Leslaw Nowara was born in Gliwice Poland. He is a lawyer by education, a graduate of the Silesian University in Katowice.
He is a poet, aphorist, columnist and literary reviewer who made his debut in the literary press in 1983.
He has published ten volumes of poetry: Green Love, House of Green Windows, The Third Eye, Russian Roulette, Cocoon, Quietdark, Dot and Line, The Dark Side of Light (selected poems), The Whale’s Bone; The flood is yet to come; and four volumes of literary miniatures (aphorisms and epigrams): The World According to Ludek, The Big Little Ludek, Sentences with a Dot, and Ludek the Fatalist.
He writes his works in Polish and publishes them regularly in the most important literary periodicals in Poland. His works have also been translated into other languages and published in Great Britain, Ireland, Australia (in his own English translations), Ukraine, Romania, Czechia, and Slovakia.
A member of the Polish Writers’ Association, he lives in Gliwice (Poland).
The parable of the grain of sand
In every grain of sand
lives only sand
which, though sandy
is all made of stone
Each grain of sand
is a house
built on sand
to which leads a sandy road
From every window
you can only see the sandy desert
all the floors and ceiling and walls
are sandy colored
in the color of sand
there is a chimney and a roof
And above the roof
is the sky
which is hell
because it sends the sun’s heat
and snows and rains
right on the sand-bearing stones
The sand of which I speak
is the same sand
that I have under my eyelids
is the sand in my kidneys
sand poured into the cogs
sand poured into my eyes
is the same sand
from which we used to build castles on the beach
It is the same sand
which is itself just a small grain
in the hourglass
but it is the one that sets the pace
at which time should pass
Though for time
in this time
does not pass
absolutely nothing
Where have the ancient Gods gone?
Where did the god Wirakocha, so revered by the Incas, go?
What fate befell the god Itzamná, whom the Maya paid homage to?
Where were lost the Sumerian Anu – god of the sky and Urash – goddess of the earth?
Where did the Egyptian gods Osiris and Anubis, Horus and Isis,
Where Amon and Seth, Tot, Ptah and Ra?
Is it not they, themselves remaining in hiding,
are now taking revenge on us for their lack of honor and faith,
for their temples and necropolises trampled by tourists,
for the altars on which we look in vain today for traces of fresh animal and human blood?
Aren’t they the ones who continue to send earthquakes, solar eclipses, droughts and floods upon us?
Calling us to repentance, urging us to repent?
And those millions of unfaithful,
who followed the voices of Christ and Muhammad,
who have followed in the footsteps of Buddha, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva,
don’t they really know that,
that by worshipping these false gods
they are rolling themselves down into the depths of hell, into eternal torment and damnation?
Smoke from the chimney
At a taxi rank
In front of New York airport
We were given a bottle of water for free
The heat was up to 40 degrees centigrade
Taxis as if made of sand
Were slowly swallowing the caravan of queues
I haven’t felt any thirst for half a century
If I do not cry it is not because
Not to lose even a drop of water
I built from smoke from the chimney
And it hasn’t collapsed
My house is on fire
And it does not burn
There is a heat inside me
From which shivers appear on my skin
There is a rainy season in me
Typhoons and hurricanes
Torn roofs and flooded villages
There are rice fields in me
Where my mother has been wading for half a century
Leaning like a crane at a well
And kneeling before each grain
A century will pass
Before a desert sprouts from her hand
Over which the green sun will rise
And
As God has commanded
I stagger in a circle
I strain like a bow
I turn to dust
And now
Even just one spark would be enough …
What will happen yesterday?
Why do you ask what will happen tomorrow
Instead of asking
What will be yesterday?
After all, yesterday is not over yet
You have it all
In front of you
Like your own shadow
When you turn your back to the sun
Yesterday will be no trace
After tomorrow’s cut on your cheek while shaving
Yesterday will grow back
Cut tomorrow’s hair and nails
Yesterday will fuse even the glass
Which tomorrow fell from your table
And with spilled beer it will be half-filled again
Tomorrow’s fallen leaves
Yesterday will turn green again
They will tear up from the ground
And again will prune the branches
Yellowed newspapers and letters
To yesterday will turn pale again
When you ask what will be tomorrow
You will have it long behind you
And all your past
Will suddenly appear quite uncertain
When you lean over yesterday
Over the stream
You will see your reflection
So worn and transparent
That on your face you will see only
Feathery clouds and sky
You only need to take a few steps forward
So that you return in your own footsteps
To the same place
Where only yesterday
You will write on the sand with your finger
A completely obliterated inscription:
The end
Franz K.
He was so afraid of death
That out of this fear
He was dying
Fear does not have big eyes
Fear has eyes closed
And eyelids so tightened
That blood flows out of them
He was so afraid of death
That out of fear he was vomiting and shivering
Out of fear in his hands he could not hold the glass and the flute
Forks and knives fell out from between his fingers
With his fingers he could not even hold the spoon
From his fear the plates on the table shook
Chairs and cabinets creaked
Paintings on the walls and mirrors wobbled
And the panes of glass in the windows vibrated
From the fear of death
He was sick with the plague and black pox
He was seriously ill with cancer
Every day he was dying of stroke and heart attack
Although the only symptom
Was just a sweaty forehead
And shaking hands
He cried every day
Mourning his death
And could not in any way reconcile
With his own death
And was unable to argue with her either
Fear of death
Was even worse than death herself
Because it did not give from death
Any respite
At last he began to be afraid
Even of his own fear of death
He was deathly afraid of his own fear
So much so that from this fear
He would even be afraid to die
Until finally at the place of death
Only fear remained
Mortal fear
From which, however, it is impossible to die
And from which even death
Would not set him free
The Galway Review 