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Chrissy Ade Dec 2019
I am the product of two distant worlds
But my tongue dances with only one
In my dreams, I hear my Mother’s cries
Praying for her lost daughter’s return
I am too much for one country to swallow
But not enough for the other’s acceptance
Yet here I stand, with my heart in the middle
Of a custody battle with unclear intentions
I cannot choose between the two
Without erasing half of my story
I cannot undo all this writing
Stained on my blood and bones
This heart, of plantains and sweet tea,
Fights a war inside her own body
I’m unsure of where to call home
When I’m not wanted by either country
As a daughter of immigrants, this poem is very personal and dear to my heart. I don't know if I will ever fit into either place but it was nice to put these feelings into words
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 12/2/2019

I miss these people: simple and direct,
the green and blue open gate of the lowlands,
the majesty of generations, a real chamber,
conversations around the table, what's new in the village:
that Johnny is doing well, that he was lucky,
even though he has never been a top student in geography,
that Mary has a husband who loves and respects her,
for he knows that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover,
that a kind heart is a real treasure.
It should be taught at home from an early age
that there's a place above the door where Christ on a wooden cross
is waiting suffering, patient - he doesn't complain
that every day he has to see that it's not easy here
- everyone shall get as much as in the will
all deeds weigh on the scale, and the clock
counts the days and hours and works evenly:
sometimes he would like to slow down the heart of the machinery,
but the big hand is constantly urging the small one
oh, how can a whole comprise in one life,
can you excuse yourself, divide into smaller pieces?
- you need to be a human and to be cheerful in your life.

Wieslaw Musialowski 08/12/2017
Katerina Landon Nov 2019
I've been staring at this for a minute.
Empty page and my mind just went blank.
Have I lost it, forgotten the meaning?
Where's the way for turning it back?

I've got such a tentative nature.
Can't decide what to do with it all.
How to manage and tame the emotions,
Set my mind to reach only one goal?

Don't belong in my country of origin,
Don't believe in the same things they do.
I can't bare all the lies, they are horrible
Wish to choose my own life, start anew.

See, I had an unfortunate error
Being born where I was has it's price
No one cares who you are or what's fair
They assume, you are bad in their eyes.

Have a wish that's so vibrant and lively.
I might never be able to be.
Who I am, show them my personality.
And sometimes I just don't want to live.
Had to stop to cry while writing this honestly
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

My homeland - dear land,
where for the first time I saw the sun  
and where I came to know God;
Where my father, brothers and mother kind
taught me prayers in my maternal tongue.

My homeland - villages and cities,
planted from the times of Piasts among Lechic fields;
Rivers, forests, flowery leas and meadows,
where larks sing their sweet songs of hope.

My homeland - our forefathers' glory,
Chrobry's Notched Sword and Cecora Mace,
Knightly Spirit, noble and brave,
bitter defeats and victories great.

My homeland - quiet green fields
for centuries trampled by hostile armies,
burial mounds and sad graves
that have covered our freedom defenders.

My homeland - heroic spirit of the Polish people,
that by miracle lives amid hunger and cold;
- hope that always blooms in hearts,
with work for the fathers, and song for the young!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)
The Piast dynasty was the first historical ruling dynasty of Poland.

Szczerbiec is the coronation sword that was used in crowning ceremonies of most kings of Poland from 1320 to 1764; its name, derived from the Polish word szczerba meaning a gap, notch or chip, is sometimes rendered into English as "the Notched Sword" or "the Jagged Sword", although its blade has straight and smooth edges.
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/2/2019

Paint me such a village in the valley,
sad with dark green firs and cheerful with crops...
Let she all in red rowanberries be,
and let gray linen lay on her meadows;
let colorful rainbows throw themselves across the silent pond,
dispersed by air that spurts out of the waters deep.
Let the cloud of pigeons flutter overhead,
and dandelions' soft fluff and spiders' silk threads...

And paint pastures and fertile fields,
and in their black soil let wheat and barley shine with gold,
and let fiery red of poppies ridges beautifully adorn,
and poplars over the road make into a string,
and throw the silvery mist on the meadows...

