Photograph ©John Stadnicki 2017
If we want the world to move forward,
we must hold hands. Documenting the pain and the joy,
on the same page,
with water, with fire, with ashes
not with ink.
Freedom means nothing when the healthy and the sick
eat at separate tables.
Even the trees sit together. They know that life is actually simple.
But once people renounced their entitlement,
it will take more than a revolution
to reclaim such a right.
For too long we took the wrong turn.
What kind of world is this if
the madman tells us that
we should be ashamed of ourselves?
©Maria Stadnicka, 2017
Published today in
International Times with illustration produced by Nick Victor.
Someone has to. It is easy to follow along. It can feel strange to do or say something different. But without that unease, there is no freedom.‘ (Snyder T. ‘ On Tyranny, 2017 )
Photograph ©Harry Oliver / Instagram @harryowns
It is a great privilege to be a guest at ‘Tears in the Fence’ poetry festival this year. 15th-17th September 2017.
I will be reading from my latest collection
Imperfect and discuss the relationship between journalism and censorship as well as the role of the poetic discourse within the current socio-political climate.
This year’s Festival weekend will be at The White Horse and Village Hall, Stourpaine and The Festival’s theme is
the politics of engagement.
Further details and programme to follow.
Thank you David Caddy and ‘Tears in the Fence’ Festival and I am looking forward to it.
Imperfect is available at Amazon, Waterstones and Yew Tree Press website.
for Timothy Snyder)
At first, we reduced the water supply.
The poisoned city wells dried up.
The light burnt the crops.
At sunset, everything crumbled into a black peace.
Then somehow we got used to an economy of words.
We collected ideas and thoughts in one book.
We spent the days memorising chapters.
For those trapped in the outer world,
for the privilege of staying alive.
Photograph: @John Stadnicki, MMXVII
Published today in ‘I am not a silent poet’
with many thanks to the editor Reuben Woolley.
July 12, 2017 July 12, 2017
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The box arrived. The first books now being sent to the British Library. And, in the middle of it, a new poem published this morning in ‘International Times’ – the newspaper of resistance.
‘A Day at the Office’ – pre-election dossier.
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.
December 29, 2016
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Perhaps this is not a poem…’ C. Milosz)
And because I was made a poet
a lot of blood is spilt
on the neat grass, when I walk.
For fear that I will have
nothing to give back
I collect old books.
My word confesses to its imperfection
with the honesty of a fractured second.
Not that I mind,
not that I have high hopes,
only tall steps.
Because of this self deluded truth,
it happens that waking up in a desert
is not a surprising coincidence,
but a certainty, like a niggling pain in a missing limb.
I am not grateful to sleep facing the wall
but hey! someone needs to show a bit of courage
and say nothing
when nothing is to be said.
And though no one will remember
the poem once written but me,
after all, forgotten things are
the only possessions worth keeping.
Photo: John Stadnicki
August 23, 2014 August 24, 2014
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