The place where I write is not always or is very occasionally the place of poetry, the space in which my poetry occurs. A desk could be a synonym for constancy, and my verses come from movement, from crossing geographical, but, most importantly, mental borders. From transgression.
So I can say that with muses I play, or strictly speaking they play with me, in different, almost unexpected places and circumstances, whereas my desk is the realm of craft, for which the Greeks coined the term techne.
“In between the ebb of thoughts and the flow/ of sleep I have a minute of eternity for gathering/ metaphors,” I said in one of my pieces. Poetry comes just from this mysterious Between – between day and night, winter and spring, sun and storm, love and sex, me who I am and me who I potentially could be, between word and subject. Bar and library.
Tadeusz Dąbrowski, Gdansk/Poland
As you can see, my desk looks pretty orderly…