Poems
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.
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".
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 ...
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.
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 ...
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 ...
(...)
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 ...
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.
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
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...
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.
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, 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 ...
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.
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 ...
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…
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?
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 ...
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 ...
My dear,
Autumn has already colored the hairs of the trees. Painted leaves, golden, purple and red, are more beautiful around.
I remember a poem I once wrote called Autumn season.
Please read the excerpt:
I see you tangled in the fog
you fill the basket with nuts ...
... autumn season ...
And surrender to the mood ...
My dear,
Autumn has settled for good, in gardens, parks, florists' stalls and the fruit market.
Melancholic and capricious, she inspires painters and poets. I once wrote about autumn moods in the poem Ogrodnik.
"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 all the nooks and crannies,
lest the winds blow away
sentiments and unwanted memories ... "
My dear,
This morning I received a lovely card from my daughter. I was touched and I wanted to share my poem with you.
Weronika Madryas
Wrocław, October 22, 2019
My little one
I left so little time
to touch and conversation,
for a walk in the rain
and wading through the leaves
in the autumn twilight, rustling ...
I left so little time
for what is important and worth attention ...
Trapped in prose and routine
everyday rites
from monotones woven ...
... and days so similar to each other
more than tears, drops of dew or snowflakes ...
And suddenly you, my little one
wonderfully curious about the world,
joyful and cheerful
like a spring lark,
what the day wakes up in twitter ...
Knock Knock…
You invaded my life
to make sense ...
Plum ...
You came in with a thud
like a plum in the proverbial compote ...
Do you know my little one?
I like to feel your warm fingers in my hand,
when in a hurry I run ...
And I like to sink into the cornflower blue eyes
full of questions: where to? for what?
And I like your laugh
when the wind lifts a feather frivolous ...
Oh, the prose of life
a trifle with you!
Little My ...
Weronika Madryas
Sulistrowiczki,
on August 19, 2020
This house on the hill
I know this house
full of nooks and crannies
what stands on the hill.
More than one hides a secret
like a girl in a crimson skirt
with frilled edges.
…Inscrutable
I know this girl
what is going up the hill.
To this house
with whitewashed walls,
purple roof
behind the trees with hairs hidden.
In her soul nooks and crannies
sweet secrets ...
She and the house on the green hill,
him and the girl with dreaming eyes
they quietly whisper their secrets
and dreams come true ...
… Just before going to sleep
Wrapped in the night,
silvered by the moonlight ...
Weronika Madryas Sulistrowiczki,
on August 23, 2020
And the lime tree bloomed just before being cut
You were looking at me
from behind a bush of blooming roses,
what a cascade of pale pink goblets
on your figure, arms, hair fell ...
Arch-shaped gate
she was drowning in flowers,
when you smiled at me
first time…
Our paths intertwined
rare for afternoons,
when you baked the pancakes,
the July sun was warm,
the lawn mowed smelt
and the brook whispered its tale ...
In the shade of the magnificent linden tree
the two of us were sitting,
separated by age difference
which makes everyday matters distant
in the ordinary world.
Despite and in spite of it
the friendship thread between us
the fate of the joker weaved ...
Weronika Madryas,
Wroclaw, dated 13.01.2008.
Tea rose bud
Stalk her
stuffed with studs,
bent to the sun.
The bow of lust
unaware yet.
Her bud
a harbinger of beauty,
hidden inside
which will happen soon.
Patience, patience -
- tells passersby, black cat
and an old woman with a watering can in her hand,
always ready to give her a drink ...
And the rain of golden leaves
abundant,
Cascade on the green lawn
flows
and the rug creates a colorful
rustling under feet ...
And she
the petal deflects uncertainly,
is slowly blooming,
shows the tea beauty to the world ...
... On the beauty of the flower does not lose
Weronika Madryas
Wrocław, 15.05.2016
Different springs
Once…
Astonished at my eyes
beauty of foggy, spring Paris,
dewy rain ...
Small on my feet
ribbons of cobbled streets,
boulevards, market squares of all kinds ...
For my slim hands
lilies of the valley, flowers
fragrant, may ...
... before you were born
Anna Marianna, My Dream Daughter
Nowadays…
Astonished at our eyes
rapeseed flowering, fragrant
like golden, spreading rugs
endlessly ...
On our feet small
path among fields,
which mother and elderly daughter every evening
for a walk it leads ...
For our slim hands
tulips, bouquets
from a florist,
what a roadside stall guards
and passerby looks out, waits ...
Watchful ears
singing of women praying
at the feet of Christ,
what at the crossroads
crucified…
On our hearts tender
joint wanderings, landscapes,
common spring, maje
and return home ...
... when you are already
Anna Marianna, My Dream Daughter
Ruffle skirt
trailing, silk and heavy,
I dropped the dew drops accidentally
from a spider web in a rose weaved bush.
I destroyed the intricate embroidery,
I cut my fingers with rose thorns
and I stained the thread with silver blood ...
Poems have been in me since I can remember. Oh yes, long before I began writing fairy tales, I wrote poems. Poetry is a must for the poet. Sometimes, when I look or listen, I feel the swirling thoughts sway me with poetic inspiration. Then I carry this reflection within me for a while until it ripens long enough for a poem to be born.
In two volumes, I tried to collect the most important songs for me, including those written for children.
The third volume is very special because it contains poems by My Grandmother
Veronica, after whom I inherited both the name and the poetic soul. Some time agoGrandma gave me the key to her heart, which is an old notebook full of chaotically written pages. Just browsing and organizing took a lot of time, but finally managed to recover the most valuable and deeply moving,
grandma's poems.
Therefore, I invite you to read nostalgic on long or rainy evenings.
Author
"Welcome to my Fairy Tale"
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