wake to risk
a deeper pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one swallow
I drink coffee \u2014 the hope
of healing an aching head.
The sun hides at last, uncertain,
in the house of eternal hunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I curl up like a kitten or a ball of yarn,
hook a claw into the blanket.
Lonely is the ache of the night\u2019s head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cigarettes \u2014 I quit.
Flowers \u2014 I don\u2019t receive.
Injections \u2014 none.
Days of love \u2014 gone.
What\u2019s left is a quiet room,
an afternoon of gifts undelivered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I love to sleep there, to read, to cook,
to hum when humming feels right\u2026
I\u2019m proud of my home\u2014
with its pink azalea in bloom.
I live almost on the roof,
right there\u2014at the very top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A crystal chandelier lies waiting in the corner,
for someone to light
the presence of a human being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a word\u2014
just one\u2014
to sweep the brush across the canvas,
to sink into the tide of music,
to lose oneself,
to reach that radiant height\u2014
and want nothing more,
but to arrive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It begins with mist and rain\u2014
the sky soaks,
the earth soaks,
and somewhere in between
the wandering of leaves begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind rolls them under trees,
the sun falls silent,
a howl escapes the wind,
and smoke curls low in chimneys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bushes bow their heads,
colorful days are taken,
their bright clothes exchanged\u2014
autumn drops its leaves everywhere,
wrapped in veils of fog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shorter days call for return,
as the sun departs.
Darkness wraps the emptiness
in the fabric of evening\u2019s end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s Two\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s two\u2014
or maybe half past two
of a moment,
not of any afternoon or dinner hour.
There\u2019s no one here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only the lamp\u2019s shadows
lie down to sleep\u2014
not upright,
but slanted, softly,
to the music of a teaspoon
stirring tea on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watercolor\u2014admired yesterday\u2014
is not admired today.
The brush has dried,
white paint stiff on its bristles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Glasses have fallen,
and though I cannot see through them,
everything remains sharp\u2014
clear as ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the edge\u2014
I write the final word
of a poem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sweet Tooth<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I eat a coconut cookie
in the great silence of loneliness.
Then I check
if anyone has asked
about the number of cookies I\u2019ve had today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Coconut, sesame, and nuts\u2014
perhaps I\u2019m not from Poland after all\u2026
In secret
I keep glancing
to see if more cookies appear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I really should
think about my weight\u2014
though not the cookies\u2019 today!
And at one o\u2019clock, solemnly,
I\u2019ll eat a honeyed sesame bear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Painting<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s best not to study.
Just splash color on a small canvas,
guard a touch of chance-born passion\u2014
a blue little boat in a white window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t study,
don\u2019t calculate,
don\u2019t measure the thought.
Play with blotches on a \u201claser\u201d ground,
lose yourself,
dissolve
into the ether\u2019s depth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When it brightens\u2026
strength arrives.
You can create
by an open window,
without artificial light,
because thoughts have flown straight to heaven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My favorite angel
closes my eyes in the evening,
hands me wilted hands,
and opens the window.
He releases the smoke of thoughts
and waters the lone greenery on the shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He spreads the wings of a shirt\u2014not white\u2014
twists your earring from your ear,
asks the mirror to reflect even more beautifully.
And my angel parts my now-short hair,
lifting my eyes to the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not so bad.
I fly alone
to the pattern on the wall,
drawing facial accessories,
squares and geometric shapes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not so bad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Perish<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I perish
in the purple of pink-seledine wallpaper.
I\u2019ll add\u2026
do not save!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Apprehension<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I draw lines quickly,
and the paper thought disappears.
A moment swings
at grandmother\u2019s, on the edge of a teacup.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You don\u2019t (say),
but time has come to me.
You don\u2019t,
but I cannot see the crocheted curtains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder how it is\u2014
just like that?
A line?
After coffee?
Do you leave?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Description<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

