I did not know
how much you wrapped yourself
around my heart until today when
sitting in the park I accidentally caught
you eating bread. You took each bite
eyes closed and gently stroked the crust
like you’d do on Sunday at church.
You did not smile, it was
the sun which briefly smiled at you.
I had been there in the cold for quite a while
but did not move or blink nor even breathe,
just waited.
You packed the crumbs away
and quickly vanished.
And then I sobbed.
Sometimes I think I’m made of words
And not of flesh
A poet eating ice cream
On a tree leaf
But other times
My very flesh will make the words
Which float like water grains
On wooden tables.
There are no doors
No windows
Where we are
The black air stops me
Seeing how you look like
As you sit on the chair
Sipping the cold tea
I can only imagine your face
Reflected over an old map of innocence
There is nothing to say now
All that had to be spoken
Is spoken for
The non-words fill the landscape
With stillness
The beautiful dead bodies
Are floating outside the city limits
Taken away by tides.
I sigh when I sleep
And turn my back to the sea.
My body gets smaller and smaller
Ready to enter the wooden box.
The history grows between us
Like a living room plant
In a small, windowless house
But at least you live by the fire
While I am the black ink of this poem
Staring at you during the night.
My bright eyes reflect
The shadow of your absence,
Waiting for a new, final peace.
Photo: Georgiana Calinescu-Barber
I saw her in the mirror today
And she saw me.
We watched each other for a while.
The black reached forward.
The blue moved backwards.
I pushed my hands against the glass
She did the same.
I leaned towards left
She towards right.
I stopped. She stopped too.
Then laughed.
I had no teeth.
She had some.
I had rain water in my hair
She had no hair at all.
None at all, had she, NO…THING.
There’s been no rain in her world for a while now.
Just a persistent thirst.
She carefully opened her palm to
Catch the falling drops and look at them
But I rushed out
Gently pushing the image away.
My wet hands, her cracked lips.
The soft memory of growing old
Alone.
Print: Lorraine Robbins
I do not talk
I am just saying words
Whilst keeping my eyes on the passage in front of us
So you can hear and stop.
Let me hold the pistol this time, I laugh,
You, confess how beautiful the town is in the dark,
Be still and silent and dance around me.
Although I am not born yet
I can listen to your breath underground
Where the soil, moving up and down with a big sigh,
Brings you up in the world.
I am closer and closer,
My neck, stretched, to have a proper look at you
Asleep on the grass.
‘We are two quiet songs’ I think,
One, vertical, blue,
The other, small white seed.
And just as my stare wakes you up I know I will
Remember this precise moment of my existence and
When, at last, I will hand over the keys,
My head will turn to catch the final glimpse of your flesh.
But just for now, this night opened two separate roads ahead.
The one for you, learning to walk,
Another for me, barely moving.
Drawing: Maria Butunoi
Behind the screen, I was putting my clothes back on
Thinking what the verdict would be in the white room
(I had been silently waiting my turn
Enjoying somehow the inevitable loss).
But then you dropped the pen,
And looked at the clean x-ray.
I took a chair and moved it back in the middle of the room.
As I sat down, my fingers just briefly touched your face.
I vaguely remember the conversation we had
But I know we said good bye
As I looked back, you waved,
Your left hand folding a notebook.
Since that day, I had been looking the word tenderness up
Just to see if you were right:
The fragility of a glass statue in front of an angry hammer.
Poverty has no definition. Not in any sociological sense. Once you face the human bones and the malnourished, any aesthetic value disappears. And with the one in agony, your own agony takes shape. The sourly tears are not for others’ pain but for your own disillusion and failure. For all the answers you hoped to get, and did not. Nothing sublime, genuine about the human nature, once the spirit is dead.
Poverty is always a matter of contrast. As the hungry has no sense of fullness when there is no water, no food to share. The poor are never unhappy. I am unhappy in the poor’s place as they can make the difference between the world’s emptiness and my dry throat. No freedom exists in poverty and no real understanding of the truth.
Once the poor are full, they do have time for questions.
The first pamphlet of our Stroud Writers Group is done, printed and ready to be launched, with the financial assistance of Stroud Arts Festival. The featured authors are Rick Vick, Adam Horovitz, Sian Breeze, Judy Newman, Tim Wilson, Paul Kelly, Maria Butunoi, Alex Breeze, Eley Furrell, Jessica Wynne, Diana Humphrey and Daryl Carpenter.
Cover image Fortunes of War, Paul Thornycroft.
Pamphlet 15is a collection of fresh poetry, short stories and flash fiction, ready to come your way. If you would like a copy, email me at mariabutunoi@yahoo.co.uk.
Maria Stadnicka 