And let they walk so, loudly, through the field
heifers' bells and clapping of whips.
Let the willows ponder by the murmuring stream,
casting shadow pre-sunset and long,
and quiet calming blue give around,
and fill the air with birds' happy babbling.
And put such a cloud on the mountains' brow...
And only people make ours, so dear to my heart.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

* The original name of the poem is "In a foreign land", as
the poem was written in Karlsbad in Germany.
Maria Konopnicka's funeral in Lviv was attended by almost 50,000 people, and to this day this great poet has her own and special place in the hearts of ordinary Polish people.

Konopnicka's poetry has a pinch of Hans Christian Andersen's magic and warmth, and this warmth and magic is not lost in free-verse translation.

Enjoy!
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/30/2019

There, in my country, in a faraway land
a hundred dimmed stars shine in a crown,
one hundred extinguished stars above the field stand,
like a hundred knights in an iron armor clad.

There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred red-hot hearts with longing burn,
one hundred red-hot hearts pound in the chest
like a ghost into armor iron plates.

There, in my country, in a faraway land
one hundred winds are galloping through fallow lands,
one hundred winds are galloping through the steppe trail
like one hundred steeds' golden horseshoes beating the ground.

And when one hundred days, one hundred nights shall pass,
with hearts full of power knights will rise,
knights will rise, horses will mount,
and they'll light up stars in the golden crown.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)
Maria Konopnicka's funeral was attended by almost 50,000 people, and to this day this great poet has her special place in the hearts of ordinary Polish people.

Konopnicka's poetry has a pinch of Hans Christian Andersen's warmth and magic to it, and this warmth and magic is not lost in free-verse translation.

Enjoy!

I know I'd probably get hate comment
But your words cannot create torment
It's just like the way people these days stare at my hair
And I won't even care; as if it doesn't ring a bell
You know; sometimes I wonder if it's possible for someone's brain to be paralysed
That's what I feel anyway; about those who call themselves sarakites
Sometimes I wonder if some youths' mind has been contaminated with the society mayhem
Maybe their master has brainwashed and re-brain-feed them
The so-called buharist too; makes me sick
With their overhyped appraisal for a political freak
they sees their master as saint; and anybody who don't support
's gotto be corrupt
The whole concept of this district makes me weak
It's just a different story of a blind man and his stick
But this time; the white-cane controls the blind man's brain
Just like the white folks controls black man's aim
The sheep now controls the shepherd
The goat rule over the leopard
How do you expect me to praise someone who's got nothing to offer
I'd rather be an orphan
Than being a ripen fruit of a corrupt family tree
Never a slave; I was born to live free
I'm not a puppet of a political faction
I can only lease fraction1/2 support of a political action
Because unlike them clueless fool
I am not a useless youth
Who will abandon his roots and fruits
And start praising some political occult
I am not a political tool
Who engages in spreading counterfeited news
About how the president is a fascist
I'm not an agent of hate-speech
How can I support leaders
with zero point agenda
When poverty is the only completed government project
When political opponents poke-nose in civil servant protest
Why will I vote when I know my vote do not count
Corruption, our newly designed flag
Poverty is our special kind of rain
Our skin covered with grey and black paints (instead of green and white paints)
Pain, pain all over and over again
Now; let us pray
Oh Lord; please do not forsake
Please intervene
Do not let our country stray
To the youth with lighten sane
Receive brain in Almighty's name
23Dreptate Oct 2019
Its a swivel,
A swivel of wish.
Wishing our fathers had fought
As our grand fathers hoped they would have fought.
Now we dwindle. As the flag of our fathers crumble.
And out blessings become a curse from our daily annihilation.
Still we profess illumination.
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/7/2019

O scarecrow, dressed elegantly
- in worn-out shoes, ragged old hat,
on which black crow sits in dignity
and stares off into this distance where forest sad

- you certainly dream about traveling
into these wheat fields, grasses adorned with flowers
that you could lose your scarecrow's soul
running happily towards the horizon...

But you stand here, alas, forever lost in thoughts,
unable to understand where the restriction comes from,
with your straw heart always split
between both powerlessness and want.

Funny thing, my dear scarecrow - to have
so much on your own and not to.

Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/01/2008
Only poems that I've ever tried to write myself come from a time when I was 22 or 23 years old and there are only a few of them. Enjoy!
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