Words of Freedom
Olga's Page
Profile Information
- Hometown:
- Cista Mala
- Stage or Page or Both
- Both
- About Me:
- Olga Lalić-Krowicka, born 1980 in Šibernik (Croatia). Graduate of Slavonic studies, Jagiellonian University, Cracow. Published in, amongst others: Akantu, Balkanskog Književnog Glasnika (online), Cogito, Dziś, Etny, (Serbian satirical online journal), Frazy, Irin Pirin (Bulgarian literary journal), Knjigomatu (Croatian online journal), Kwartalnika Artystycznego, Pro Arte online, Protokołu Kulturalnego, Tygła Kultury, and in several anthologies published in Belgrade, and the collection 'Stopama Crnjanskog' (2005, Frankfurt), published by the Serbian Literary Association 'Sedmica'. Writes poems, haiku, short stories and drama. Winner of various contests. Lives in Dukla, Poland. Translates poetry. Published a collection of poetry "Dzisiaj przyjdzie w
brązowym" in 2006 in Polish.
- Website:
- http://www.poezija.com.pl
- Favorite Poet or Author:
- Tadeusz Różewicz, Dragutin Tadijanović, Ivo Andrić, Ryszard Kapuściński, Ksiądz Twardowski, Rafał Wojaczek, Adam Zagajewski, Wisława Szymborska, Desanka Maksimović, Djura Jaksić, Laza Kostić, Julian Kornhauser, Vesna Parun, Vesna Krmpotić, Zbigniew Herbert, Czesław Milosz, Halina Poświatowska, Andrzej Bursa, Dobrisa Cesarić, Adam Mickiewicz, Konstanti Idelfons Gałczyński, Edward Stachura etc., etc.
Olga's Blog
Untitled
Come here! Look! I broke a face.
My own. I examine every little piece.
In these cursed fragments
I discover the dark universe.
I fall into the trap
of coming true.
They rub my gold-carrying skin with oil.
I’ll swallow the jasper stone. The one from the language
in which you divided our days.
Yes, to feel valuable.
As that dress which hangs there
for a million days of work. Stupidity,
blindness, sin, that I involve myself
in such a discovery. If it’s not me it’s her.
A petticoat, two hundred year… Continue
My own. I examine every little piece.
In these cursed fragments
I discover the dark universe.
I fall into the trap
of coming true.
They rub my gold-carrying skin with oil.
I’ll swallow the jasper stone. The one from the language
in which you divided our days.
Yes, to feel valuable.
As that dress which hangs there
for a million days of work. Stupidity,
blindness, sin, that I involve myself
in such a discovery. If it’s not me it’s her.
A petticoat, two hundred year… Continue
Posted on February 25, 2008 at 9:16am —
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