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)

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.

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)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/31/2019

The Night rose, all in white and fog,
and she shrouded the capital with silver breath,
and she lit up lightning bolts of diamond sparks
in the bedding of snows.
And who had a fireplace and loving arms,
that awaited him in his home,
was saying to this night "Be blessed! "
and who did not have, "Cursed be you! ",
And there were, ah! thousands of such voices...
And all shivering with cold and doubt,
and all strangely terrifying in silence...
Stars, stars on the sky! Does God hear them?
You look from up above, pale, and I'm also looking;
The wind is rising, and the snow is covering the road...
Stars, stars on the sky! if one of you responds,
I can't hear your soft and distant voice! ...

*

Oh, silvery Night! Fearsome queen!
You carry the iron scepter for the poor...
And misty hoarfrost veil overhead
you pin with a pearl of frozen tears.
Oh, silvery Night! is it your bright stars from heaven
they want, this crowd motionless and pale?
Have mercy, listen! All they're dreaming of is a little piece of bread -
and to warm themselves just a bit!
If I only were you, ice-hearted queen!
The largest diamond that shines in the azure skies,
I'd give to the poor into this snowstorm
for bread and fire for children...
And I know the sky wouldn't get paler
if for one of those beautiful stars in blue,
bright eyes, in which life then would have been ignited anew,
were shining with tears of joy into the air...
Oh, Night! You walk quietly, ice-cold,
upon your head snow crown glitters;
and your silver, heavy, long robe,
for a million - will be a shroud.

*

In front of the gate, where street lamps were burning,
the child stood, his teeth chattering.
Poor boy! he thought that the wall would protect him,
that the stones would warm him!
But the landlord has looked through the peephole
and quickly locked the door. And all at once hot child's tears,
like pearls, started to flow...
- "Tell him to go some other place! He'll drag us all into big trouble!
If he'll die outside from cold, things can get ugly,
police, investigation... maybe even jail! ".
Finally, the boy left crying. In the distance
granite walls of the temple were rising in the dark...
Above them - the fog of pale opals, and higher - grey ice clouds.
And a cross. The orphan - has knelt at the threshold.
Diamond snowflakes flew in the air...
He wanted to enter, but the church was shut tight
together with mercy and Almighty God.
If only Christ were here with us,
I know that every dark night he would walk
and gather the hungry and the poor
And he would feed them at his altars,
filling their hearts with faith and hope.

*

Chilled to the bone, child with glass eyes
was looking at the sky, at the Milky Way:
he wanted to complain, but his mother was dead,
so he whispered quietly through tears:
- "Our father, who art in heaven..." How it is possible, o son of God!
All nations call your father a Universal Sovereign
and you - staring at this blue palace -
are dying without a roof in front of a closed door?
"Our father, who art..." you say... and whose brother are you?
Those who with their dead souls in luxury anointed
with goblets full of wine in their hands
with loud cheers are drowning your dying moans?
"Our father, who art! ..." Lord God! do you hear this child
that speaks quietly with mouth pale with misery?
He deeply believes that you are a father to him,
and with this faith on his frozen lips, dies he!

*

The child started to pray... silvery fog
with a breath of his mouth has slightly dispelled,
at first hotter and blue-white,
later - cold and strangely transparent.
Finally, it disappeared... half open lips
stopped whispering prayers and complaints...
With dark silent edifice as only witness,
the child has died without a roof.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/1/2019

Be strong, o brother! And with your eagle wings
whip the clouds, that clouds which threaten you with a storm...
We were born by days so sad and so hard
that great strength is needed not to die out
at some early, lonely grave like a blood-red lightning bolt,
but to live bravely on earth full of tears.

Be strong! Let your young arms
bear the burdens, worthy of your efforts...
Let brotherly love fill your chest...
For as long as at least one spirit in darkness dwells,
as long as at least one heart doesn't know
to what should it devote itself with persistence,
no swordsman should ever rest
in the silence of his own existence.

Be strong! Life overwhelms with its weight
those who, without the helm, will and power,
among the multitude of world's phenomena and contradictions,
err, unwillingly carried by the current of events,
absent-minded and not conscious of their own actions,
like a somnambulist sleep-walking through the night...
The Earth won't lean on them for sure!
And Humanity, in its triumphal march, never takes into account
those who having retreated before the battle - die.
And outside the persistent Spirit Realm
they won't exist, nor will this mysterious shadow,
which disappears when the immaculate sun rises in the sky.

A handful of noble men that are conquering
the future are like loose, solar links,
which are unable into one whole unite...
And maybe it's your spirit they lack
to close the circles of the big chain,
that will engird the globe and push it with might to a new path.

Be strong, o brother! ... ah, your proud chest
I would like to clad in a diamond breastplate,
against the burning breath of carnal lust
that takes you on a journey full of temptations,
against poisoned arrows of doubt
that strike you as bolts of lightning...
But I'm weak myself, and I cannot be your shield,
though I'm standing by your side
like a sister, outstretching my hands,
and I look at light slowly dying in your eyes,
and at your lips, which with a smile
blaspheme to the secret mournings of your soul,
like blasphemous would be a rose adorning orphans' black robes;
And in vain I want to protect you with my tears
against the scorching sun of life that dries up your chest;
And helplessly looking as your soul is dying,
I am calling: o brother, be strong! ...

