POETRY CORNER

Make it through December
Crackling colours of marmalade
to oxblood, and to fading green
fall to the cold muddy soil.
The muddy soil, as if full of fear,
deepens its position, when I step fiercely
on its delicate head.

I am the fading colours,
and the muddy soil.

All that falls, drags me down,

pulls on my eyelids,
my heavy shoulders,
and my freezing feet.

Calls for my surrender.
Will I make it through
The short nights of December?

Colour that doesn't exist
I dream in colours that don’t exist.
My thoughts travel through a chromatic range
of a Gamut of emotions,
so they change-

Rich,
sometimes Pale.

My attention caught by the face of a tranquil male,
I wish he had smiled-

A colour that doesn’t exist.

Throwing old objects away
Yellowed and belonging to the past but it felt as though
it touched my skin not long ago
Not something I need

Something I want to see;
hold and feel-
What it once was,
to whom it belonged,

whether it had significance.

A barbie dollreceived
one day.
I remember playing as though she is my daughter, giving her care, everyday I would brush her hair.

She isnt my child,
yet I feel as though I mean to her,
and she means to meto
throw her away
I wouldnt dare.

A tiny notebook
with a large amount of glitter.
The smell is bitter and
the sparkles make me nostalgic
of times when I would not want a thing with no pizzazz

I would not wear a dress if it was not wavy when I danced.

The notebook is not even a diary.
It contains a couple of drawings,
and two thoughts I never dared to say;

“I lied to Mary about a dream I had”,
“I don’t wear underwear to ballet classes”

-My secrets.

I did not fear anyone would read it
or even look.

I trusted this notebook.

I’ll keep it, and maybe I'll be able to trust it again
whisper what I lie about,
tell it why I never cry,
speak of moments when I’d rather shout.

A family picture,
A bunch of tangled up bracelets
in a jewelery box
engraved with my name.

I hold it and feel-
What it once was,

a gone person
to whom it belonged

ripe and rotten

my father stands tall with glasses smelling like dish soap
short nails feeling the core of the apple
teeth tired from work digesting through the white flesh
juice has stung my throat since i was nine
it scratches at my throat like a hungry crow
while he can swallow it whole
my dog’s claws dig into the cream tile
as he begs the starved ghost for the scraps
sharp teeth will snap the fruit in two
the carpet hairs stuck between juice droplets forever
rotten clementines crave the release of death
they beg, scream, bargain with me from the kitchen counter
red fingers clog my ears as my knees drop to the floor
asking for the exoneration of waiting for the past to come
no sun can melt the block of grey snow on my roof
i stick my head under the dirty drops that pretend to be rain
fingertips that no longer recognise my touch
dig into the open pores of orange skin
ripping the layers of life away to expose soft flesh
waiting for the feeder to bite and chew into oblivion
amongst the most beautiful sunset i have seen
the one that did not look like one person or a castle
stood a tall cherry tree in the scandinavian summer
my rough hands have never picked fruit from god
who had let my eyes explore the pink blossoms
my biggest regret is not asking the tree’s name
as it unharmful nature cradled me into a peaceful sea
it didn’t bite my tongue and didn’t silence my truth
but let my calves burn from running
and eyes hurt from wetting the pages of a book
i only managed to glance at him once
in the half-darkness of the last days of summer
i lay hidden in bed sheets made from frankincense
every woman’s thoughts bleeding through an open artery
he knew my body’s crevices like his mother’s neighbourhood
and let the poison eat through the soil to the roots and grass
we peeled a green banana from the wrong side
he left teeth marks in the hard muscle and bones
he wiped clean ofingerprints to not be convicted
while the pulp clung to my cheeks and glued my mouth shut
i lay on an operation table like a half-eaten fruit
rotting away into the green roughness of the future
mournful eyes turn to watch the fruit blossom and embed
years spent on printing photos that were never taken
i grew allergic to the sweetness when petals covered my ears
juice only ever stings open wounds and burns my mouth
i watch as it drips down cracked lips of strangers
and calls the buzzing of flies that eat through corpses
while winter holds frozen and muted flavours of disappointment
i dig through the memories hidden in my glands and valves

fearful fate

swimming in white wine under stars
strings of grass wrapped around my wrists
his lips whispering secrets to my stomach
with summer wind singing me a lullaby
brown dogs running at the edge of a lake
the end of his cigarette beaming above my eyes
– i believed
watching men crack open marble
soft sounds of a trumpet tied at my ankles
waking to birds singing in the green garden
white butterfly sitting on the shards of a heart-shaped ashtray
golden irises hiding underneath sleep while the sun rose
with his lips parted in peace and desire
– i believed
wiping his tears with my dark blue sweater
his explanations moved the tree shadows gently
my nails painted red and my knees painted purple
with pieces of glass in my body and mind
burning my lips shut not to run
watching the street lights shift across his cheekbones
– i believed
collapsing onto the dirty bathroom floor
her hand cleaned my face and stroked my back
the world spun softly so i called the wrong number
he saw my broken ribs and bleeding ankles
tucking away my hair without a word
the dirt on my body i can’t scrub off with water or fire
– i believe
eating clementines peeled by her soft hands
i ran in the first snow and first sunlight
dilated pupils glance brightly from the curtain of hair
slowly disappearing into sweet smoke
breaking orange dry leaves with each step
still sending smiles and aching to touch
– i believe

