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Poems

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Weronika Madryas
Spring

At the end of March
snow is melting,
the trees' hair is turning green,
the sun is warming more and more boldly.

Spring walks in a flowing dress,
in a storm of curls she wears a wreath,
where birds make their nest
and chirping in the thicket of hair.

On lawns and squares
crocus, snowball and daisy.
Tulips and daffodils
in garden, even beds.

And radishes and parsley
and cress, and duck.
Behind her is a drake and ducklings,
there are baby birds hiding everywhere.

But spring can be capricious,
then storms and rain call.
Then it softens again
the sun caresses the wet greenery.

My dears,


the ubiquitous flower stalls made me feel poetic, so I invite you to read the poem.

Weronika Madryas
"March Eight"

Tulips and primroses
they are for mother, grandmother, daughter.
For fifth grade girls,
Kasia, Zuzia and Basia.
And for the nature lady,
who will give them water soon.
March eight is full of flowers,
take the bouquet in your hands!

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My dears,


memorable rhymes are the best solution for spelling problems. So I invite you to read my poem "Ówka".

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My dears,
on a cloudy day I am sending you my poem with Ania's illustration and a very long smile.

Dachshund

Being a dachshund is difficult,
you must have a long torso,
short legs, short neck,
long ears, slender line.
That's all and that's it.

Being a dachshund is a strong thing,
you have to have character,
bark loudly, so loudly,
for all guests to hear.

Tofik, Fifek, Rudy, Rydz,
you have plenty of them here,
so choose my dachshund!

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My dears,

it got so cold. That's why I'm going to share with you an untitled winter poem I wrote years ago. Today I don't even remember who I was thinking about then, but it doesn't matter... Anyway, I dedicate this poem to my old sympathies...

Winter hardened on the branches,
Clotted winter on hair, lips,
Winter hardened on the cat's fur,
Whipped by the frosty wind, it froze...
Black clouds are swirling over the city,
The sun wraps itself in a gray cloak,
Snow sticks to your eyelashes and hands,
The whole city is bathed in white...
The snow erases your tracks,
Fear creeps into my soul...
The Guardian Angel touches my hand,
Where you stood, the snow is melting,
The frozen leaf turned green...
The flower shook it before you gave it
When you entered my hall...

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My dears,
today I'm nostalgic and reflective because I miss you so much.

Weronika Madryas


Wrocław, December 26, 2023

Conversation with Grandma

I put a candle on the grave,
where are you, my dearest?
and He, Your Beloved Husband
to eternal rest…

A thin layer of snow
she hid the letters.
The leaf is carried in November
clung to the cross.

The wind knocks down
tears from my eyelashes.
Frost salty drops
turns into ice.

I already know you're gone
and I am afraid of great loneliness.
And that without you I will forget your kindness...
...and I will lose the sweetness of my heart
in the indifference of everyday life,
How dearest to you, stranger.

I put a candle on the grave,
where are you, my dearest?
and He, Your Beloved Husband
to eternal rest…

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Weronika Madryas
Wrocław, 23/08. 2016

Grandmother

In your eyes
my childhood froze...
...a time of innocence, carefreeness and dreams
that is irrevocably gone,
invoked in vain by the more audacious…

…Time is inexorable
he looks at the childish with pity
and shakes his head.
Finally, he yawns tiredly
and to the final one he says:
It happens that I extend my old age,
and I shorten my childhood. Never the other way around.
And death is what it is
"just and unfair",
as you wrote,
he just chuckles and rubs his bony hands...

These two chat and joke,
like we did when I came back from school
and I watched you cook dinner.

I see you clothed
in a long dress,
made of soft fabric…
Hair sprinkled with silver
high above the neck
you pin up…

I still see
like a pinch of salt
add to sorrel soup,
how you knead the Sunday dough,
and then you prick it with a rod,
like reading a book
you soak up the evening sun…

And when so defenseless
like a tiny and shy bird,
Look at me
pleadingly as if,
these are words of comfort
dancing on the tip of your tongue…
…that you will finally meet
Your Beloved,
...that you will lose your old age
like a worn coat...
the one who tormented your body
pain and lack of fitness…

Only my great fear
before your absence
the language is paralyzing
and tells me to be silent

In your eyes
my childhood froze...
...a time of innocence, carefreeness and dreams

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Moi Mili,


zapraszam Was raz jeszcze do lektury dyniowego wierszyka. W tym roku został zilustrowany przez Anię. 

Weronika Madryas

Dyniowa wróżka

Pomiędzy górą a rzeką,
podobno całkiem niedaleko,
na skraju lasu chatka stała,
co kształtem dynię przypominała.

