Zofia
Beszczynska is poet, author of fantasy tales for adults and
children, translator from French and book reviewer working for
literary magazines. She is an editor of children's literature
critic magazine "Nowe Ksiqiki" ("New Books") and "Guliwer", and
collaborates'with Polish Radio. Member of Association of Polish
Writers and Polish IBBY Section. Scholar of Children's Library
in Munich, Germany (1996) and Baltic Centre for Writers and
Translators in Visby, Sweden (2003). Her texts has been
published in many literary reviews for children and adults,
anthologies and school textbooks; some of them translated into
foreign languages (among others: Czech, English, German,
Lithuanian, Macedonian, Serbo-Croatian, Spanish). She took part
in poetry festivals in Sarayevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina (1998),
Struga, Macedonia (2002, 2003) and Havana, Cuba (2007).
Her adults' poetry collections are: Window in a Tree (1992);
Empty Garden (1993), I Live Singing (1996), Language of Birds
(2001), Magic Places (2003), Island of Lights (2004).
Children's poetry collections: Soap Bubbles (1988), Tea Cat
(1999 - the Book of the Year Award of the Polish IBBY Section
competition; honourable mention in the Child's World Foundation
Bestseller competition), White Magic (2003), Helter-Skelter Down
the Hill (2005 - the "Book of the Summer" honourable mention in
the "Library Raczynski" competition; the "Book of the Year"
honourable mention of the Polish IBBY Section competition; the
"White Ravens 2006" Award of International Youth Library,
Muenchen), Golden Dragons (2005), Strange Land (2007).
*
dusk: unwitting
is it not
better in full light?
somebody however always leads us over the hill
somebody
holds our hand
and when we cross over the river
there lie
in its bits of crumbled sun
of use to
nobody
*
I am
the rain which will open everything
will open everything with its penetrating fingers
and then will
go away leaving behind these boxes with ajar lids
fluttering
helplessly in the lingering flood of dusk
those birds butterflies and leaves; stones and bodies; those
windows and footpaths leading inside to
the softest
softness and humidity to
tears. I rain don't want to know about it. I hide
myself before
the day in the dark and grass and from there
I watch how everything that was opened is dying
slowly getting
slack and soaking in the light
red becomes green and then
nothing more. The sun triumphs again and I
 cover my head
with grass
***
the dream
is the tree of reality
the reality leans on its branches; the dream
folds
like an egg inside it
we wander on the concave side of the dream
unable to
get out. A feeble knocking
reaches us from without
translation:
Anna Staniewska
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