Seasons and Self:
Autumn Still

It's been months
And I'm coming back home
And I'm letting myself feel again.

The same petals I left are back
Taking home in my trachea,
Vines curling around my throat.
A thorn is putting pressure on my lung,
Wonder if it'll pierce it through this time.

In September, I'm bad at forgetting
All the feelings that were surgically removed.
Your tender flame that's a forest fire in my chest
Is merely an echo of the scorching heat of the summer.

And it's licking at my skin
And it's touching my veins
And it's colliding with my nerves
And it's disturbing my intrinsic rhythm
And it's a ghost of yesterday
And it's not gone tomorrow
And I'm laying alone
And I can't trust my words
And back home, nothing changes.

(Will it make sense in the morning?)

And maybe I'll stop coughing in the winter.
Maybe the petals will freeze or decay,
Maybe I'm tired of feeling cold,
Maybe I'll keep forgetting you just to fall back in and remember.

Touch me like I'm your cello.
Play me, take care of me, worship me with your fingertips.
I'll make a sonata with my raw throat,
I'll stand straight and polished,
I'll fall to the floor if you don't hold me,
I'll burn if I'm near fire.
Scrape me to bare wood with your passion.
Leave my insides exposed:
An array of lilies, camellias, and roses.

In September, I'm ready for an encore.

The Rain

​​She collected raindrops as personal memorabilia.
She kept them in jars
Lined up along her windowpane.
Whenever she'd come on holidays
She'd always bring a jar home –
She'd label it with the name she gave the place she visited.
"Terry" was Reykyavik, Iceland,
"Vittoria" was Tuscany, Italy,
"Sophia" was Phuket, Vietnam.
She spoke to the raindrops as if they were sentient
And groomed them every night with a hair comb.

All her jars knew that she favored "Anastasia", the jar from her home.
She took it everywhere she went
And always cleaned it so that the water was crystal clear.
She would gaze at the light reflected by the raindrops for hours on end.
She loved Anastasia more than the simple joys of books and bathing.

Anastasia accompanied her to Faro.
They wanted to see the sunset on the beach
For the last time
Before the
Sun fell
To
The water.

On the beach, they found a girl
That was also gazing at the still water,
Holding a glass bottle,
Standing on her toes,
Almost falling but somehow still upright,
Trying to capture the wind in the bottle.

“What’s their name?” she whispered
But her voice got tangled with the waves.
The same question was asked again and again,
In a slow crescendo but
The sand kept stealing the words
And the sunset melted away their meaning.

She wasn’t holding Anastasia anymore.
The wind was howling around them
But the girl couldn’t catch it in her bottle.
The waves surged and caught the jar
In their embrace.
Two bodies of water, reunited.

“What’s your name?” she tried again
And finally, the girl turned around.

“I’m Anastasia.”

And then, the rain began.

Novembers Ago

Ewa Raczkowska

I see not who you are
but who you had become.

From my window, I see a birch tree
with scorch marks
but it's healing.

The snow fell
and it covered up the ugly dirt.

For you, I'll open the blinds and set the bed,
my old journal long forgotten
under blankets of second chances.
I'll bleach my linens
so don't make love to the balcony floor.
Drop your regrets and 'what ifs'
from dozens of Novembers ago.

Nothing is holding you back,
be with me in the present.

Issue 04
Commentary

In this edition of Work of Art, I wanted to step outside my usual poetry series (Seasons and Self)and explore the theme of family, the different meanings of the term, and finally, my own relationship with my family.
The first poem, Plagioclimax, dissects my impression of my father. The themes were heavily inspired by Charles Bukowski's Bluebird. Using forest imagery, I wanted to portray how toxic masculinity affects father-daughter relationships.
My longest poem to date, familial, is my contribution to the discussion of family trauma, and the expectations placed on children to break out of that cycle. I lean heavily on the contrast between communist Poland vs its current political state.

Plagioclimax
Sometimes I wander through a leafy forest
and I see scratches on the wood.
Is there an animal trying to claw its way out?
Who's suppressing the shoots and greenbranches?
The forest is so polite in its pain,
So kind in its rationality and seriousness.