Pomarańczowa i pękata
turlała się przez pół świata. 
Znalazła wreszcie cichy kąt
i rzekła: Nie ruszę się stąd! 

W dyniowej chatce Dyniowa wróżka, 
dyniowa kula, dyniowa różdżka. 
A tuż za chatką zakręt w lewo, 
tam gdzie wysokie rośnie drzewo. 
I jeszcze kilka kroków w bok
i każdy westchnie: Co za widok!

Jak okiem sięgnąć wstęgi grządek,
pomiędzy nimi też porządek. 
Dyniowe pole pomarańczowe, 
och, jak cudownie kolorowe!
A nad dyniami tańczą liście, 
wodzirej wiatr pędzi przez świat!

Dyniowa wróżka o dynie dba, 
komuś zapewne największą da. 
Raz już karocą dynia się stała, 
kiedy Kopciuszka poratowała. 

Dyniowa wróżka figle płata
i zajrzy w każdy zakątek świata. 
I jeśli dynię pocałuje, 
to wielki owoc zaczaruje.

Ba, to nie wszystko Mój Przyjacielu, 
dyniowe pole widziało wielu.
Niewielu jednak wie, 
co dalej dzieje się. 

Pięć kroków w lewo, 
sześć kroków w prawo.
Pięć minut wolno, 
sześć minut żwawo. 

Na końcu widzisz stoliczek mały, 
na nim talerzyk oraz specjały. 
Dyniowa zupa, dyniowy dżem, 
dyniowe ciasto, dyniowy krem. 
I jeszcze placek, i pestki dyni, 
dyniowy przysmak w kształcie cukinii. 

I nagle znika dyniowy świat, 
i nagle mama woła: wstań!
Do szkoły znowu trzeba iść, 
Mnożyć i czytać, dzielenie ćwiczyć. 

Tylko w kieszeni dziwny szmer, 
Dyniowa wróżka śmieje się. 
Masz pestek dyni całą garść, 
nic tylko gryźć, nic tylko brać. 
Dyniowa Wróżka idzie spać.

Moi Mili,


zapraszam Was do wysłuchania napisanej przeze mnie, bardzo jesiennej piosenki i zaśpiewanej przez utalentowaną pianistkę Martę Skowron.

kasztan mp3Weronika Madryas, Marta Skowron
00:00 / 02:26

My dear,
I invite you to read my poem about Newcomer from Nice Things Gallery.

Weronika Madryas
Wroclaw, on 4.05. 2023

A newcomer from the Gallery of Pretty Things

Father gave me a Guardian Angel,
writer and poet.
He found it in the Gallery of Pretty Things
and took me and Anna Marianna to my house.
No problem with an angel
I thought as I looked at the cardboard box.

The angel fell asleep on a wooden board
  in a cast iron bed.
He covered himself with a quilt in roses,
he took off his slippers and put on a nightcap.
He hung his wings on the railing just behind his head,
He did not complain of back pain or discomfort.

Round glasses with wire frames,
feather in hand and open book
waiting patiently for the end of the angel's sleep...
Asleep cats and curious mice
right next to the angel's bed they doze.

The breath of the writer and the poet is calm,
kind and gentle face.
  Guardian Angel lulled by dreams
he probably keeps awake in his sleep
over Anna Marianna and over me…

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My dear,


the war in Ukraine has been going on for many months, and it is still not easy to explain to children the enormity of misery and suffering that it brings.  I decided that a rhyme could be helpful in talking to the youngest. So I invite you to read.

Weronika Madryas,
Wrocław, 31/01/2022.

Nitup

Where the golden ears of cereals are
there is a land of little mice, 
who value peace and quiet
and pleasant silence around. 
They have blue sky in the flag,
gold suns from sunflowers, 
which are everywhere. 

Their neighbor is a rat king, 
who has a great desire to fight. 
I want to take over a mouse country, 
then move on quickly  w dal
Take the mountains and valleys
and distant lands.
"World! You'll be all mine! And I will be one king!"

Warriors call him Nitup, 
unwilling, savages.  
They left early at dawn, 
to destroy the lives of mice. 
The mouse king knows well, 
that it is not easy to defend yourself. 
He looks at his country with concern, 
knows Nitup's terrible plan. 

The mice will defend themselves, 
mice won't give up!
Little mice with their mothers
and with grandmothers, old people
Need to ship overseas, 
to save their lives there. 
For squirrels, foxes, hedgehogs, 
even strange bats. 

