Installation – visual poem: @Maria Stadnicka, ‘Antarctica’ MMXIV- paper, wood, ink, acrylics, pastels
Tomorrow will come with a sunny spell,
the rain will stop at the border so
we will begin the long-waited rebellion,
as they say,
at the right moment.
To satisfy our need for greatness,
we will politely ask the just questions and
sit on the pew
in return for the hand-written answer.
We will finally go home,
or so we believe,
to master the only remedy left for pain – patience.
People say they are unhappy with the current state of affairs and choose to keep at being upset in the warmth of their mortgaged homes. As long as there isn’t a real shortage of food, a shortage of electricity, as long they are allowed to own a car and a TV, they can easily abandon the right to speak up, hoping that the political elite will do something, anything for that matter, to put things right. But what so many cannot seem to grasp is that the elite is in it for itself, not for the greater good. And once people renounced their entitlement, it will take more than a revolution to reclaim such a right. By the end of the day, nobody has known a slave trader ready to give up their business plan for the sake of an idea.
On my first day at school I learn to
say ‘yes’ to everything and to accept the dogs’ fight
for the best seat at the open-screen cinema,
although I have a V.I.P. ticket.
I learn how the silence starts with a dry pen,
how it ends in a battlefield,
among abandoned bones.
I learn to agree with the history,
for it has the right to choose terror
over Vermeer’s ‘Girl in Hyacinth Blue’.
The options’ book has a few missing chapters but
my teacher says that acceptance, not hope,
is the best weapon against dreams.
I learn that I was not born a slave but
I became one.
On Monday morning, I receive an updated version of
my handbook to freedom.
The spring is ready.
Without any fault, all of us hear the truth with a different voice,
as we continue the historic dispute over the body count.
The perfect war victims are lost
in the overwhelming testimony to the reality’s carnage.
Another century of fear unravels before Vivian Maier’s blunt apron,
like an atomic flower that grows overnight.
The collective memory has started rehearsals
for a prayer written on damaged bridges.
Those who have never been taught how to be free
escaped in the wild to make the world theirs.