Sometimes the forest is angry at itself
and it burns.
It blinds my eyes in rage because rage is good.
You're supposed to be angry.
You were taught to
be strong
and mad.
A man. ​

Then there's a break.
A flower.
Just one.
A hydrangea.

Sometimes I can see vines start curling on theground,
almost begging to be let out,
to let the forest finally be inhabited.
There are sparks in your eyes
as I tell you about my newest read.
It's amused
and longing
and curious
and melancholic
and jealous
and finally, defeated.

I look down again and the vines are nowhere tobe found.

Usually, it's a healthy leafy forest.
It has the thickest oak barks.
I love to sit in the branches with my notebook. I love
eating there.
Usually, I'll wipe my tears with a stray leaf
and lean on a tree to rest.
I might trip over a root.
You'll bandage my scraped knee,
again, with care.
Care is good.
Care is man.
Care is husband and father.
Care is fresh bread for breakfast
and visits on Wednesday evenings.

You can put your strength down.
Let's go see the ocean now.

Familial
i was born out of starvation
and smelly sewers.
i am a child of seedy streets
shady trees
muddy rivers.
i was born underwater
from hope and humility.

that night messiah had died
buried by the hospital rubble
from '69 protests.
turns out he was dead all along,
just a few rats in a coat
carrying sepsis and heroin.

i am a child of greed and all that's ugly.
washed away by seedless flowers,
brought to the table by rotten chicken,
i am the only hope for salvation.
i am the dream that times are changin'.
i am the torch of the revolt.

--- ​

my heart is hidden by a patchwork blanket,
so that it evokes passion and bidding.
in it, i see scraps of my family,
it is a sensory overload of memories and deja vu's.
on some days, my heart is conserved
in a bottle of vodka.
sometimes, it is cradled by a father
(mistaking his son for his wife
and fucking him mercilessly
until the boy cries).
one day, my heart is covered in gold dust,
a miracle of a meeting,
smoke from a campfire in the summer,
glistening silver lakes,
two pairs of emeralds meeting each other,
at once. ​

my heart is a patchwork blanket
of broken VHS tapes and forgotten vinyls,
begging to be repaired,
begging to be untangled and hugged.

---

i nearly drowned once, you know,
i had to have been four at the time.
sometimes i wonder if i ever resurfaced.

--- ​

CHECK THE REST IN ISSUE 04

focaccia
thinking of that one day,
when all seemed so simple,
a paradise, another place.

light coming from the window,
entering from above.
a transformative force,
changing all.

I remember sitting in the back,
looking around, a smile on my face.

finally, I could take a breath.

focaccia on the table,
still warm on the edges.
nothing bothered me,
a bliss like no other.

It was as if birds were flying around,
and all I had to do,
was watch them fly.

all my worries and fears,
weren’t there;
it was a monday,
the beginning of nothing

people laughing,
people working,
people eating,

yet all I had to do, was smile
observe
and watch

focaccia II
focaccia resting down,
people laughing around,
the purpose of life, magically found.

rays of sun passing through window glass,
conversations about the upper class,
harmony discovered with sounds of the brass.

teenagers awkwardly trying to find conversation topics,
a child ecstatically searching through his comics,
and I am trying to study microeconomics.

focaccia - commentary
On a February afternoon, I experienced something strange, yet beautiful. It was 12pm in Warsaw, raining.

When I entered the café and sat down on a wooden chair, I found an uncanny sense of happiness - coming from a place of peace.
I felt a wave of tranquility wash over me, thus prompting me to engage in a simple activity: watching others. I spotted two gentlemen talking, awkward teenagers celebrating a reunion of some sort, and a child playing – and annoying – his mother. I sat back and let a warm, serene orange light nestle itself gently below my heart. I felt truly happy. Resting comfortably in my spot, I finally appreciated the true beauty of a free evening, not having to do anything, whatsoever.

One of the walls of the café was entirely made from glass, which allowed light to enter the place. Instead of a February winter, our little coffee shop microclimate felt like an April spring.

After writing the first poem, I felt like experimenting and wrote another one, describing the exact same situation from a different angle; I wanted every line to rhyme, making the poem more funky.

 new year's eve

Ewa Raczkowska

 warmth permeates my stomach,
my lungs, my heart,
golden, it reaches my cheek,
I smile

a child crying loudly,
his head hidden in his mother’s arms,
he’s scared,
but he knows it will be allright

a couple - that had just been fighting,
I turn around, only to find their arms tied together,
hopeful that regardless the struggles,
they will face them together.

my eyelids close, and open
watching the red stream disappear in the sky,
I’m sad to see it go,
but peacefully, I smile
one goes, another will come

All looking at the sky,
gazing at the light
we know we will be here next year,
we will be fine.