A little mouse called Mika
she landed in the chicken coop
"Corn, corn! We've got a mouse in our henhouse!"
Ko-ko-ko, ko-ko-ko, so what? 
Need to feed her soon. 
Haunted, skinny, 
we'll starve to death here."
As they said, so they did, 
they quickly watered the mouse. 

Today under the roost a mouse hole, 
no chicken goes there. 
Mika jokes sometimes
with the hen that lays the eggs. 
Red hen, very thin
she said what she knew:
Ko-ko, ko-ko, you have a hundred cousins here!
The one from the mole, wearing glasses, 
you would be a nice couple.
Two more in hamsters, 
sometimes they roam the henhouse. 
Well, a reed vole, 
hen's afraid, he's still sobbing."

Little Mika now knows 
what's going on in the chicken coop. 
But he misses his country, 
in front of the hens it fails.
Still waiting for news, 
listens to all the stories. 
You have to believe Mika that
war will end someday. 

A nice hamster called Tomik
brought a letter from the cat, 
who lives on the border. 
"Nitupa has been lost,
rat king as the night passed. 
When he felt a knife at his throat, 
great coward, great coward!"

Mika says goodbye to the hens, 
with hamsters and moles. 
"Corn! Kukuryk!
Mention the chicken coop.
Ko-ko, ko-ko, 
you always have a second home here!”

Mika returns to her homeland, 
to help save her, 
new cities build. 
The rat king has lost the battle. 
In life, as in a fairy tale,
when evil loses, 
good wins.

My dear,

the long-awaited day has come, when we expect a visit from a very generous guest. I wish you beautiful gifts and invite you to read a poem about Santa Claus.

Weronika Madryas,

Wroclaw, 6/12/2022.

Santa Claus

In the midst of a starlit night

snow-covered sleigh rides

harnessed to reindeer.

Among the stars

the Benefactor rushes into the world.

Gray beard and purple

has the power of gifts,

for one night.

In the great sack he may find

something for: Basia and Kasia,

redhead Zuzia, little Ania,

Kuba, Janka, nice Frania.

It's not a car and it's not a doll

have great power,

only the love he gives

you on this cold night.

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My dear,
I invite you today to read a fairy-tale poem. So let the photo also be fabulous.

Weronika Madryas

Pumpkin fairy

Between the mountain and the river
apparently quite nearby,
there was a hut at the edge of the forest,
which in shape resembled a pumpkin.

Orange and squat
it rolled halfway around the world . 
She finally found a quiet corner
and said: I will not move from here!  

In the Pumpkin Hut Pumpkin Fairy,  
pumpkin ball, pumpkin wand. 
And right behind the hut, turn left,  
where the tree grows tall. 
And a few more steps to the side
and everyone will sigh: What a sight!

As far as the eye can see the ribbon of flower beds,
order between them too. 
Pumpkin Orange Field,  
oh how wonderfully colorful!
And leaves are dancing over the pumpkins,  
bellwether the wind rushes through the world!

Pumpkin fairy cares about pumpkins,  
probably someone's greatest da. 
Once the pumpkin became a coach,  
when Cinderella came to the rescue. 

A pumpkin fairy plays tricks on it
and look at every corner of the world . 
And if he kisses the pumpkin,  
the great fruit will enchant you.

Well, that's not all My Friend,  
the pumpkin field has been seen by many.
Few know, however,  
what happens next. 

 

Five steps to the left,  
six steps to the right.
Five minutes slow,  
six minutes briskly. 

At the end you see a small table,  
on it a plate and specials . 
Pumpkin Soup, Pumpkin Jam,  
Pumpkin Pie, Pumpkin Cream 
And a cake, and pumpkin seeds,  
pumpkin-shaped zucchini delicacy . 

And suddenly the pumpkin world disappears,  
and suddenly mom calls out: get up!
Go to school again,  
Multiply and read, divide practice. 

Only in my pocket a strange murmur,  
The pumpkin fairy is laughing. 
Got a handful of pumpkin seeds,  
nothing but bite, nothing but take . 
The Pumpkin Fairy goes to sleep.

Good morning dear,


Today, on such a special day, on the day of memories of our loved ones, those who are no longer with us, I would like to read you a poem from the collection "Poems of Weronika" entitled "Silent as falling leaves".

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My dear,


in the vicinity of the Fairy-tale Green Hill there is a house called "Eden". It belonged to an old lady, a painter. Today I look with tenderness at the three pictures that I received one summer afternoon, when Ania and I went to our neighbor for an apple pie. I did not suspect then that this would be our last meeting.

 

  I invite you to read the poem.

Weronika Madryas 
Wrocław, on 09/06/2022
In memory of Lidia the painter Samborska

Eden

An old lady
she left the house near the forest 
She called Eden,  
to knock on the door of paradise . 