And the vast table,
its dirty brown,
a jar\u2026 the line of the brush
still weighing on it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Its heavy legs,
bound in white and black,
do not move.
Above, the ceiling
between two beams
hangs gray,
tugging at its cords.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just below,
a cross of sheets in blue stripes
exaggerates, here and there,
patches of faded white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Several crooked lines cut through it all:
a half-open window,
some lifeless shadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only something happens
in the window\u2019s reflection\u2014
someone is still visible
in the light
no longer daylight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn Picture<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Grasses entwined in autumn browns,
I see the light despite everything,
trapped in the green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A touch of blue and ultramarine
lingers here for a moment.
Orange paint spills with delight,
a dominant reflection
splits the image.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The white of the page
snaps,
closing the composition
without frames.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains\u2014
these trains\u2026
Sliding seats,
spaces for mothers with children under four,
\u201cNo smoking\u201d stickers,
don\u2019t shake the crumbs,
and get off where you must.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, trains\u2014
sliding curtains,
not these stations, not these stops,
overcrowded carriages,
raced through,
confused platforms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, various trains,
late hours at the station,
drafts through the corridors,
and late entrance doors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, weeping waits,
nights without meaning or watchfulness,
trodden back and forth
without stepping out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seasons<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Spring played in green,
summer greened itself in the rain,
summer painted with the sun,
autumn arrived,
mocked by winter in white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A ray of light
says goodnight to my eyes,
my ears no longer want to listen,
my hands, faint from work, run away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Goodnight has already begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Soon\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Knees torn from the cold,
feet slipping under the blanket.
Night begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sleep spreads a quilt of clouds,
and the clock\u2019s ticking lulls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good night and good morning,
as dawn pierces the darkness
with a beam of light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recipe<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Best to have a pencil
and a crumpled scrap of paper.
Sip a small glass of red vodka,
smoke a little hop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dispel your doubts:
friendship, hatred, anger, love.
Do not dance, do not grieve at all.
Celebrate the whole day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anything can happen
even in a small day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reflections<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

They tangle and shimmer
on water and glass,
colored lights in the image on a cup,
in contrasts and lines, in harmony,
in curves,
in the flicker of an often unextinguished candle,
a golden reflection of the image
from a mirror of the 15th century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Meaning<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

The lark\u2019s song and a dog\u2019s howl,
someone\u2019s joy and your pain.
Don\u2019t take it to heart\u2014it\u2019s just life.
When it ends, what remains\u2026 a spirit?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Live with what life gives,
with what is precious to you\u2026
for you get only one life, usually just one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t believe in meaning?
Are these words meaningful then?
Look in the mirror\u2026 see\u2026 and you say your head hurts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand, maybe more,
a hundred thousand, maybe more,
I brought home,
all in heaps, spilling on the great floor,
their heavy mass pressing the oxygen down.
I can\u2019t breathe here anymore.
I am out of breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand thoughts I brought at dawn,
all bunches falling like withered lilacs,
their heavy mass
pressing the oxygen down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How to think today, how to imagine,
in the tangle of dreams,
a day more beautiful than that one,
more beautiful than here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walks<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Walks along the lines of drawings
cut across pages of plants.
The warm colors of autumn tangle restlessly,
careless of hues lost forever,
inevitably washed away by rain,
toward whiteness anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Old Pen<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I have a pen, a Parker with cartridges.
And I make bright strokes, aiming with it,
because it is blue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have a Parker pen; it will not come apart!
Twisted by years of waiting\u2026
I have a Parker pen.
I carry it, counting words,
and yet I cannot, despite hours of waiting,
\u201ckill\u201d an hour, even with a Parker moment!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twist it, it still will not come apart!
From impatience, I write in illusion,
carving the sculpture of words into paper\u2026
No, it will not come apart,
it will not dismantle\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Grimace\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Without lemon juice or cherries,
without sugar, just like that,
because the day feels empty,
without even a shadow of someone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A summer sun blew across.
Too bad you\u2019re no longer here
with sweets for us,
we gave you all the flowers in the world
for your final journey, but it\u2019s nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The little church was so relentlessly cold
that I died with you.
I sought, ultimately, understanding with God,
is it fair to take a cheerful soul away?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rain will fall,
maybe snow,
but you won\u2019t be able, human,
to run among the trees.
They will be too old, rotting,
then cut down by the cruel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you return\u2026 there will be only silence.
There will be nothing you want to regain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Favorite Colors<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Favorite blue, scooped out, washed with water,
Next to it, red, also beloved,
cinnabar, a little boat underneath.
Yellow as a line along the hull,
pink blooms as sky,
only violet in the space,
the sky merging with water in a \u201csmear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the Doors<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

