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 Publisher online and owner: 

Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc 

Sarajevo & Bugojno, 
               Bosnia and Herzegovina        
        

MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI...
WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES
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Krystyna Lenkowska,  Rzeszów,  Poland

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Krystyna Lenkowska is a Polish poet and translator. She has published seven collections of poetry. Her poems in English have appeared in USA, in Boulevard, Chelsea, Confrontation and Absinthe. She has been also translated and published in other languages, Ukranian, Italian and Albanian among others.


Photograph C Grażyna Niezgoda

VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33, 
Orebić, Croatia
http://villaamira.weebly.com/

LP vinyl sell from 
Bosnia and Herzegovina
http://lpvinyl.weebly.com/


                          Poruka ljubavi i nade

Suština prolaznosti unutar iščekivanja beskonačnosti. Ljubavi, prije svega. 


Prirodna predanost iskrenosti osjećanja kao pretpostavka mogućih nadanja. Spremnosti da prizna kako bješe, jeste, i sutra će biti samo zrno pjeska unutar alternativnih sjećanja. 

Snaga poezije Krystine Lenkowske nije u onome što je napisala već u onome što nije. Kako? 

Jednostavno, kada čitate njenu poeziju imate osjećaj da namjerno izostavlja dijelove svoje duše i da vas poetikom poziva da priđete još bliže, kako bi vam šapnula nešto nenapisano. Upravo tako. Čekam da mi tiho naglasi suštinu poruke. Griješim, ovdje se radi o množini: poruka. Pjesme su njene poruke. Zrele, nadahnute poetese - dame kojoj poezija služi (ali i ona njoj - vice versa) da pošalje poruku. Kakvu poruku? Svako od nas će je drugačije razumjeti, jer onoga trenutka kada pjesnik napiše stih, pjesmu, ona ne pripada više njemu/njoj, već onome ko je čita, upija. Tako i ja. Još uvijek čitam. I ne prestajem. Poruku.

Riječ urednika

Sabahudin Hadžialić

22.11.2011.
                    Message of love and hope

The essence of transience within the expectation of infinity. Love, above all. 


Natural commitment to honesty of the feelings as a prerequisite of possible hope. Willingness to recognize that she was, sh is, and tomorrow will be just a grain of sand in the alternative memories. 

The power of poetry Krystina Lenkowske is not in something that is already written, but in something that is not written. How? 

Simply, when you read her poetry, you feel that she deliberately leaves out parts of her soul and make she invites you with her the poetry that you shoudl come even closer to be able to whisper something unwritten, to you. Exactly like that. I am waiting for her to quietly emphasize the essence of the message. I'm wrong, here it is plural: messages. The poems are her messages. Mature, inspired poetess - lady to whom poetry serves (and her to it-vice versa) to send the message.Which kind of message? Each of us will understand it differently, because exactly on the same moment when the poet writes verse, poem, it no longer belongs to him / her, but anyone who read it, absorb it. So I did. Still reading.  Do not cease. The message.

Editor's word


Sabahudin Hadžialić
22.11.2011.

16.5.2013.
Pogadajmy dziś (czwartek, 16.05) online o poezji (i nie tylko) o godz. 20-tej na forum TWiNN
LET'S TALK ONLINE ON POETRY (AND NOT ONLY) THIS THURSDAY (MAY 16th) AT 8. P.M.
CLICK ON PHOTO TO ENTER THE TALK 

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Latest one (04.9.2012.)

SARAJEWO

Dudni w studni metal o metal
filigranowy detal każdej kuci każdego seraju
każdego sklepiku
od samego rana szept szepcze
rachunki i wiersze
za każdym rogiem kamienicy
szept skacze po kocich łbach
do meczetu cerkwi katedry
wzdłuż cmentarzy białych ogrodów
obok kamiennych stalagmitów grobów
szepcze i biegnie
z Baščaršijaskiej górki
do rzeki Miljacki tam skąd odeszli bez pożegnania
książę Ferdynand i jego żona 
i leci ten szept
na łeb na szyję
szept-dziecko ołowiany żołnierzyk
w słońcu mruży oko mierzy i zastyga
pod nosem szepcze
drży mu listek na wietrze
szept zamyka się w szeptaniu
śpiewaniu muezzina
otwieraniu ust
spadaniu
z zamkniętymi oczami
trwaniu na pamięć
zawodzeniu pięć razy o tej samej porze
od porannej zorzy szeptanie
o zamkniętych ustach
otwieranie oczu
modlenie
że się przegapiło czas
że się nie przegapiło ani raz
że mogło że było
szeptało krzyczało
schowało się w mysiej dziurze
minęło wróciło i w chórze szept znów szepcze
szeptem podobnego poranka
kowal dudni o metal
metal o tygiel
tygiel o dzwon bazaru
bazar obija się o szepty szelesty
śmiechem stare bramy mami
i szept unosi się parny
szept nad szeptami.

