I am a real person
And everything known to me has a colour.
The sun gravitates around me.
When I am beautiful
In my collected tears grow forests.
Photo: Maria Butunoi
Cubes and Other Lessons (III)
We did not think we needed food
When we set to walk back in the dark
Guided only by the reflection
Of the angular words
But
It rained so much overnight that
The road collapsed
The city has now locked you in
With me
Hungry in a white room
At the top floor.
The Need to Speak
The soldier like the poet is made of milk.
On the wooden plank, he awaits the start of the fight
Amongst all the other lifeless objects
In this room
His bones wave at me.
The soldier’s need to speak precedes the need to listen.
The poet’s need to sleep precedes the need to rest.
The poet like the soldier does not wave back.
Once gone, forever hidden
Behind a thick screen of smoke
Which now separates our worlds.
Unable to find the way back
He collects the very dry tear on tissue paper
And builds a beautiful house
For the silence which follows the final departure.
Photo: John Stadnicki
Cubes and Other Lessons (II)
She had no weight because
Was made of eyes.
She was talking to me
In an invented language
When
She tripped over a pebble and
Fell into the sea.
(There was no splash)
In a second
She vanished beneath the wave
With all our wooden hearts.
She could not be saved
Because nobody knew
How to breathe in ink.
Cubes and Other Lessons (I)
You take the unspoken word and
Look at it under the magnifying glass
In the dark
You live out all the unnecessary sorrow and beauty
And get to the bone of the language
With very small steps
Learning to walk in poems
Naked stone
And in learning so
The need to talk grows in the broken wood.
Good Teeth
I was deeply asleep
In my father’s egg
My sharp knife on my chest
My fingers on the shiny blade
My good teeth followed my legs when
I was finally released in this world
The unborn died to let me breathe
And this is how
I survived the big storm
With white blood on my hands.
Thought
We feed the orphans with poems
Never to be
Hungry again.
The fire nourished with letters
Never stops burning
Overnight
Our bodies wake up
Warm bricks
Restored to their path.
Each breath locked
Between the heart’s walls
Returns to its silver lung
Once the word released.
Supper
Floating feathers
Her tears
On my dinner plate
Restitutio
I covered my face with black ink
Gathered all my possessions in one small bundle
And set fire to everything
At the top of the hill.
Look this way
I waved my burning hand
As you walked in your imaginary map
With a preoccupied stare
But nothing disturbed your pace,
The door shut behind with an incredible force.
The thin walls echoed.
The island went silent again.
My half shut eyes were able to reach
Forward
At the seed of the poem where god left
A freshly baked bread
Just for me.
The white crust had my initials on it
But I could not bear to eat it
In case I had nothing else left
For the rest of my days.
With Naked Eye
On the way to the palace
I paused and thought for a moment whether my fresh linen coat
Was really appropriate for her majesty;
My feverish hand brushed the pristine fitted jacket and checked
The size of the buttons,
As golden big studs would have looked rather disgusting
To her well trained eye.
It started raining so I had to turn back
As I quickly gathered that my attire would get soaked
And rather mouldy;
So, to avoid a rather embarrassing situation for both of us,
I thought I’d better try a wet suit instead.
Surely I looked better in a suit than a jacket but
I could not find suitable shoes to go with it
And the rain wasn’t that bad after all.
I was by then very late and rushing
To get a front row seat
When suddenly after a short deliberation
I realised with clarity that her majesty appreciated
Me
For who I was
Rather than my fashion sense
So I took the Lycra skin off and
Rushed outside naked in the broad daylight.
The police stopped me
Just as I was about to call for a taxi.
Even to the day I think
Honest people should be treated with more respect
And I secretly believe that
Her majesty needs a good dose of
Postmodern reality check.
Maria Stadnicka 