Anioł w Londynie

Zobaczyłam polskiego anioła 
Sprzedawał marchewkę pomidory i truskawki 
Niebieskooki 
Jasna szeroka twarz 
Otoczona bielą 
Tylko skrzydło trochę ułamane 
Podniósł blade powieki 
Zagubiony w językach 
Jąkał się... 

Opuściłam głowę 
Niepodobna... 

Taki młody 

Nasza Nike opuszczona w Londynie 

Kolejna wiosna w Alexandra Palace

Z daleka miasto huczy 
Puste ulice zadudniły 
Odłamkami dnia 

To już tylko złudzenie świateł 
Wiosna słońcem nadchodzi 
Odgarnia kałuże 

Oczka wodne iskrzą 
Strumieniami zanurzonymi 
W kroplach 

Mgliście zauroczeni 
Wkraczamy w objęcia 

Anna Maria Mickiewicz 
Londyn 2011, marzec 

PostModernistycznie

Czasy inne
Czasy łagodne
Czasy ...

Miasto spokojnie zakręca
Metalowymi błyskami
Mgłą osaczone z rana
Przewidywalne

Przechodzi na skrzyżowaniu ulic
Przy Holloway
Utyka
Włosy rozwiane
Poprawia okulary
Z fal i złudzen oczyszczony

Zasiada przed kafejką
Młody
Zadbany
A naznaczony

Regent’s Park

Oświadczył się 
W Regent’s Park
Niewidzialnym chmurom

A ona
Zaplątana różanym muślinem 
Słońcem zatoczonym
Przeszła stopą złocistą
Przez szklane drzwi
Pod niebem zawieszonym
Na blaszanym zegarze
U wierzcholków wiktorianskich wiez
Wieczorem zamglonym

Londyn 2013

Pompeja dzisiaj

Sok pomidorowy wycofano
Luksusowe bazary lotnisk
Osuszono

 Niegdyś tak trudno było wrócić
W samolocie sok pomidorowy
Znanym słońcem ogrzany

 Teraz pusto
Nieczerwono

W oddali wulkaniczne drżenie silników
Szkliście lśnią alabastrowe podłogi
Kelnerzy bezwiednie oczekują
Bagaży
Ludzi
Mil
Sunąca lawa…

An Angel in London

I have seen a Polish angel
He was selling carrots, tomatoes and strawberries
Blue-eyed
A bright face
Surrounded by whiteness
But only his wing was a bit chipped
He lifted his pale eyelids
Lost in languages
He was stammering…
I dropped my head
How can it be…
So young
A Polish Nike lost in London

Shopping

Courage is needed 
to withstand 
earth's gravity.
Courage is needed 
to get up in the morning, 
a smile on your face.
Courage is needed to go out onto the street
and count the paving stones,
to plod on uphill with a string bag of worries 
and doubts.

I talk

just to you
I talk
to all of you
My language
is not the same
Playfully coarse words
The language of
duplicity
The language
of verse

Shoes

I meet people
I observe their shoes.
They say a lot. 
There are quiet shoes,
Heavily worn shoes,
They have nothing to do with the wealth of the wearer.
They are like a sphere of comfort
or rather the limit.
We choose something that has been through many miles
Just as we choose our own quiet way
Of passing on
Of passing through life
Of walking into the sunset
But never again to the sunrise.

An Angel in London

I have seen a Polish angel
He was selling carrots, tomatoes and strawberries
Blue-eyed
A bright face
Surrounded by whiteness
But only his wing was a bit chipped
He lifted his pale eyelids
Lost in languages
He was stammering…
I dropped my head
How can it be…
So young
A Polish Nike lost in London

Summer in Seaford  

 The sun sheds its golden drops,
The sea devours them instantly,
The sky shimmers.

The day is unreal, snatched from another story.
We’re arriving, here at the tracks end,
We convince ourselves that infinite space is an illusion…

We walk through the small English town,
A small station, plaster falls unevenly off the wooden beams,
Ahead of us the ocean shimmers threateningly.

 In the distance a cliff plunges sharply into the sea.
No chips, no ice cream, no candy floss,
Body of jellyfish glitter on the stones.
The day passes lazily by,
A ship silhouetted in grey against its face.

 On the beach a couple are unfolding deck chairs.
Wrinkled skin.
They read newspapers,
They seem unreal,
Postimpressionist faces,
All nonchalance.

We’re turn back.
The cafes and restaurants are closed,
Who lives here at the end of the world?

Looking through photographs of the scandalous Bloomsbury set,
Old snapshots,
A bony young woman and a man are sitting in deck chairs.
They are reading newspapers.

What, if the woman on the beach was a cousin of Virginia Woolf?
Who was the man?
A poet?
Or one of her scandalous friend?

Another Alexandra Palace spring

In the distance, the city rumbles.
Pounding empty streets.
Shards of the day.
There, the mere illusion of light.
Here, spring brings the sun,
Sweeping away the puddles.
Streams sparkle, hiding in droplets of water.