Krystyna Lenkowska in Sarajevo, BiH, 2012.

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Photo by: Gustavo Vega, Spain

Krystyna Lenkowska in Sarajevo, BiH, 2013.
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22.11.2011.
     I-She

This old woman wearing a hat and a mink stole on her shoulders
celebrating her memory
is me.

I watch her at close quarters. I can see clearly
her laugh lines.

She lifts a doughnut to the place on her skin
where my lips used to be.

She opens her face and shoves in a doughnut stuck on her finger.
The finger has thickened joints like a spring twig, like Edith Piaf.

How will I touch your body with her claw-like tibia?

She raises her face to your face. I close my eyelids.
She forgets she has no lips.
I forget. 

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

    

      For the New Century-A Conversation with Myself

In some pose
the mirror captured this
moment of transformation
when for the first time
the tibia peeked out with all its
literalness.

I didn't think
about identity
or about Emerson's equation
or about the romanticism of burial mounds.
I didn't think.
I couldn't it couldn't.

Only it was or it wasn't
at the tangential point zero or infinity
a simple configuration
of bones.

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough


    To Moment's Measure

A hand
mine yours someone's
on another hand on top of a white glove
a moment's measure.
Several hurried
meanings which barely sound
synonymous.

Suddenly
right under my ring
nail I feel
the accelerated
pulse of
this
other
cosmos.

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

Translator Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough's poetry translations have been published i USA by Absinthe, Image, The New Yorker, Poetry, Tri-Quarterly, and other literary magazines.


    Snow 

Ryszard Kapuściński died today

You are falling as many of us fall under gravity's weight
You are flying
From where we all come.

You are leaning against time and earth
Deer marks trace after you
A dog falls inside you with such an obviousness
In its eyes that it makes my flesh creep.

In Subcarpathian Słocina you are the same
As in Turkish Kars
A legend of Herodots.

Love, death and trash are under you
Lightly stamped.

You are geometry on glass
A glass on the road.
They crush our fragile bodies
In your majesty.

Pieces of rockets from Baykonur fall on your head for us
But you are lying on your back in the Altai Mountains
An untouchable equilibrist

Oh, my white idealist.


    Translated by Janusz Zalewski and John Guzlowski



    Krakow-Warsaw West

 I feel the greatest longing at train stations
in angular wating rooms
on dim platforms
and when the train pulls out and passes the backs of houses
the city's cesspool the other side of walls
the pitch-black yards the rickety fences
those unfulfilled garden plots.

I long for places and people left behind
for the way they could have been for me but are for others
I even long for those I have never met
who still belong irrevocably 
to my past.

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough


They Come They Go


For some time now people have done nothing but die.
For instance, recently, Mr. Raczy the watchmaker.
It gets harder and harder to look into the eyes of those
who didn't consider such a possibility.
Let's say, Daria, the wife.

The dead are overgrown with names, lips, hands.
You can't die without them (anyway
you couldn't till now).
Hair and teeth grow after they're gone.

And it's difficult to imagine a country where they don't exist.
They are such a presence that they cause us sleepless nights
parch our lips. Like lovers' living bodies.
And when after many years we accept their mercy
they leave

in a hurry.


    Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough


    Love

It gets up first and bustles in my head
arranges images and the sequence of emotions
steps aside
tries to walk softly as if it's never existed.

I don't touch it mornings
that's our agreement and I wait
for it to wash away in the monotony of memory
in the disloyalty of time.
I wait so at last I won't have to wait
all day long.