All the doors open inward,
waiting for someone to enter unexpectedly,
and I slam the door with a crash.
I won\u2019t even let a thought escape,
always wanted to be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will be frightened by silence and the crash of the door,
cold in my heart too.
Then I see a small trickle,
flowing alone down my forehead,
like I on a lake, in a sunlit kayak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cold in the house.
I like autumn,
because colorful kites fall from the trees.
They fly, they fall down,
not knowing they will land on the ground
with my quiet sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Life<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I will build a new city.
It will be wonderful.
And it all begins tomorrow.
I will build a new city with myself.
There will be so much life in action,
and God does not command us to fly away
like a flock of wild swans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will build a small, large city,
a house of reflections,
where fallen leaves of hands remain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dull Gaze<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Farewell, smile and joy,
Silence remains, stirred by screams.
Farewell, silence, with no humor,
Spasmodic laughter, roses\u2019 scent, and color.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I do not live here,
in the house of reflections.
Here resides the rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Untitled<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Rain will fall,
maybe snow,
but you won\u2019t be able, human,
to run among the trees.
They will be too old, rotting,
then cut down by the cruel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you return\u2026 there will be only silence.
There will be nothing you want to reclaim.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stage<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I forgot how to write,
lost my light spirit.
I don\u2019t see a ladybug or a bird,
a brush, a butterfly, an insect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mists make no impression,
forests rise like walls.
I am already featherless,
no longer flying, it seems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer gets stuck in my throat,
tears have dried into freckles, forever.
How to finally wake up,
how to shake myself completely?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Water no longer forms ripples,
and sand touched by a stick
doesn\u2019t hurt anymore.
No taunt stings,
a bird lies dead under the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where color fades into darkness,
where morning mist appears,
I slowly sink into nothingness
and turn to stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Something Hurts<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When something hurts,
hang your fingers
on the edge of the last shelf,
and press your forehead
to the cold of the wooden walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once you\u2019ve hanged yourself,
strain your throat to scream.
Drive your gaze like a nail of thought
into the place where a trace remains,
a gaze still nailed by hands
more beautiful, by thoughts
more beautiful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When something hurts,
fall asleep.
Though know you will wake,
risking greater pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one gulp,
I drink coffee, a hope to heal
a aching head.
The sun finally hides, undecided,
heading home for eternal hunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I curl up like a kitten or a ball of yarn,
clawing at the blanket.
Lonely is a headache at night.
Cigarettes \u2014 I quit.
Flowers \u2014 I do not receive.
Injections \u2014 none.
Days of lovers
leave only a quiet room,
an afternoon of gifts undelivered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I like to sleep and read there, cook,
hum softly when needed\u2026
I take pride in a home with pink azaleas.
I live almost on the roof, right at the very top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A crystal chandelier rests in a corner, waiting
for someone to illuminate the presence of a human.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a word \u2014
just one word \u2014 sweep a spatula across the canvas,
immerse yourself in the wave of music, lose yourself,
reach a level so high and wonderful!
And want nothing more, to arrive there!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It begins with mist and rain,
the sky and earth get drenched,
and here and there
the journey of leaves begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind pushes them under the trees,
the sun grows silent, the wind howls,
and smoke cuts through the chimney,
bending bushes low.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Colorful days are taken,
her garments changed.
Autumn scatters leaves everywhere,
veiled in mist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shorter days call for return,
with the departing sun,
darkness wraps emptiness
in the evening\u2019s end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s Two\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s two\u2026
Maybe, maybe halfway to two
of the clock\u2019s fleeting moment,
not of the afternoon mealtime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is no one at all.
Only the shadows of the lamp go to sleep,
not upright, by any means,
playing with a teaspoon on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watercolor admired
is not at all from the day before.
The brush has dried
with white paint on its bristles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Glasses have toppled,
and through them one cannot see,
yet still sharply, clearly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the edge,
I write the last word of the poem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sweet Tooth<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I eat a coconut cookie
in the great silence of solitude.
Then I check
if anyone asked today
about the number of my cookies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Coconut, sesame, and nuts \u2014
I probably didn\u2019t get them from Poland\u2026 a secret.
I keep glancing to see
if more cookies have appeared somewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I should think
about weight,
not the cookies, of course!
At one o\u2019clock,
I\u2019ll eat a sesame bear and a honey bear
with solemnity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Painting<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s best not to study.
Splash paint on a small canvas,
accidentally minding expression,
a little blue boat in a white window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not to study, just reflect, calculate, plan.
Play with a blot on a \u201claser\u201d background,
sink in, get lost
in the abyss of ether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When it brightens\u2026
strength arrives.
You can create at an open window
without artificial light,
for thoughts have flown straight to heaven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My favorite angel,
closing my eyes at dusk
and handing me withered hands,
opens the window,
releases the smoke of thoughts,
and waters the lone greenery on the shelf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Spreading the wings of a non-white shirt,
twisting your earring,
asking the mirror to reflect even more beautifully.
My angel moves my now-short hair aside
and lifts my eyes upward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not so bad.
I fly alone to the pattern on the wall,
drawing facial accessories,
squares and geometric shapes.
It\u2019s not so bad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Vanish<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I vanish
in the purple of pink and celadon wallpaper.
I\u2019ll add\u2026
do not save!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Apprehension<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I quickly draw lines,
and the paper thought vanishes.
A moment swings at grandma\u2019s,
on the edge of a teacup.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You don\u2019t (she says),
but time has come to me.
You don\u2019t,
but I can\u2019t see the crocheted curtains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder, how is it?
Just like that?
A line?
After coffee?
Do you leave?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Description<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

