"The period of July is primarily expressed by smell. It's not just the limes that turn the process of breathing into pleasure. Everything smells. Here the pine forest warmed, there the roadside matrix, close the field of yellow lupin’.
Reflected in the quoted quote, the charming images with mature art introduce into the unique atmosphere of the month, the name of which – unlike respective others – does not require additional explanations.
Bees
In an invariably charming book Year of PolandSophie Kossak states: "July and its fragrance are the essence of the summer, the highest of the year, from which the fall begins to inevitable fall. In the forest, there are mushrooms, chaotic raspberries, late blueberries, herbs called bayonet, which moths hate, and humble, always abundantly giving birth, melanomas. favourite delicacies of uncommon bears, shepherds, birds, priceless for housekeepers, useful in healing”. Untired in the programal almost assimilation of ancient beliefs and customs that form the traditions of the Polish people, the granddaughter and niece of the celebrated Kossaks with specified a characteristic of her pen – apt to impress – she successfully exposed the most crucial of the properties of the linden flowers of the month. ‘If months had coats of arms – she ruled – July should receive a golden bee as a emblem. A beautiful and honorable sign. According to ancient folk beliefs, bees (in any parts of Poland the people pronounce: bees) are not average insects like wasps or farts. He has an immortal soul, an equal human soul. You can't kill a bee like a stork or a swallow. In early Piast times, in the event of the death of a host or the birth of a son, relatives were obliged to tell bees, even if the event occurred in the winter erstwhile swarms slept in the darkroom. The same was done in the case of the death of a prince in control of the field. Jary bee wax had properties to undo charm”.
Old July
"Multiannual intimacy with bees – continues teaching the storyteller – lets you look into very unusual things. Bees, even strangers, don't prick«his man», a beekeeper. They admit him like shepherd sheep. The beekeeper may send his swarm in the form of a criminal expedition to slaughter the swarm of the apiary competitor who insulted him, or attract the alien swarm to his apiary. Bees in his hand are a dangerous, though honey-like leggy, obedient to all commission. It's not fairy tales, it's facts known to all beekeeper. Of course, not an engineer of beekeeping, but a barton of great-grandfather's grandfather, 1 who laughs at a wire mask and can tame a chaotic barb discovered on a tree. Before the war there were akin wise old men, wizards surrounded by bee swarms in Poland.. It besides did not neglect to separate the fruits of the skilled treatments which are considered to be a model of preventative industriousness of the creatures: “Lip honey is the best honey. It's like a mature burgundy has solar energy in it. The word “old July” sounded the highest praise for the drink”.
Home Nostalgia
To irrefutable gems, the poetic language of the combined Polish Year This passage must undoubtedly be included in which the author draws from her longing memories a image of the suto covered with a shroud of her native nostalgia: "Beehived trunks stood along a cemetery wall alternately with gravestones with inscriptions over the years covered. Bees in turn request linden, so large limes, old as the church itself shaded the advanced roof, filling the air with a sweeter than incense smell. Lips in a flower, bee buzzing, wooden ossified walls, interiors playing prayer like an old-fashioned box form a synthesis of a spell that no feather will express, a spell whose memory is adequate to see a distant homeland as alive”.
Nostalgic gusts of the heart of the celebrated prosaic in a dazzling melancholy mood, she echoed in her youthful age with a lyrical voice. Kazimiera Zawitowska, an highly sophisticated poet of the Young Poland, who was already recognized by the contemporary as "one of the noblest and most impacted creative natures":
“O purple poppies, diminutive poppies of flowers!
O lips kissed, dear lips thy!
Golden lives on open doors,
Sun! The sun in the hot summer!
Sun, sun! And poppy purple flowers!
The wheat-eared hounds, the bees playing swarms!
And your lips kissed, dear lips,
And in the lime alleys of April blizzard!
Harfo memories! Your cords from the rust of blood corals
Today my hand shakes, warms, makes me sick,
But the melody of this old, sunny 1 does not return,
Just the motive for longing and regret...
And the silent, the dead, like the graveyard keepers,
They wilt poppies in royal, torn purple’.
Karol Dwornik
Illustrating this article presents the painting of Jan Stanisławski exhibited in the National Museum in Krakow Ures in Ukraine.