Autumn roses, shrubs, abundant walnut
remember tired hands,  
the same that they painted on the canvas with a brush
landscapes and wildflowers ...

The old lady left her Eden for Paradise.
Only immortal images
and the fairy-tale garden remained ...

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My dear,

I invite you to read the poem and see the photos with the lavender fairies.

What's going on about purple in the lavender world?

In a lavender world
lavender fairies,
lavender brooms, lavender wands ...
Violet spells, purple words,
purple dreams in lavender heads ...

In a lavender world
purple flowers,
purple birds,
wonderful fragrances ...

A shard of this world in dried flowers,
a crumb of this world is a memory of summer ...

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 02/05/2015

 

Mr. Year

 

The year is counted by four ma,

every time knows different.

 

When the reign begins

it rules the country in the cold.

His white advisor,

clothed in snow and frost,

as winter known in the world.

Her coming dream brings

the night lengthens and the day shortens.

The branches of the trees are huddled in the snow,

but when the mood is gloomy

the frosty wind summons

and puffy white clouds.

Frost, her humble servant,

paint the glass with a breath

and icicles sharp as steel

will hang here and there.

 

At the end of March, the snow is melting,

green hair trees,

the sun warms bolder and bolder.

Spring is walking in a flowing dress,

he wears a wreath in a storm of curls,

in which the birds nest

and chirping in the thicket of hair.

On lawns and squares

crocus, snowball and daisy.

Tulips and daffodils in the gardens,

in even beds.

And radish and parsley

and watercress and duckling,

behind her, a drake and ducklings,

chicks are hiding everywhere.

But it can be a capricious spring,

then storms and rain calls.

Then she mellows again

and the sun caresses the wet green.

 

After her, the laughing summer,

crazy, sleepy.

Brings short nights with him,

and with them singing and dancing,

kisses under the stars

and confessions under the trees,

under bridges, on benches,

in gazebos.

Summer doesn't like worries,

in his carelessness he loses his mind.

And he is reluctant to work too,

but he travels a lot.

The blue of the seas, the tops of the mountains,

desert sand, forest thicket,

he knows various paths

and wanders here and there.

 

And only misses autumn,

romantic, thoughtful,

large-brimmed hats,

the straw and felt ones,

freaks out.

Give umbrellas,

baskets, coats and rubber boots.

There is a pocket in the cape,

where are the colors of the palette,

hides brushes.

And his moods change

clear, dull, misty, rainy,

warm, cool, beautiful, gloomy.

Sometimes he dances with the wind,

then it wanders through the orchards,

Plums, apples in boxes.

And he tells you to look for nuts

in the mists, vapors, rain pouring.

Wading in golden, red leaves

Watches the keys of the birds,

and grows sad and grows,

even her dress darkens.

Still crying, still sighing

in addition, he coughs and sneezes,

especially before leaving.

 

Mr. Rok who is in power

has the nickname The Present,

when he passes by, he is called the Past

or the future, when it has not happened yet ...

My dear,


I invite you to read my poem about what saddens us most today ...

Weronick Madryas

Wrocław, 4 March 2022.

 

In Gardone Riviera

“In Rome at Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
The pavement sprinkled with wine
And flower shards. "

Czesław Miłosz wrote,

poet and thinker.

 

In Gardone Riviera

sleepy ducks

the wind sways on Lake Garda.

White sails

against the cloudless sky

and olive flavor

from a nearby grove ...

In the shade of a mandarin tree

girl in a straw hat

humming a longing melody ...

 

It is there on the hill of Vittoriale degli Italiani

that is "the sanctuary of Italian victories",

where the one-eyed poet Gabriele D'Annuzio

hosted Benito Mussolini.

Although he called Hitler a "cruel clown",

he himself dreamed of resurrecting the Roman Empire.

Did they chat in the dining room

accompanied by a turtle monument,

put in honor of this

what ended up after the chocolate feast?

 

I remember Gardone Riviera

in Wrocław on a March day,

when I put the pot with primula on the balcony,

and the rays of the sun

they melt the falling snow.

 

And then I dive in

in the city of spring waiting.

And I look at the children in the squares,

worried faces of mothers

and a gentleman with a dachshund.

 

At that time, Kyiv is on fire.

On the orders of a madman

the war has started ...

In the fumes of the plague

for two years the world has been consuming

Ukraine is resisting

to the Russian invader ...

And around death, pain, tears,

fire and rubble ...

 

Easter is just around the corner ...

 

“Until everything is a legend
And then after many years
On the new Campo di Fiori
Rebellion will stir up the poet's word. "

Czesław Miłosz wrote

In Warsaw on Easter 1943.