And the vastness of the table, its dirty brown,
a jar\u2026 the line of the brush still weighs upon it.
Its heavy legs, painted in white and black, do not move.
From above, from the ceiling between two beams,
grayness hangs, tugging at strings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just below, a cross of blue-striped sheets
exaggerates here and there
the fragments of faded white.
All of this is cut through by a few crooked lines,
a half-open window,
a few lifeless shadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only something happens
in the reflection of the window,
someone is still visible
in the light, no longer daylight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn Picture<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Grasses intertwined with browns of autumn,
I see the light despite everything,
trapped in greenery.
A bit of blue and ultramarine
paused here for a moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Orange paint spread with delight,
the dominant color became a reflection,
dividing the picture.
The white of the page tore,
closing the composition
without frames.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains,
these trains\u2026
Sliding seats,
spaces for mothers with children under four,
stickers: no smoking, no crumbs.
And get off where you must.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, trains,
sliding curtains,
not those stations, not those stops,
overcrowded cars,
raced through,
confused platforms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, different trains,
late hours at the station,
drafts along corridors,
late entrance doors.
Trains, trains, tearful waiting,
nights without meaning, without watching,
trudged there and back
without ever getting off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seasons<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Spring played in green,
summer blossomed in rain\u2019s green.
Summer painted with sunlight.
Autumn came,
mocked winter with whiteness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A ray of light
says goodnight to my eyes.
Ears no longer want to listen,
hands, faint from work, escape.
Good night has already begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just Before\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Knees ache from the cold,
feet run under the blanket.
Night begins.
Sleep spreads the bed of clouds,
and the clock lulls with ticking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good night and good morning,
as dawn pierces the darkness
with a ray of light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recipe<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Best to have a pencil
and a crumpled scrap of paper.
Sip a little glass of red vodka,
smoke some hops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dispel doubts:
friendship, hatred, anger, love.
Do not dance, do not grieve at all.
Celebrate the whole day.
Anything can happen in a small day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reflections<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

