Olga Hronskaya's poetry collection "Trees and Lines" has been published by the Berlin-based publisher hochroth Minsk. The book's illustration was created by Darya Homanava, writes bellit.info.
"In conversations about the work of a particular poet, male or female, we talk about his or her poems, and very rarely — about poetry.
Olga Hronskaya's poetry (and this is, undoubtedly, poetry) is precisely one of those cases when it is quite difficult to talk about individual poems, and even more so, one cannot simply say 'texts.' 'Trees and Lines' will confirm what I've said. This is very Volha's book: it is whole, like a large, mighty tree, assembled from thin and fragile branches-poems that echo and intertwine with each other, forming a very beautiful picture of a wild, free essence, a unique poetry that one wants to read and re-read, and each time find something new — about the lyrical heroine, about the author herself, and about oneself," writes Eva Arlova about the author.
The new release will soon be available for order via the publisher's website.
*
Where are your roots,
you ask yourself.
What sky
swings on your branches.
From where and what do you sprout,
into what, into what do you grow.
Who sings in your leaves
and to whom.
You stand on this earth,
you eat from the black cracked hands
of her who raised you,
her strength.
And you are silent,
and you search for answers.
Feeding the sky with your roots,
nourishing the roots with the sky.
*
Sometimes you think:
what is it like —
to be a tree?
It stands in one place,
undresses in the cold,
will never see the sea,
will never change anything,
living in a circle
and accumulating rings of years
in its tired core.
But
does the tree want
to become you,
drinking the earth's strength
and talking to the sky
with birds' voices?
*
In the deserted city,
on the hushed street
is it empty or full
of the wingless soul
of the tree,
that remembers?
It holds in its roots
a handful of earth
and cannot drop it,
to put an end to it.
So it stands alone
at the end
of an unwritten bright story —
full of pain
and empty hopes.
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