Featured Poem

I won't give a title

Death has an iPod.
Sits in a dark compartment
for smokers. And the whole train’s lit up, full
of sweaty people sweating beer.

Death has a woman’s intuition. Eyes
staring into my eyes blindly. Our eyes
meet in the glass pane. All the lights faint
outside the window. Small towns like small cemeteries.

Big towns like fire. Here the route ends.
To go in order to live. Pretend a particle of community.
Do. The very first to die will be the tongue. Not
to believe.

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About the translation:
Marcin Świetlicki
Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese
Original language:
2013 Number 3 - Secret Agents of Sense

About the author

Marcin Świetlicki

Original poet

Marcin Świetlicki

Marcin Świetlicki (b.1961) is the author of ten poetry books and three novels. He has published, among others, Zimne kraje 1 (...

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Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese


Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese

Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese translates contemporary Polish poetry, especially authors not yet known in English. Her translations app...

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