They tangle and shine
on water and glass,
colorful lights
in the image on a cup,
in contrasts and lines, in harmony,
in curves,
in the flicker of an often unextinguished candle,
a golden reflection of the image
from a mirror of the 15th century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Meaning<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

The lark\u2019s song and a dog\u2019s howl,
someone\u2019s joy and your pain\u2014
don\u2019t take it too seriously, it\u2019s only life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When it ends, what remains\u2026 a spirit?
Live with what life gives,
what matters most to you\u2026
one life is given, and usually only one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t believe in meaning?
Are these words the meaning?
Look in the mirror\u2026 see\u2026
and you say your head hurts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand, maybe more,
a hundred thousand, maybe more, I brought home,
all of them fell onto the vast floor.
Their immense, heavy mass pressed the oxygen down,
I can\u2019t breathe here anymore.
I\u2019m out of breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand thoughts I brought at dawn,
whole bunches fell like withered lilacs.
The scent of the heavy mass
pressed down the air.
How to think today, how to imagine,
in the tangle of dreams, a day more beautiful than that one,
than the one before, than here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walks<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Walking along lines of drawings
across sheets of plants,
the warm colors of autumn tangle restlessly,
not caring for colors lost forever.
Inevitably, rain will wash the hues away,
turning them into white anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Twist\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Without lemon juice, or cherries without sugar, just like that,
because the day feels empty, without even the shadow of a person.
A summer sun breeze blew.
It\u2019s a pity you\u2019re no longer here with candies for us,
we gave you all the flowers of the world on your last journey, but it\u2019s nothing.
The little church was so mercilessly cold that I died with you.
I sought, ultimately, understanding with God,
is it fair to take away a cheerful soul?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rain will fall.
Maybe snow.
But you, human, will not be able\u2026 to run among the trees.
They will be too old, will rot, then the wicked will cut them down.
When you return\u2026 there will be only silence.
What you wish to recover will not exist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Favorite Colors<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Favorite blue, dug out and washed with water,
Beside it red, also a favorite, cinnabar, a little boat underneath.
Yellow, a line on the side,
Pink blossoms like the sky,
Only violet in the space,
\u201cSmudged,\u201d the sky merges with water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the Doors<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

