ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

Do Not Burn The Candles

Do not burn the candles

For me,my darling.

Do not call me.

I am the night butterfly.

I will fly to you,

Lured by warmth and flames.

My wings will burn

And I will stay forever

With you and your words.

Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu

As a child she saw the smiled saints at her book.

They handed out and invited her to them.

There were told beautiful stories about war between good and evil,

about sacrifice full of love and about fighting with weaknesses.

She followed the vocation and her dreams.

A former life, like an old dress, she left in a Macedonian city,

She went through the Irish chill to reach India,

choosing the sun-burned land for her new homeland.

In the slums of Calcutta she found the suffering God,

His torment hidden in the bleeding wounds of the poor and the lepers.

She made good deeds without the noise,

As if she was throwing a pebble into the sea

But the circles on the water spread more and more.

She turned the dark, religious habit into a sari.

The white butterfly of love and mercy hatched

And the sky painted its wings with blue ribbon.

An Albanian girl named Agnes left,

Sacred Mother Theresa from Calcutta was born.

A Child With Autism

We are in the same room,

but we inhabit different worlds.

An invisible border divides us

- the eyes do not get through it

and words turn into silence.

Your look penetrates objects,

goes far beyond the room.

Every image is blurred in your thoughts.

I disappear and become as transparent as air

I hope you might sense that I'm sitting next to you.

You look  intensely at the whirling bug

and wave nervously with your hands.

You would like to fly over a rainbow bridge of fantasy.

There to try to find shelter on your lonely island

where  all your mind’s entrusted secrets are guarded.

I smile again and give you a colourful toy,

You avoid my touch and with a cry  retract your hand quickly

I want to penetrate the barrier of our mutual pain,

To free you from a dimension filled with loneliness,

Where there is no space for another human.

Contrary To Nature

The dead, dry dragonfly in a glass case

froze stiff in its last fluttering of wings .

Wind did not break its transparent body ,

colors unfaded by the sun .

Perished young in the bloom of its beauty

it exists against nature

-  destined for immortality

Lonely Island

I often dream of  sea.

It is black and foamy.

The wind herds the waves,

by the whistling whip.

They  like mad horses rush to the shore,

tramples the fragile boats, throws  the beach.

It's war between water and earth,

between death and life.

I stand alone on a piece of land.

I can escape nowhere

Conversion

It is a pity that I cannot buy a new soul.

In supermarkets, there are no special offers

- New Soul! On sale!

The old one is dysfunctional.

It is much easier to have a simple vision of the world.

Keep your feet on the ground and don’t have dreams.

Being greedy protects the heart.

Life has a physical dimension. Ideals hurt.

Gain a prominent place in the rat race,

Dispose of sentiments, tears.

My soul is able to forgive.

It cannot learn to trust again.

It says it does not enter the same river twice.

Unreasonable? Perhaps. -

It does not listen to reason.

It pulls away from people

Your Name

You said

„ A man - it sounds proudly”

and you mean

Einstain, Mozart or Rafaello

Later you added:

“A man- it sounds terribly”

and you mean

Hitler, Stalin or  Pol Pot

Now you must choose your way.

You have to decide

if your name makes people

smile or cry.

Spring Over The Lake

The sun strokes the black furrows

of ploughed fields with warmer and longer rays

The soil bulges with greenness and fecundity

Spring flows from the depths of the lake

and releases it from a dream of winter white

The ice flows shutters, opening to water.

The willows lean over the plate of the lake.

They comb and braid their hair with the wind.

The trees look at the world mirrored in water.

The wild geese come from far away

The long calipers on the sky pave the way

to their nests hidden in the reeds

Buds open up and first flowers bloom.

The waves of the lake hum a song about new life,

The mystery of rebirth begins

Unloved

Early in the morning

An old woman rummages

In the garbage with a long stick.

Her stick is as long as a human life.

She is looking for something

That will bring her happiness.

Maybe there is something

Among the things she sees

Unwanted ,unloved

And useless to anyone

- Such as herself.

Together they are able to

Take comfort and survive

Another day

In a world where

There is no place for them

Indifference

Indifference has

Eyes of stone and an

Unaffectionate heart,

Which beats rhythmically…

I only I - I only I.

It is better not to see

And not to sympathize.

Poverty is ugly,

Foul and fetid,

And sometimes drunk.

The easiest thing is to pass it by

And think

- It is not my business

- I have no time

The Homeless

They chose a homeless freedom.

Set instinctively to survive they live for today.

They know all the dark secrets of the city.

In the evenings, they fall like birds onto the park benches

To spend the night in the company of stars.

In the morning,

They leave the baggage of old newspapers  and wander on.

It is never too late, or too early

-The days are too similar to be afraid of anything.

Those of us, who live hurriedly and hygienically,

Pass them with revulsion and a feeling of superiority.

With dignity, we tote around stereotypes

and the day’s routine.

We hurry along other paths of life.

Sometimes, we collide - we stop pensive

Over diversity of human stories.

The Beggar

I looked deeply into the eyes of a beggar

And they told me his story.

The book of life is not closed.

It describes mistakes and failures at the beginning,

Then the monotonous days,

Struggling to survive in a hostile world.

The streets are like a swamp

They draw in and do not let go.

They promise nothing.

They provide only rarely.

He must drift on the surface of existence

On a raft built from old cartons.

Rushing cars honk loudly.

Passers-by mutter disapprovingly.

Only sometimes, someone

Throws a few coins into the tin box.

Compassionately

ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA

ALICJA MARIA KUBERSKA – awarded Polish poetess, novelist, journalist, editor. She writes both Polish and English. She is an author of many volumes. Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines in Poland, Czech Republic, the USA, the UK, Belgium, Bulgaria, Hungary, Albania, Spain, Argentina, Chile, Israel, Canada, India, Italy, Uzbekistan,  South Korea, Taiwan and Australia. She won : medal on Nosside poetry competition in Italy, medal of European Academy Science, Arts and Letters in France, statuette in Lithuania. She was also twice nominated to the Pushcart Prize in the USA. Alicja Kuberska is a member of the Polish Writers Associations in Warsaw, Poland and IWA Bogdani, Albania. She is also a member of directors’ board of Soflay Literature Foundation.