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Weronika Madryas
Wrocław, February 27, 2022
 

Poplar


At a fork in the road
soaring and slender,
 
right next to the second one,
lasted for forty-three years ...

Just before the end
the trunk broke.
Hair torn by the wind
she fell at her feet
her twin sister.
 

Dry, piercing crack
wind howling
and boughs broken around.
 
It's a landscape after.  

At a fork in the road
orphaned sob
longing for the lost ...

… And then the world drowned
in the arms of a madman.
Under fire
 
in a sea of blood and tears
our brothers are leaving.
 
We look at evil.
And my heart breaks
 
like a poplar trunk.  

Dry, piercing crack 
howling sirens
and pain around.
 
It is a landscape of war. 

My dear,


Today is a good day for greed. It remains for me to wish you a tasty meal and I am sending you a rhyme.

Packages

Baked and fragrant,
sugar-coated, sugar-coated,
jam stuffed with ...

Little, big eat,
crunches are almost bursting ...
But the faces are smiling
and happy eyes ...

Lick your fingers with a little finger!
This is the fifth one, highwayman!
Donut disappears from the plate
and the crumb also disappears soon ...

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My dear,


for long and dark autumn evenings, the best are: nice music, warm tea,  the gentle glow of candles and a touch of poetry. That is why I offer you a pinch of the latter in an excerpt from my poem entitled Glass Collection. Today I would rather call this fragment Longing for summer ...

(...)
There are sweet moments
what like butterflies will fly away ...
when the wind shakes the rose cup
will depart ...

I implore them by whispering:
I have a collection of glass balls
and in them sadness, joy, pain ...
I charm with words ...
(...)

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zlote liscie.jpg

My dear,
Today is a special day that makes people aware of the inevitability of passing away.

I once wrote a poem Silent like falling leaves ... 
And although they left, I trust that their love remains in us ...

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My dear,


After reading about the history of ten socks, we felt very sock-like, because Ania sewed, told stories and created a comic book during lessons at school.  Therefore, I am sharing with you my own literary inspiration, i.e. my poem and a photo with Ania's work.

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 25.X. 2021

 

Yellow socks

Gray-and-white little kitten,

known as Milka,

she drank milk very willingly

from the very morning.

 

She was playing with a ball of wool,

it rolled it, it chased it.

Until she was very wrong

and caused trouble.

 

Mother taught Ania

take care of your socks

and carefully after washing

Roll into soft balls.

 

Ania had such balls

I think eleven.

Each ball has a different pair

in polka dots, checkered, striped.

 

Ania balls for the drawer

she carefully folded it.

Only one yellow ball

she got lost somewhere.

 

Mom is looking, Ania is looking.

Find me lost - great art!

 

Milka is napping on the couch

and pretends not to know anything.

She discovered something in the corner

with which she had a little fun.

 

It just happened

to the mouse mink,

where is the mouse family

she was crunching cheese faworki.

 

- Look, Dad! We have a visitor!

The youngest mouse called.

 

And the socks stayed there

they took up residence in the mouse hole.

And they slept soundly in their socks

the two youngest white mice.

 

Sometimes fate plays tricks,

will change something, confuse something.

Have a sleeping bag from a sock?

This is not a joke. It's a mouse lucky.

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Weronika Madryas            

Autumn

 

I saw her at dusk yesterday
like leaning against the balustrade of a stone bridge,
she looked into the distance ...
... thoughtful, dreamy, fabulously beautiful.

 

I saw her yesterday at dusk
for the first time since last year.

 

I've heard a lot of rumors about it.
What some people whisper
that he has several lovers ...
... carefully calculates the time for them
for long-awaited meetings,
common nights and dawns
…apparently

 

So tell you
what do they know about others
much less
… Sure

 

I admired her fiery hair
and a garment of fine cobwebs,
dark chocolate color,
embroidery of red leaves decorated with ...
An excellent tailor, an unusual spider
he made the last corrections hastily ...
... before meeting so important.

 

When the hand raised
and she whispered magic words,
they came
in the order determined by it.
Lovers of her nice, longing ...

 

First, the Lord of the Morning Mists hugged him
her slender and slender figure,
a transparent shawl of breath,
with dew diamonds weaved here and there ...

 

Then the Wind, a capricious, gusty lover,
with a gentle blast
her long, silky hair was carried away by dancing ...

 

Finally, it was raining in thin trickles
he moistened her pale cheeks,
gilded with freckles of the sun.
He kissed the charming figure,
he rolled the clever drops under his dress,
where its beginning and end,
white breasts and bare feet ...