All the doors open inward,
Waiting for a person who will enter unexpectedly,
And I will slam the door with a crash.
I won\u2019t even let out a thought, always wishing it would be there.
I will be frightened by saying nothing, and by the crash of doors,
Cold in my heart too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then I will see a trickle
Flowing alone down my forehead,
Like I on a lake, with the kayak of the sun.
Cold in the house. I like autumn because colorful kites fall from the trees.
They fly, they fly downward, unaware
That they will land on the ground with my quiet sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Life<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I will build a new city,
It will be wonderful,
And it all begins tomorrow.
I will build a new city with myself,
There will be so much life in action,
And God does not demand we fly away like a flock of wild swans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will build a small, big city,
A house of reflection,
Where fallen leaves of hands remain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dull Gaze<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Farewell, smile and joy,
Silence remains, stirred by a scream.
Farewell, silence with no humor,
Spasmodic laughter, roses\u2019 scent and their color.
I do not live here in the house of reflection.
Here lives the rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With the Title<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It will rain,
Maybe snow,
But you, human, will not be able\u2026 to run among the trees.
They will be too old, rot, and then the wicked will cut them down.
When you return\u2026 there will only be silence.
There will be nothing you wish to reclaim.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stage<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I forgot how to write,
Lost my light spirit.
I don\u2019t see a ladybug or a bird,
Brush, butterfly, insect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mists no longer impress,
Forests become walls.
I am now featherless,
No longer flying, it seems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer gets stuck in my throat,
Tears dried in freckles, amen.
How to finally wake up,
How to shake myself entirely?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Water has no more ripples,
Sand touched by a stick,
No remark hurts anymore,
A bird flies outside the window, fallen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where color fades into darkness,
Where mist becomes morning,
I slowly sink into nothingness and become stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Something Hurts<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When something hurts, hang your fingers
On the edge of the last shelf,
And press your forehead to the cold wood of the walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once you\u2019ve hung yourself,
Tense your throat to scream,
Drive your gaze like a nail of thought
Into the place where the trace remains,
A gaze nailed by even more beautiful
Hands of more beautiful thoughts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When something hurts,
Fall asleep,
Though know you will wake, risking greater pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one gulp,
I drink coffee\u2014hope for healing a weary head.
The sun finally hides, indecisive,
In the house of eternal hunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I curl into a ball like a kitten or a skein of yarn,
Claw clinging to a blanket.
Lonely is the headache at night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cigarettes\u2014I quit.
Flowers\u2014I receive none.
Injections\u2014none.
Days of lovers.
What remains is a quiet room,
An afternoon of gifts left undistributed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It begins with mist and rain,
The sky soaks,
The whole earth drenches,
And here and there
The journey of leaves begins in full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind moves them beneath the trees,
The sun falls silent, the wind howls,
And in the chimney smoke lingers,
Bending bushes low.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Colorful days are taken,
Autumn strips its clothing,
Leaves fall everywhere,
Shrouded in mist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Shorter days call for return,
Departing sun wrapping darkness
And emptiness in an evening\u2019s end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There is a second\u2026
Perhaps a second, maybe at half-past one
Not the afternoon of time.
There is no one at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only the shadows of a lamp lie down to sleep,
Not vertically, mind you,
Clattering spoons in the tea on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watercolor admired is not from yesterday,
The brush dried with white paint on its strands.
Glasses have toppled, yet through them one can still see sharply, vividly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the edge, I write the last word of a poem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Sweet Tooth<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I eat a coconut cookie in the great silence of solitude.
Then I check if anyone asked about how many cookies I\u2019ve had today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Coconut, sesame, and nuts\u2014I probably didn\u2019t come from Poland\u2026 in secret.
I keep watching to see if more cookies appear somewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I should think about weight,
Not cookies, of course, today!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Painting<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s best not to study.
To splash paint on a small canvas,
To watch expression by chance,
A little blue boat in a white window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not to study, to ponder, to calculate.
To play with a blotch on the \u201claser\u201d background,
To sink, to get lost in the abyss of ether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Prayer<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

When it brightens\u2026
Strength arrives.
One can create by an open window without artificial light,
For thoughts have flown straight to heaven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My favorite angel,
Closing my eyes at evening and handing me withered hands, opens the window.
He releases the smoke of thoughts and waters the lone greenery on the shelf.
He spreads the wings of a shirt not white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He twists your earring from your ear,
Tells the mirror to show even more beautifully,
And my angel parts my not-so-long hair and lifts my eyes upward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not bad.
I fly alone to the pattern on the wall,
Drawing the accessories of a face\u2014
Squares and \u201cgeo\u201d shapes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s not bad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Perish<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I perish in the purple-pink of the celadon wallpaper.
I will add\u2026 do not rescue!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fear<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I quickly draw lines and the paper thought disappears.
A moment swings at grandma\u2019s, on the edge of a teacup.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You don\u2019t (say), but time has come to me.
You don\u2019t\u2014but I cannot see the crocheted curtains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder how it is\u2014just like that?
A line? After coffee? Do we leave?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Description<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