Evening comes and what's next my dear Lao Tzu?
Here I stutter and confound the audience 
those squinting eyes of a chinese cat.
Always at the same place in the dusk
I cross over to the other side of the word beyond the image.
The idea of self-eclipse doesn't exist there.
There's an entry into light one period of time
and love's trusting unhumiliated face
at the level of our eyes and lips.


    Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough



    An Overdue Letter to a Pimply Angel

Do you remember the smell of snow
with soot, still warm
from the chimney?
And the taste of cut fir branches?
In the morning you meekly pulled my
rusty
sled so that I, the first of the first,
would leave triumphant tracks
of winter in the yard.

In the evening you hung proudly
on the tree in pink 
skirts of tissue paper high 
and low.
I couldn't count you.

"Happiness is," you said, "when
you don't know how much there is of it."

One winter you sneaked
behind the Christmas tree
in lacy hoarfrost 
stockings. The white girdle, your first
stocks of femininity, wouldn't leave you alone. You caressed
your thighs under the skirt 
to make their material real.
You were hormonally sad from happiness.

Just like later that spring when
your first egg was
fertilized with one divine
life and swelled 
in your mouth.
It stretched your bitter-salty
palate into a balloon
of hopeless December hope.
You knew all its parameters.

You still were my angel.

When you broke into limbs and fell
slowly, I didn't hand you
a wing. Forgive me.
I myself was a pimply 
flightless bird.

Hail God's 
Bird
from the Christmas tree
of life. 

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough

  
    The Fifth One

Every moment I kill one tender thought as if it were a persistent fly.
But it wants only to live.

I imagined love like a gigantic fruit fly.

I wonder who would then be the first to die the unnatural death:
I, it, or this fruit of paradise.


    Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough



    O Torch, O Rose

Who are you, o torch, o rose,
wreath of thorns, spur and mare, djigit
a blind mule at night, daybreak, the trumpet of Jericho?
Weren't you the toppled wall that crumbles

and throws the fear of restraint into our eyes?

Were you Miss Capulet, holy adulteress Hester Prynne,
the almost tamed shrew, seductive Mrs. Robinson, or maybe
Cleopatra's enticing eye on the steps above the walls for your divine feet?
Bloody Lady Macbeth or hemlock itself?

Or maybe you're life itself, its shiver, its prayer in clenched fingers?
Maybe for you armies advance in alluring formations,
ecstatic trumpets sound,
for you cloaks are lined with opulent fabric
and faithful praetorians bend the mountain shadow
to make your forehead glow in the saddle?

O torch, o rose! Unveil the next scarlet letter
of the era of the alphabet, let us read
in what language we'll have to live and grow silent together
to be ready again.

Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough



    A Man Wearing a Cap

A man wearing a cap
slowly killed a goose.
He held it between
his legs as if it were
a tongue-lashed 
child or a woman 
who'd drunk 
hemlock and then
been forced to vomit.

A cat sensually
watched 
the ritual.
Nearby people
busy with life
were passing.

Only the sound of the forest 
and my heart 
could be heard.
The silence of that picture
hit me
in the face.

Oh, well.
The millennium goose, the cat, and us.
All cannon
fodder.


    Translated by Ewa Hryniewicz-Yarbrough


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Following translated poems in BHS language  have been published in "Pobocza" ("Krajnice, "Rubovi", "Obrobja"), an international  literary journal http://kwartalnik-pobocza.pl/arch.html (Copyright ©):



POBOCZA, nr 3-4 (37-38) / 2009


Ulica Duga 

Sofijina stara majka sedi kao odbačena čaura
na zvuk iz bešte ispravlja se
i nervozno gleda kroz prozor
a tamo Varšava i godina trideset deveta na suncu 
ulica Duga 29 i stražar 
Sofijin otac
gospodar Poljskog Teatra1 i dvorišta

naznano odakle taj gluvi zvižduk
glupa kozo beži u podrum! 
mala Sofija trči u kancelariju
izvija noge
i i kike
okreće se na jednoj nozi krivi usta

prokleta cirkuzantkinja!
Sofijin otac mora da izađe iz senke i da padne
poput glumca na sceni
mlada Sofijina majka trči
grli muža i leži
crene fleke joj se javljaju na grudima i rastu

neko pita otkud taj gluvi grom
pravo u srce stražara
stara Majka Sofija i dalje viče
tiho za sebe
beži u sklonište
glupa cirkuzantkinjo

