Tower Over Me With Barriers

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Ewelina Nowakowska


My name is Ewelina. I was born in Gdańsk, Poland, during a communistic reign of which I remember little. I was raised in Sweden and Southern California. Now life’s current has brought me to the East Coast, where I live just outside of Philadelphia, PA. Here I’m thriving surrounded by concrete, old and new, nurturing the poet within.

Concrete? In Gdańsk, where I was born, I remember having the kind of relationship with concrete that I think most kids (and adults) can relate to, leaving me numerous times with bruises and/or skinned knees. This city, now over a thousand years old, imprinted on me a kind of haunt, an unusual instinct. There are times I find myself forced to touch what I’m about to photograph. Concrete is ever changing and in no two moments is it the same. Capturing this ephemeral state is a fascination and sometimes honestly a compulsion.

At the age of nine, I left my Slavic homeland to spend the next eight years in Malmö before moving to the US in 1998. Nothing compares to Scandinavian cities, I am always in awe by how graceful the sidewalks remain even throughout the worst of winters. It was that stillness that to this day helps me through difficult times. Arriving to California my focus shifted from concrete to paper. It's here that I started writing.

Prose? Aside from my attachment to things concrete, I am a writer. I started writing prose for a way to work through chronic depression. I fuse my writing with the artwork to offer insight to what I see, the hidden in plain sight. If you'd like to read more of my prose, check out a few at Hello Poetry. I'm currently writing a book and hoping to publish it soon(ish).

Pale Betrayal

He walks in silence, within delicate air, and holds his clouds in his fist, afraid of letting them go. He won’t notice as he bares thousands of knives in his back and walks with empty pockets.

It is grim to not find an escape, a little room where all blades vanish and no pockets exist.

Kitten Dreams

A little hammock in the spring strings, a rhythmical desire.

Lights glimmer and a bell strikes ten. It’s dark, and the lady with crimson hair will stand and belong. She has roared her freedom, and earned her claws. Smile then and reveal the legend of the three lions.


Mathematics and equations and Nandi, the bull went for a walk and discussed issues of the Dark.

Incubus attack

The sheets move, forming waves in this ocean. A deep breath, a morning sigh at an hour that's neither rise nor set.

White snow on pillow but this skin is warm. Heartbeat, strong like a hiccup, feel it in my throat. A deep scratch on the forearm to arrive in the present. These dreams still tug at me, another breath, another breath.

Sit up dark, regardless if eyes open or shut. Chin to the ceiling, sweat moves along the back, like a ghost drawing a map. The beasts await patiently, your turn, return.

Onto naked skin, I slip on this erudite armor once again. Trembling, I fall back into the battlefield.


The soft fur warms my skin, while taking a deep breath of December air.

I look out into the mist, the mountains are playing hide and seek again out in the distance.

I’m watching him let out a sigh from the corner of my eye, making me want to rush in and catch it, with my mouth. He smiles, knows I’m daydreaming of him again.

I look back at the mountains and feel at a loss somehow, perhaps nature doesn’t like letting go either, an uncomfortable slumber of cold mementos and frozen earth. Time feels like it’s standing still, and in this moment my favorite part is holding his hand, knowing he wants to hold mine, firmly.

Look up, Love. Atoms are dancing, colliding and painting the sky.