 

And she is devoted to caresses,
she painted the leaves,
as they grew bolder ...
... her faithful lovers,
in love forever

drzewo wiersz.jpg

My dear,


Autumn is the time of trees, colorful hairs torn by the wind and falling leaves. Therefore, I invite you to read my poem entitled "Tree".

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 23 November 2008.

 

Tree

 

If you were a tree, my dear ...

 

What? - you ask,

intrigued and amused

my concept.

A soaring poplar? Weeping willow?

Or maybe a baobab? - you guess

smiling at me.

 

You would be an oak

- I answer seriously.

 

Strong trunk

a thick layer

pitted cortex

covered.

And the life-giving root,

reaching deep.

Your branches -

I close my eyes

indulging in dreams,

imaginations and daydreams-

branchy and strong,

bathed in green leaves,

would form a lush crown,

a ruler of a mighty worthy ...

 

-I would be the king of oaks? -

you say

still not serious.

 

-Maybe -

I nod with conviction

offended by your lack of weight ...

-And who would you be? -

you drill down on the topic,

curious about my answer.

 

-Red squirrel,

who has a shiny, fiery coat,

provocative and soft at the same time ..

Handy paws,

lithe body

promises full of ...

Black eyes,

cloudy look,

dreamy ...

 

Squirrel?-

you are amazed.

 

Yes -

I put my hand down

on your

with a soothing gesture.

 

I would live in you

Dear My ...

In your trunk

my hollow.

A quiet haven

protecting against confusion.

In the branches

my garden.

Paths labyrinth

only known to us.

In you

my world

and my refuge ...

 

Understand?

-I'm asking seriously.

Of your face

I do not see

through the morning mist.

I do not hear the answer

by the melody

played with rain.

 

Do you understand,

I'm not sure...

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Weronika Madryas 
Wrocław, December 16, 2007  

Rose

If the woman were a rose,
it would grow in a forest clearing,
 
in the green of lush grasses, 
a multitude of wild flowers,
among mighty trees
somewhat remote.
It would coquette tall oaks, silver beeches ...
... lonely, seemingly defenseless ...

Its chalice is its beauty 
would surpass the others
and with sweet spell he tempted
thicket of trees,
around those who are humming, torn by the wind.

If the woman were a rose, 
would smell more intense
than the flowers used to do.
And the petals would spread wider,
to show their beauty to the world
fully.
 
And she would hide her spines
under an umbrella of green leaves.
The dawn would brighten with dew,
shimmering, shining,
 
seducing unintentionally quite ...

Seemingly fragile and weak, 
among the trees moved with delight, 
strong as a bird of prey 
to be in fact ...
... a woman - a rose.

If the rose were a woman, 
it would have grown under a branch oak.
In his shadow she would seek a respite,
on hot days and storms
windy, rainy, dark.
 

It would bend its stalk towards the sun, 
and she opened the flower timidly.
And the spikes she would probably give to the defenseless
or lost by accident.
She flicked the dew drops accidentally,
 
to moisten the root with them, 
water the tree ...
... with gratitude, devotion, caring.

With the love of her only oak tree safe, 
trusting and devoted, 
defenseless like a beautiful flower,
in need of care ...
… Rose –woman.

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, on 6.09.2021

Mushrooms

Mushrooms wear hats

small, large,

winding, bent.

They grow in moss,

among the ferns,

in the shade, warmth and humidity.

 

Mushroom picking - an interesting thing

but unfortunately you have to get up

in the morning or at dawn,

for life flourishes in the forest.

 

When you already have Dear Smyk

plenty of mushrooms in his basket,

look at the hats,

dismiss all suspects,

never seen before.

 

Among boletes and boletes,

you can hit the only one

treacherous, poisonous ...

 

He is also well known to everyone,

purple, spotted

toadstool called ...

 

This elegant gentleman

he once swore to himself secretly

destroy life with one bite.

 

The rest can be marinated,

season the sauce and boil it.

And thread them on the strings,

to smell, dry,

they delighted with their forest flavor.

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, January 14, 2021

 

January mimosa

 

Late at night

when you slept

the thing happened unheard of ...

… The world made you a snowman!

 

It fell asleep

and it got fabulous

finally…

Tree branches

wrapped in snow white,

silver frost,

they tremble in the wind ...

 

Well, yesterday morning

I received a letter from Sicily,

in which much has been written

and sunny.

There they supposedly turned golden

mimosa a bit prematurely.

I missed these leaves

dancing in the warm wind ...

... and the scent of honey,

and a wonderful view

and hot air ...

