Poems by Małgorzata Borzeszkowska

Poems by Małgorzata Borzeszkowska
The summer’s half
The summer’s half, in half, together
we want to enter, roll like a pebble
like some warm nuggets on the beach
to sink in summer. And we’re dreaming,
that while along the way through autumn,
the one with winds and mud and rain,
That we are wrapped in summer musing,
like in a scarf which soothes the chills.
In winter, when it snows or clods,
when you have wet slush in your shoes,
it’s the recall of July that sweetens you
like honey does. The sun from windows,
that perched behind a percal curtain
and wove a nest of golden threads,
may it warm up and brighten time,
while out there, behind the glass,
it’s cold and wet, wind-combed grass.
And then before spring’s in its full
swings in the whimpers, squeaks and trills,
before the blue bells and the larks,
let, let a summer’s speck be with us.
And we together and in duet,
though all in autumn auburn notes,
we’ll roll harmlessly through the world
like two small pebbles, in golden shoes.
A collector
I am a collector of abandoned landscapes,
places with empty, human-less spaces,
uninhabited sites,
I collect the remains of the walls stone by stone,
I supplement them with branches and wind, clay mixed with grass,
I accentuate the clouds on the sharp bends of the walls
I collect porcelain faces and names, sometimes I remove arid moss,
though not very often- it seems a reincarnation of stones,
I am a collector of voices among the bushes, green flashes
on rusty knockers of memory doors, windows with no views
for the future
with my knee I stuff the spectral souvenirs in the drawers
on time
after time
we’re like this spring,
eternal, windy, old as the world,
and still in our infancy,
we slide our fingers out of our pockets to shake someone’s hand and quickly put them back,
without warmth on your fingertips,
without other people’s fingerprints – traces of a still-fragile hope
we’re like this spring, putting our foot out the door
and we go back, take off our warm boots, put on our fears
on wrong feet, another way round,
we dabble in them like this spring that can’t reach us for good;
camouflaged, she sneaks through the park’s alleys
and throws us a glint of sunshine on the window frame like alms,
vaccinates us with hope—then comes just a brief post-vaccinal reaction–
afterimages of green reflected on the bottom of the eye
and whitened hair,
and we, the eternal followers of spring,
we know that only a grayish meadow, a forest
and the oblivious, singing tits
can immunize us
for everything,
even for life

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