šapuće
već zna da sa ratom nema šale
ni cirkza ni teatra 
ali nije prekasno
Anđele Oče Stražaru Moj
nije daleko tamo

odavde
iz sobe pod krovom
posle ćerke
posle unuke
ispod grada Lođa
ispod šume
sa ove meke fotelje
sa pogledom na Varšavu
na Dugu

koja ovde počinje i ne završava se.

_________________ 

1. Junakinja živi u ubeđenju da je to Poljski Teatar. U stvari je Hotel Poljska.



Put

Udubljivali su se u sebe
kao da silaze u pećine
otac i pas

mada su mi prišli sa različitih strana
u drugim vremenima
svako za sebe
odlazili su zajednoistim putem tamo
gde su sad pre mene

ponekad se neočekivano na tren vraćaju ovde
čujem kako udaraju u zidove i nameštaj
zaslepljeni dnevnim svetlom

ne reaguju n amoje pozive
prigušene šumovima zemlje
osećam njihovo prisustvo šumsko i livadsko

s vremenom i to počinje da se kvari
(a možda gubim razum i trulim od glave
Kao zlatna ribica koja je iskočila iz akvarijuma
U zeleno prostranstvo koje je bilo tepih
a ne okean?)

dve ljudske stope tihe
poput sobnih papuča
izlaze u šetnju
vodeći pseći rep na povodniku
pažljivo nose
svoje lice
putem
a pas
njuši
put.





Nož sa crvenom drškom

Moj otac je mali vitez i igra se
nožem a crvenom drškom
maše njim kao sabljom prebacuje ga iz ruke u ruku
- nož – kažem tek da bih nešto rekla a on me gleda kao ludakinju

Umoren ritualnom borbom pada na bok i tone u san
držeći nož na gotovs
kada se budi nož je jedini oslonac desne ruke
leva se drži za vazduh

soba miriše na presečenu jabuku
taj miris spaja naša sećanja
neko nekog uči strane reči neko nekome čisti jabuku
posle čita bajke

stari poznanik donosi lektiru
za ubijanje vremena
ali knjiga sa naslovom „Svetska književnost” nie pasuje na dlan
ne blista i nije crvena

nasumično prevrćem stranice
- Džon Apdajk Picajzle – čitam na glas da bih ubila tišinu
a otac me gleda kao da sam pala s marsa

stara knjiga se rapala na dva dela
zakasneli poklon za prijatelja ljubitelja književnosti
muškarca i njegovog konja
introligatora

ni jedan od njih više ne zna šta su to picajzle i šta se prosulo na pantalone
seks ili sos od pečuraka
najvašniji je nož sa crvenom drškom koji ima smisao.





Smaragd

Noću rosa rosi travu smaragdom
zora ore rosu ralima kosilice
delim kosmos na kosmate komade zelenia
zbacujem smaragd na zemlju

plavi teleskopi crtaju na mapi
svaku palubu plemenite prašine
tokovi smaragda slede staze
ka rubinskim kraterima
i dalje

Noću rosa rosi travu smaragdom
zora ore rosu ralima kosilice
delim kosmos na kosmate komade zelenia
zbacujem smaragd na zemlju.

* * * 
Smrt je jednostavna stvar. 
K.I. Galčinjski

Smrt je jednostavna kao kolevka
Obe su čuda odlaženja i dolaženja
U vremenu sadašnjem savršeno izvedena
ima – nema
nema – ima
fizički dokaz postoji
u to nema sumnje.


Krystyna Lenkowska at Poetry marathon 2012 in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, March 2012.

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Krystyna Lenkowska in Tetovo International Poetry Festival "DITET ET NAIMIT", October 2011.


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Krystyna Lenkowska sitting fourth from the left in Tetovo International Festival "DITET ET NAIMIT", October 2011.
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Krystyna Lenkowska standing second from the right in Tetovo International Festival "DITET ET NAIMIT", October 2011.
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Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić

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