 

... although here it is winter and fabulous

My dear,
I am sad because today I am saying goodbye to Mr. Mieczysław's poem, the publisher of many of my fairy tales and several volumes of poetry.

And I only know that Krakow has irretrievably lost someone extraordinary and spiritual ...

 

 

Weronika Madryas Wrocław,

on January 13, 2021

 

Death in a time of plague

 

I dedicate the poem to Mrs. Marta Iskierka

and Mr. Mieczysław Mączka

 

Death in a time of plague

rampant and ubiquitous

took Mr. Mieczysław.

 

He left alone

in silence

without tender glances

and a handshake clasped ...

 

Mr. Mieczysław

he was part of the Krakow of poets.

Read in poems,

blended into poetry

to the end of his days ...

 

Mr. Mieczysław

he made books to measure,

patiently and persistently

like a weaver spider

spinning its thread.

 

Mr. Mieczysław

he left his city

winter time.

Orphaned Miniature,

Association of the Graybeard Poets,

written and unwritten poems

and my fairy tales not yet published ...

 

Death in a time of plague

hurt poetry painfully ...

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I invite you to a poetic conversation with the Nobel Prize winner.
The newest volume of poetry "About tenderness".

My dear,


I invite you to listen to my Lullaby of the Silver Moon in a beautiful performance by Jerzy Filar. By the way, I recommend the album Dwie dusze, which is an excellent Christmas gift for lovers of Jacek Cygan's texts.

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 07/04/2014

 

Gardener

 

I know gardens

cared for with weary hands

gardeners in straw hats ...

…One of them,

in trousers with braces

and a checkered shirt

with sleeves rolled up to the elbows,

entered my heart

which once flourished for you, Beloved

... before you unleashed a storm,

what havoc has done

 

Little gardener,

in trousers with braces

and a checkered shirt

with sleeves rolled up to the elbows,

robbed last year's feeling

like autumn leaves

and swept away all the nooks and crannies,

lest the winds blow away

sentiments and unwanted memories ...

 

My heart is like a garden

until recently, tears were watered by rain,

today with sorrows poured out,

ready for new sowing ...

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Weronica Madryas
Wrocław, September 09, 2010.

 

Heart-shaped leaf

 

Look.
Stained with rust and gold,
with a bit jagged edges
heart-shaped leaf ...
... glides across the silvery surface of the puddle

You see
It drowns in the pouring rain.
I bend over
heart-shaped leaf.
My face trembles
in the water mirror.
Wet cheeks and tearful eyes,
salty and warm tears,
and the rain drops sweet and cool.

 

Heart-shaped leaf
aged prematurely,
too short by the wind ...
It's still summer, although the nights are cold
and my hands are cold.
In the morning and at dusk
blue mists roll over the squares
and dance in the fields outside the city ...
Autumn is just around the corner
but it's not time yet
leaves fall ...
… It's not time to die yet

 

Have a look.
Heart-shaped leaf
yellowed prematurely,
it sank into a puddle,
lonely like me ...
I absorb his misery
lonely as a heart-shaped leaf ...
And my forehead is wrinkled with anxiety
early…
You can see it, Nice, right?

Weronika Madryas Wrocław,

on 18.XI 2020.

 

In memory of Adam Sobolewski, eighth "b" class teacher and tutor, born in 1979

 

Geography teacher

 

Geography teacher

could teach

joke and wander

in the mountains and valleys,

over the stars and planets,

on maps and atlases,

across the globe of distant lands….

 

Geography teacher

did not punish

did not judge

without a deeper look

and necessary reflection.

He explained and discussed,

for a conversation

he greatly appreciated.

 

Geography teacher

he was an educator

and a gentleman at the same time.

Gallant, well-read,

funny, outspoken ...

 

Until suddenly in the autumn rain leaves,

in a misty and rainy November,

when the world is devoured by a plague,

finally passed away ...

 

Remained after Him

warm memories

and a geography notebook

yet…

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 09/11/2020

 

George the hedgehog and the secret of hedgehogs

 

Under a warm tuft of leaves

a hedgehog will dream a fairy tale ...

... of which he will be the protagonist and experience a strange story.

That's what!

 

The autumn leaves gilded,

days shortened, the world grew together

cool rain.

Hedgehog Jerzy absent-minded,

a bit sleepy and weary

this greyness and bourness everywhere.

 

Even an egg tastes bad

- Today I will catch a snail -

that's what Jerzy is planning

during the rain.

 

But what is that?

Our poor guy

suddenly fell asleep,

snores slightly,

scratching my nose ...

 

You are wrong, My Little Smyk,

Very Honorable Reader,

if you are convinced

that the apple is golden brown

he has a dream!

