Zofia Beszczynska


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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