Małgorzata Borzeszkowska (Poland)

Małgorzata Borzeszkowska (Poland)
Małgorzata Borzeszkowska, a History and English teacher and poet from the north of Poland (Gdańsk) , has been writing poem for over 20 years. She published 3 books of poetry – “At the gate”, “Inscribed in a landscape” and “On the border of silence and light”. Two of them were awarded. Poems were published in many anthologies and magazines. She was awarded in numerous poetry contests. Her poems are also published on the Internet in Helikopter,, Fabrica Librorum and Litteratuer. Incidentally, she is also a member of jury in poetry contests. She belongs to Gdańsk Poets’ Club.
Mr. K. seems to be
fascinated by the English fog,
he likes
when it lightens the colors, blurs
the edges are erased,
in Sussex grow out of gray
saturated with drizzle
the shutters disappear,
the gate would not slam,
sound and colors become one,
the benches are flowing
towards the treetops
Mr. K. believes that English humor sprouts in the fog –
after all, only irony allows you to tame your hands
without arms,
heads and galoshes dancing on the clouds,
marching briskly along the stone fences
sometimes, however, Mr K. gets the island spleen
then he adds the missing background elements
lopsided a bit inaccurately
with a lack of care
for political correctness
how Anglican polite
church tower
swells rapidly
it grows into an onion shape,
houses are staring through one window like in the east of Poland,
lined with hollyhocks
from the roots of the holly grows mountain ash or other
white wood
fences travel on their knees from Sussex to Supraśl
Mr. K. makes a collage out of fog and memory
– such a nonsense-
and staples the walls with it
during the evening vigil with gin
life unstoppable
in a pot of an old rotten willow trunk –
self-seeding twigs of rowan and elderberry –
a duopoly of germination, growth and blossoming
life irresistibly grows up, breaks out, overflows
with a stream of green leaves, it scratches
low clouds,
seeps the light entices
it’s banal, obvious and predictable,
that we are all like those willow trunks, from our decay
something will be born one day,
a rowan basket?
or maybe dead
I own a square of sand
three drops of salt water shaken from the coastal dog’s hair,
shells in a mini version, but matching the color
of my eyes and nails,
dry-wet tree trunk engraved by a storm
and its ghostly shadows in which the gulls make their nests
I have that and more:
a red polka dot swimming costume and a bottle of sweetened tea,
two hard-boiled eggs and bread with cheese and sand in my teeth,
jellyfish like translucent anemones
thrown from the green garden by the seventh wave,
your footprints in the sand framed in ice crystals
I have them all and I don’t know if
I will be able to move my shore
to the other side,
when the strong winds have finally died down
above us
and time will be utterly smooth

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s