Teresa Jolanta Podemska – Abt (Australia)

 
Teresa Jolanta Podemska – Abt (Australia)
 
Teresa Jolanta Podemska – Abt is a philologist, poet-writer, translator and a researcher-member of Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS). She holds PhD, BEd, MEd (course/w) and MA degrees from Unis of South Australia, Adelaide and Wrocław. She creates in many genres, won a range of literary and academic prizes and has been internationally published in Poland, Australia, Canada and US (Text Matters, Odra, Nowe Media, Czas Kultury, Rozmowy o Komunikacji, Postscriptum Polonistyczne, Rita Baum, Tygiel Kultury, Poezja dzisiaj, Winter in Australia, Contemporary Poetry, On life’s Path, Poetrix, Love postcards, Kosmos Literatów, Metafora Współczesności, Inter, and many more). Her short stories, poetic prose and interviews also appear in such publishing websites as Polska Canada, Wydawnictwo j, Culture Avenue, Kobieta 50 plus, Puls Polonii, Przegląd Australijski, Polish Currier. She authored books of prose and selections of poetry (e.g. Spaces of literary Wor(l)ds and Reality. Interpretation and reception of Aboriginal Literature, Składam człowieka, Żywe sny, Pomieszały mi się światy, Świat tubylców australijskich, to name a few). Her newest poetic play is going to be staged by the Old Theatre in Adelaide in March 2021. She is a proud mother of a jazz musician and an academic Kamil Abt.
 
 
the back home experience
 
I receive the blessing of snowflakes
in a vessel of memories and genes
 
my shadow leaves me
where I can’t die
because of love of people
I created
trapped
in the perpetuity of a song
and light
where there is no distance
between the dark and I
in tranquillity of tomorrow
I sealed
all and nothing
inside me
before I left
you
breaking rules of contempt
I didn’t try
to understand
the periphery
of my existence
 
a teasing flicker snaps my face
the silence of the snow whispers
under my foot
 
 
walk I
 
here only the wind of autumn
seems to remember
the scent of trees
in the garden of my Mother
the voice of our lady-neighbour
words phrased on a romantic night
when everything was
in its place
there
above my head stories
spoken in the language of stars
twaddled away the peace
hidden in a cherry tree harbouring me
since my childhood
grown by my grandmother
now
in a nearby park
as always at this time of the year
dark and wet
across the lawn runs a possum
startled by my steps
he has learned how to survive his migration
flanked by voices that he can’t understand
the simulated lights which persistently set him off
in a strange ambiance
it is only me now carrying my dreaming
your loving gaze
yelling of family love
tunes of an accordion
when I played ‘in a green wood’
sorrows of parting and sporadic hails at airports
in the empty silence of this place
on trees as long balls
hang grey chiropters
I had been seeing them in my childhood night dreams
in my home
likely back then
the guardians of my soul
had endeavoured to tell me something
right now
I look at fallacious ghost bats without fear
I got used to them
and they are salient
as this whole alien to me land
created by a snake and still recorded on sand by fingers
of his wise children
even that poor possum on the sky-scraping telephone wires
(could it be the same one)
in the sublimity up high the crowns
of eucalypts
does not surprise me
perhaps he has absconded with
my meaningless to him pen
I walk on
through a passageway leading to day-dreams
heaving up all my thinking life
here only because
before I came to this land
I didn’t think what I’d lose
I didn’t know that they bargain here
over a spirit anticipating a life
in a hill-slope remembering thousands of years
on which I hike all the way through now
not more than a kilometre away from my new home
also I did not imagine about a year ago
that some second-rate pen-pusher
would break down all my future
with a rule subordinating me
to blind fate
 
 
 
writing with a character of non-Australian heritage
deliberations; for my father
 
I was in a hurry to get to the country
where time was born
beyond the seas
where in the crowns of trees
from forevermore hides the divine azure of mundane paradise
and from time immemorial a rainbow serpent watches
tall Walamanggara
first noticed
how far I moved away from my home
 
surprised by my appearance
in silent abyss of their land
the Walamanggara trees sobbed over me
with their own memory
of persistence
and a frantic death dance
the Mindiri
relate that the only one saved
later did eat here the first rabbit
 
in autumn
the first great mothers-goannas of the forefathers
celebrate
near the great water
the last dancer is immersed by eternal Dreaming
where the big-headed ant returns human remains to the earth
on paths of reconciliation
sky-high trees Walamanggara
wake a primaeval dream
 
from the depths of earth’s enormity
a being as old as the world straining its eyes peeps into my soul
full of new power
I fall into dreaming
of the rocking with stories Walamanggara
as if a first woman woven from cobweb fogs
a river below rivers
forever hungry for my first name
I hear the speech of germinating grains
 
Whatever will be whatever will happen there is still love
whispers of lost words from my home flow to me
the winter’s aura of the old sand clock ticktocks as if
from my home where the dreams of my great-great-grandfathers fell asleep
although at the end of any song there is clarity
my great grandmother didn’t escape death during the war
the sister of my grandmother didn’t save her life
and I instead of dreaming of heavenly bluebird in my soul
was once copying my father’s letters sent home from Auschwitz
I have no more land than my foot’s length tiptoeing I love you and life
 
the Walamanggara trees lowered their hands helplessly
in their shade no one has so far told
about graves
of white wanderers from there
behind my back the red horizon
lazily chatters with Cosmos
unmoved by earthly stories
and crosses
that separate
 
embedded in the vastness
of fleetingness
I an eternal vagrant with no guilt
have lost here my name haggling it for a bit of else
and yet I will never be able to say
that under the slender Walamanggara trees
sang for me
even for one and only one time
moja Matka
 

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