The ground is shaking under your feet, but you must stay strong!
You have to remain at your post with courage undaunted in the storm.
He who carries the Torch of Hope and hoists
the Victory Standard at the summits of spirituality,
whoever imprints himself with lion's strength
on his own Age, the one to whom the Earth
is like a non-solidfied block,
that his divine mark awaits,
- only he the name of a "Man" shall gain
in the non-erasable annals of immortality!

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/29/2019

Why are you crying, oh sad little wind,
and why are you weeping so loud?
You should be sitting in your cozy hut,
and instead, you roam in the fields?

- My, oh, my! But you... you don't know,
my dear, my sweet child! I weep and I cry
because I don't have a hut, my own cozy hut,
and so forever and ever wander I must.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/5/2019

...Smaller than small is my spirit
And bigger than big.
Everlasting motion puts no limits
between the droplets of the sea.

Caught up in ocean's run
living waves roll free...
And one drop, which hits the bank,
is also called the sea.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/3/2019

And spring will come and it will open the buds,
but in my eyes it shall never die
the boundless white field...

And summer will come and ears of grain
shall ring. But in my eyes still, bright as day,
boundless white field...

And life will pass and death will cloud,
but in the coffin I'll open my eyes
into the boundless white field...

And midnight will come and I will rise from the grave
and I'll direct my pensive steps
to the boundless white field...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/9/2019

From boulder to boulder, I was standing on a fragile plank
that separates light from darkness, death from life,
over the huge explosion of the precipice foamed...
Below me, the roar and beating of the wings of a dark night.

Through the moist floor of the moss tapestries, the abyss
is growling and, like a hound, rattling with the chain...
At my feet its foams, its anger, its howling...
I trample them, I strike them with lightning bolts... I am just a shade.

From boulder to boulder, I've descended under the mad assault
of waters, ferociously rushing at me and at the the abyss,
stunned by the simultaneous firing of a hundred death's guns.

And suddenly I felt like a light bird feather,
carried far away from the quiet marina by the breeze,
and trembling, I covered my eyes... I was just daydreaming.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/4/2019

It's evening, Lord! The forest birds
towards their nests lean their wings...
Minstrels of your fields
have stopped to sing their songs.

I've spent a whole long hard day at work
in tears, longing for home...
and you didn't have a single bright ray
from the lights of the morning and of the day, and of the sun.
My time slowly bends to an end,
the evening star, trembling in the sky,
already flashes among the shadows of the night.

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

____
I am not happy with the last line. Original: "already flashes/twinkles/shines among the shadows.

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 10/30/2019

You love your home, family home,
that every summer night, through silver mist,
with rustle of its linden trees accompanies your dreams,
and with silence soothes your tears?

You love your home, this old roof that tells a tale
about long-forgotten past and olden days,
family threshold of moss-covered entrance doors,
that warmly greets you after every long hard road?

You love your home, a refreshing aroma of golden grain
and grasses in the morning freshly cut,
of moist alders high and red roses wild,
that weave flowers into hawthorns' green thick hair?

You love your home, this forest dark,
that noise of its powerful songs
and ghosts moaning, and winds choir,
is pouring into your ever-restless blood?

You love your home, family home,
that amongst storms, in days of doubt,
when the thunder hits your soul,
with its memory saves you like a protective shield?

But if you truly love, and if you truly want
to live under this roof, to eat bread of grains,
guard thresholds so dear to you with your heart,
and lay your heart among beloved walls! ...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/6/2019

Don't hope for any light

Don't hope for any light in the midst of a storm,
neither on earth nor in the sky.
For whoever awaits it will certainly die
and he'll be a bell, ringing at his own funeral.
And only those won't be covered by the dark coat of night
who within themselves will find the light,
to clearly illuminate their path,
by kindling their own spiritual fire.

*by kindling their own fire of the spirit all alone.

A Toast

A fool would be the one who wants at sea depth
to quench the thirst that burns him from the inside,
who, clinging to the wide wave,
rises up with her and collapses into the abyss.
A fool! ... Life, the great cellarmaster,
is only going to give him a goblet full of bitterness.
Even without us, the seas flow into the abyss -
long live the wine!...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/9/2019

Since you have flashed in my silent sky
with a flaming star flying into the abyss,
I know what life is and I know what is dying,
- because of you I live, because of you I die.

You are a poisonous flower from which I collect nectar,
You are a thunder and a storm from which I draw silence,
You are grind and discord with which to sleep I rock myself,
I live because of you, because of you I die.

My chest is getting cold, my heart is beating fast,
under your kisses and under your touch,
I die with delight, with passion I rise,
- because of you I live, and because of you I die.

On you, oh wave, I lean my head,
on you I put my wings, oh raging gale,
with you, destruction, I double my strength,
I live because of you, because of you I die.

Your caresses are bells at my funeral,
Your caresses are golden bowls of happiness,
You are the fire that puts out the flames...
you are the water that starts a blaze...
I live because of you, because of you I die! ...

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 11/2/2019

Forget-me-nots are
true fairy-tale flowers!
They grow by the brooks,
and with curious eye they look.
 
When you take a walk
they softly laugh
and they whisper modestly,
"don't forget about me."

Maria Konopnicka (1842-1910)

________
I am not sure if "when you take a walk" is correct, maybe it should be "when you're taking a walk". Or even maybe both versions are wrong ;) Sometimes it is harder to translate something that short than much longer poems :(