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)