Beata Zalot

by passion and profession is the journalist - 
editor-in chief of Tygodnik Podhalański (the southern Poland weekly). 
To maintain mental balance she writes poetry and short stories, during sleepless nights also paints and makes pottery. She loves cats and likes green colour. She squanders money mostly on travel, however her axis mundi is the magical rock only just three kilometers from her home.
She issued four books of poetry: "Przesyłki ciszy" ("Sending Silence"), "Pomiędzy" ("Between"), "Szepty" ("Whispers"), "Anioł w ogrodzie" ("Angel in the Garden"). 
She lives in Gronków at he feet of Tatra Mountains.

***

In my garden
the tree for my coffin grows
it has still one million
green leaves
and - as I - hopes
that it will come
not yet tomorrow

 

***

On my hand sits the butterfly
And says: "I trust"

 

***

In March's sun
the river 
warms her bones
fishes tickle her with life
wind entices her
with human smell
in sleep trees mumble
about their affairs
people say 
that the river flows
whilst over her womb
the world transforms

 

***

I have nothing on me
but the phone pinned to my ear

we are spread

from wave to wave

from word to word

hello?! - instead of, I love…
please? - instead of, I want…


something breaks the words
spread over two beds


hang on - I'll call

 

***

Among graves
There's so many lights
What a fine day
To die

 

(poems translated 
by Peter Gressick)

 

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