 

I'll tell you a secret

an important secret about hedgehogs,

apples and other hedgehog treats ...

 

Well, no hedgehog,

George, too,

I don't like apples at all,

prefers eggs and snails,

and earthworms and grubs

eat.

 

He is a hunter

what to do at night hunting.

In winter, he sleeps well

and dreams of hedgehog tales.

That's what!

Weronika Madryas

 

Silent as falling leaves

 

There were also those who passed away in silence

as if to get fresh rolls from the corner shop

or the print of a fragrant, morning newspaper ...

 

Noiseless, always humble ...

With his own tact and discretion

they went to the other side ...

 

They didn't want to

tears, suffering and sorrow ...

Silent as falling leaves

beautiful as autumn landscapes ...

They wanted to remain unnoticed

even when they are missing ...

 

But why the tears are swift

can not stand?

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Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, 08/08 2008.

 

Shadows

 

I saw the shadow of the mighty mountain

- you say thoughtfully.

The valley lying at her feet

fell at dusk

- you add, lowering your voice to a whisper.

 

I can imagine

houses bathed in darkness,

sloping walls and roofs

hungry for cold,

after a hot day.

And people

at the foot of a giant mountain

catching breath,

shadow cooled ...

 

Look - you say, pointing with your hand

on a stone wall,

next to us ...

Look, I say, pointing

on the path ahead,

which we were supposed to follow together ...

 

Our shadows

by bodies thrown in love,

they lean towards each other,

then even,

when anger

dilates the pupils,

quicken your breathing

sharp scream

destroys the peace around us ...

 

Our shadows

they tremble in the candlelight,

before intoxicating night.

And then

intertwined in a loving embrace ...

 

Our shadows

run ahead of us,

joyfully swinging

jumping steps ...

They're holding their hands

as we…

 

Our shadows

tango dance,

when you hold me in your arms

listening to music ...

 

Our shadows

inseparable ...

Until

we together…

 

And after that

lonely,

at our feet

chained for eternity ...

… Although it's hard for them

live without yourself

 

And when

they pass each other indifferently on the street,

carried by our anger

they only dream

to break away from us

and with each other happily follow ...

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław, on 25. October 2007.

 

Spider

 

Your ambush intricately woven,

her beautiful embroidery turns silver in the sun,

the dew drops shine like diamonds ...

... You are elegant in the center

in a gentlemanly pose of encouragement ...

 

When you hear wings flutter,

you walk slowly on your sticky thread

You seduce and seduce innocence.

Finally, she was lured by your pose,

falls into dense networks of arms,

to die alone in suffering ...

 

Sometimes he watches you walk

you take certain steps slowly.

You sneer at your slave girl with mockery,

you carefully count the time to death.

 

When finally unable to resist

trapped, bound, lonely,

You embrace her treacherous,

that she would end her life in an embrace ...

 

And the thread is sticky, strong and bright,

tightly a fine figure wraps.

And although he tries to open his wings,

enslaved will not soar

into the bright space of blue, freedom,

a lost world of innocence.

And attempts to escape are in vain

Your truly terrible snare ...

 

Finally I feel a painful sting,

he sees the blood on the silver dagger.

He hears a beating then a crack

tremendous pain burst her heart ...

 

And you stand and look with pity,

how she perished under her own weakness.

For though you have woven a beautiful circle,

you have never invited her ...

 

And not in your snares,

but in its vanity it has passed away ...

… Seduced by the illusion of love

not immune to the spell of passion ...

 

Your ambush intricately woven,

her beautiful embroidery turns silver in the sun,

the dew drops shine like diamonds ...

Jesienny las.jpg

Weronika Madryas

Wrocław,  2 October 2005.

 

Rain

 

The wind ducks sways on the river

In dense fog shrouded in ...

Raindrops rumble on the windowsill

Drip, drip, drip, drip ...

Melancholy flows down the panes in thin rivulets

Longing for summer overwhelms me ...

Ring, ring, ring, ring ...

 

In a wicker basket, I arrange sun-pampered fruits,

I fill the jars with rose jam

With love for you, I sweeten you dearest ...

Peel the nuts from their shells

And they prepare the stuffing for you

I put my love for you, the only one for you ...

 

And the wind tugs at the trees

Although the sun sometimes screams bright shine from behind the clouds ...

Raindrops rumble on the windowsill

Drip, drip, drip, drip ...

Melancholy flows down the panes in thin rivulets

Longing for summer overwhelms me ...

Ring, ring, ring, ring ...

Kropelka.jpg

My dear,


Autumn has already colored t