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.
Photograph: @John Stadnicki, ‘Street Cafe’
In a country where all books are forbidden,
the hurricane spits out a new world
with a new legacy of destruction.
People stop by the house with a light on and a blue door,
the house with boarded-up windows where
the mandolin player keeps an eye
on his own basement revolution.
These are the days when the truth learns to
travel on cigarette papers, between prison cells,
before the police arrives
to evacuate.
Ink on paper: ‘Fisherman’, Maria Stadnicka
Witness to a repeated history
in exile I learn a new language
facing the border control
at Heathrow Airport I wear my mother’s coat
ready for a winter of politics
when I need to
I keep my mouth shut I change my name
to look just like her
white and uncomfortable
the blinding sun has been washed and
smells of violets
people are happy
in such a beautiful land
nobody minds me
amongst
wrapped-well-packed boxes
brushing the dust off velvet cutlery
the only remains
of life before baptism.
photographs: copyright@John Stadnicki, 2016
The fatal morning Europe woke up and thought it had something to say,
there was nobody else left in the world able to listen.
Oh, earth, the bones had gathered to queue for bread,
by the front door at Saint Joseph seminary.
An ordinary day for ordinary death.
The bakery opened and closed.
The workers arrived on time for a last shift then went home.
The ovens had no traces of grain.
The ink stained hope filled up rusty water pipes.
The crowds’ whisper went on, up the hill, out of the city.
After that, freedom meant nothing.
It all came down to
who could hold the front running place the longest.
On the wall opposite my bungalow
a blue advert drips on a stationary boat.
The sea is far away, overcrowded.
The acid rain dissolved the bold letters
which used to show my direction.
I have no choice but to stay vigil
behind this lighthouse
waiting for another explosion.
Do you see what I see?
We arrived, at last, at a dead end
a few souls making plans at a bus stop.
All that talking led us cattle to slaughter.
The winter Clara and I secretly discovered socialism
we had nothing left in the house
that was worth burning.
The frost surrounded the bedroom,
we talked to keep warm
and I suggested to write on the walls.
We used the kitchen knife to sharpen crayons
and kept at it for a couple of hours.
‘All western countries, enemies of the people!
Kill the foreigners!
Kill Ronald Reagan!’
I thought Ro-nald was such a bad name
for a man who never wrote children books,
probably he deserved to die.
My spelling was not very good at that age,
so the room filled with rainbows instead.
Clara and I laughed.
At that point, we felt hungry and I remembered
mother kept the bible covered with cloth
on top of the fridge
so I lifted the shiny red cover, sliced it in very small pieces
and added water and salt.
The feast carried on for a bit.
Clara and I chewed with determination several chapters.
We almost got half way through
when I read: ‘Then there shall be a time of trouble …for
every one that shall be found written in the book.’
And then, in the middle of our small apartment,
the game stopped.
I went back to the wall
and changed the words around.
‘Ro-land, orphan but free’.
Photograph: @John Stadnicki, ‘Piazza’, 2016
Dear local MP, a while ago I vividly remember
writing you a very short note to say ‘fuck it, I quit!’.
I licked the stamp and dropped the envelope
in the box number eighty four, school lane, first left,
by the traffic lights.
I ran back to my flat, unplugged the TV
and read ‘War and Peace’ under the duvet covers.
By the time I got to page seven hundred and twenty I’d realised
the war was not the most important thing in a man’s life.
I started to feel a bit sorry for myself
having nothing to be angry about anymore.
But now, coming to think of it, you gracefully got over the insult
and posted back a signed Christmas card.
It arrived in January but let’s not stop at details.
I kept at my book for over a month.
The French got stuck in Siberia,
the women mourned, the men went back home
as they did in those days.
And then a neat Valentine appeared
hand-delivered by a Romanian postman.
Your concern for my love life brings me to tears.
There is nothing worse than rejected love.
The dreadful day we had feared
arrived at last. Possibly March the first.
At the picket line.
We held hands with the same familiar tenderness
maybe shared the same memories witnessing
the course of events as the revolution unravelled.
With a kind of regret my fist hit
the walls of a prison surrounded by weaved carpets.
With photographs stored in books
different directions awaited.
Never to see each other again.
I am getting used to passing the time
in the solemn company of my wood beams.
Perhaps weeks, perhaps years
in which I have been witness to the world’s determination to name the unborn,
to possession and
to abandonment,
to preparations coming from planning uncertainty,
and to my own weakness.
I have not become better
although I lit candles and prayed
and I mattered.
I scribbled more question marks on waiting room tables than I gave answers
and
I felt the humility of a man proven wrong when
I hoped I had done enough.
Somehow, each time I rebelled
I ended up cleaning up the wreckage,
packing, unpacking,
forgiving everything
but not myself.
Maria Stadnicka 