publications

Branches of a House

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From a Conradian vantage point on the banks of the Thames to Lodz’s Piotrkowska Ulicia, the longest street in Europe, Agnieszka Studzińska calibrates her seeing on history’s ruins making their way into the private intimacies of home and the unhomely. The architecture of fragments—of bones, of the conversations with grandmothers, husbands, children, and the overheard violences of strangers—takes up Blanchot’s call to unwork silence, to arrive at a new language. Stunningly deft and formally alive, these poems at every turn metamorphose a self to deliver, unforgettably, on that very promise of newness. Sandeep Parmar

What Things Are

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A subtle and beautiful collection in which – poem by poem – the possibility of true knowledge is tested. Intimate and attentive, each poem returns to the question of what we can know of the world and each other. Michael Symmons Roberts

‘A sparrow in a new corner of the garden, looking -’ the line describes the poet’s son, but might well stand for the closely observant and unexpected ways Agnieszka Studzinska’s poems describe the world. There is care for language everywhere in What Things Are. Each poem seems to be a building block in a personal story of love, parenthood and family, giving this collection a narrative energy and reflecting how we treasure and take care of those around us. Hannah Lowe

Arresting and intimate, Studzinska’s poems cast a fearless eye on the world. This is an intelligent and passionately felt book. Deryn Rees Jones

Snow Calling

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This collection of poems deals with the naming of things: trying to make sense of relationships, mortality,one’s own place in the world. Agnieszka Studzinska’s poems are quiet but tough in approaching those difficult themes head-on. Tamar Yoseloff

In Agnieszka Studzinska’s spacious poems, the precision and uncertainty of nature invoke the fragility of what it is to be human, what it is to love. Anne-Marie Fyfe

Agnieszka Studzinska’s poems convey the strangeness and freshness of the world, as if it were inscribed on memory or out of memory onto language sharp enough yet transparent enough to let us see and feel it. George Szirtes

Featured Poetry

Writing Motherhood