And the vast table, its dirty brown,
A jar\u2026 the brushstroke line still weighs on it.
Its heavy legs, bound in white and black, do not move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the ceiling above, between two beams,
Gray hangs, tangled with cords.
Just below, a cross of bed sheets\u2019 blue stripes
Exaggerates here and there the faded white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of this is cut by several crooked lines,
A half-open window, a few lifeless shadows.
Only something happens in the window\u2019s reflection\u2014
Someone is always visible in the light, no longer daylight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn Painting<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Grasses intertwined with autumn browns.
I see the light despite everything,
Trapped in the greenery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hint of blue and ultramarine
Pauses here for a moment.
Orange paint spreads with delight,
The dominant hue becomes a reflection,
Dividing the little picture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The white of the page tore,
Closing the composition without a frame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains\u2014
These trains\u2026
Sliding seats,
Spaces for mothers with children under four,
Stickers: no smoking, no crumbs,
And get off where needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, trains\u2014
Drawn curtains,
Not the stations, not the stops,
Overcrowded carriages,
Raced, confused platforms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, various trains,
Late station hours,
Corridor drafts,
And late entrance doors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Trains, trains, tearful waits,
Nights of senseless vigil,
Treading there and back without getting off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seasons<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Spring played in green,
Summer turned green in the rain,
Summer painted with the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Autumn came,
Mocked by winter\u2019s white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A ray of light
Says goodnight to my eyes.
My ears no longer wish to listen,
My hands, faint from work, flee.
Good night has already begun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Soon, Soon\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Knees ache from the cold,
Feet flee under the blanket.
Night begins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Already sleep spreads the bedding of clouds,
And the clock lulls with its ticking.
Good night and good morning,
As dawn pierces the darkness with a ray of light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recipe<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Best to have a pencil
And a crumpled scrap of paper.
Sip a little glass of red vodka,
Smoke a bit of hops.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dispel doubts:
Friendship, hatred, anger, love.
Do not dance, do not grieve at all.
Celebrate the whole day.
Everything can happen in a small day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reflections<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

They tangle and gleam on water and glass,
Colored lights in the image on the cup,
In contrasts and lines, in harmony,
In curves,
In the flicker of an oft-unextinguished candle,
A golden reflection from a mirror
Of the fifteenth century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Meaning<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

The song of larks and the howl of a dog,
Someone\u2019s joy and your pain\u2014
Don\u2019t take it to heart, it\u2019s only life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When it ends, what remains\u2026 a spirit?
Live with what life gives you,
What is truly important to you\u2026
You get only one life, usually just one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t believe in meaning?
Are these words the meaning?
Look in the mirror\u2026 look\u2026 and you say your head hurts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand, maybe more,
A hundred thousand, maybe more, I brought home.
All of them fell onto the great floor,
With their massive weight pressing the air.
I can\u2019t breathe here anymore,
I\u2019m out of breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred thousand thoughts I brought with the dawn,
Whole bundles fell like dried lilacs.
Their heavy aroma
Pressed the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How to think today, how to imagine
In the tangle of dreams a day more beautiful than the last,
More beautiful than here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Walks<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Walks along the lines of a drawing,
Sheets intersected by plants.
The warm colors of autumn tangle restlessly,
Caring not for the color lost forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inevitably, the rain will wash away the hues,
Turning them again toward white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Old Pen<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I have a pen, a Parker with cartridges.
And I make light strokes, aiming with it, because it\u2019s blue.
I have a Parker pen that won\u2019t come apart!
Twisted by years of waiting\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have a Parker pen.
I carry it and want to count words.
And yet, despite hours of waiting,
I cannot \u201ckill\u201d an hour even with a moment of Parker!
Twist it, it will not come apart!
Out of impatience, I write with illusion,
Carving the sculpture of words into paper\u2026
No, it will not come apart, not into pieces,
It won\u2019t come apart\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Twist Myself\u2026<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Without lemon juice or cherries, without sugar, just like that,
Because the day feels empty, not even a shadow of a person.
A summer sun blew across.
It\u2019s a pity you\u2019re no longer here with candies for us,
We gave you all the flowers of the world for your last journey, but it\u2019s nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The little church was so relentlessly cold that I died with you.
I sought there, ultimately, an understanding with God\u2014
Is it fair to take a cheerful person away?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rain will fall,
Maybe snow.
But you won\u2019t be able, human, to run among the trees.
They\u2019ll be too old, will rot, then the wicked will cut them down.
When you return\u2026 there will be only silence.
There will be nothing left to reclaim.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

=>> Wiersze w j\u0119zyku polskim Library Do you have something to return?Has anything changed for you \u2014an address, a number,a heartbeat perhaps? I don\u2019t know how to fillthese shelves of timewith stories of goodnessand the slow turning of pages. Do you have something to return?A heart? A hand?No \u2014 the heart is gone,it died waiting … Continue reading Poetry – english<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-350","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/350","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=350"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/350\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":358,"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/350\/revisions\/358"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gosiaadamczak.art\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=350"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}