War Correspondence

Photograph: ©John Stadnicki, MMXVII

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A train passed, at a slow speed,
through iced waters.
It could have taken minutes
or maybe days.

The crushing sound of my doubt,
the unnecessary beauty,
push the march backwards.

Blessed be the stones. So many
are thrown at us from above.
A thousand years of anger in one place.

The graveyard is now in bloom.
Bread-flowers are shooting upwards.
Defeated.

My defeated words, stronger than my weapon.

 

(Poem published in ‘Stride’ magazine, available here)

Thank you, Rupert Loydell!

 

 

 

 

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Panis Angelicus

 

Photograph: ©John Stadnicki, ‘Corpus I’ – MMXVII

 

(for Katie McCue)

 

The soldier, asleep by his polished sword,

was somehow surprised.

Such a big storm!

 

The colours, all of them, disappeared.

The city collapsed in a big crevasse.

 

When she cried,

everybody cried.

 

The roads, the windows had to be shut

when she needed silence.

 

The words had to be wrapped in silvery knots

just before

they became people.

 

The stories stopped being written,

the earth stopped,

the war stopped.

And simply because she had

a fear of butterflies.

 

The butterflies were not scared of her.

 

Photograph: ©John Stadnicki, ‘Corpus II’ – MMXVII

Landscape

Photograph ©John Stadnicki

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another midnight storm washes away the cold poetry
born at the top floor.
I balance my whole weight
on long words;
frozen stones on my tongue.

I count the mistakes god has done with me,
just to pass the time.

The violent rain hid a blind dog
inside my very bone.
Here, upstairs, both of us in the same body,
awake and hungry,
listen.

 

©Maria Stadnicka, MMXVII

published in ‘Stride’ magazine, available here

@Dissident Voice, good morning!

Photo ©Maria Stadnicka

Thank you Angie Tibbs, senior editor at Dissident Voice for accepting some of my texts. Here is The Tortures of Freedom which can be accessed here

Today’s edition features some excellent articles and poetry. For further reading, click here

Habitatum

Photograph: ©John Stadnicki

I bring white little stones from the market

and place them, like pills, in long straight lines on my desk.

 

Although full of stuff, my body lives at the top floor –

with a view towards a perfect car park.

 

I watch the beheadings through a narrow hole in the sky

and

I point a fully-loaded gun against the world.

 

The earth rests

suspended between wild heavens and landscaped gardens.

 

And yet the sun is still rising above the silent bell ropes,

hanging loose among people who stand up to

look at the death pit as if

nothing has happened.

 

©Maria Stadnicka

 

First published in Your One Phone Call, Wales, available here

(August, MMXVII)