Photograph: ©John Stadnicki
Afternoon by the Sea
Through a window, the word points at a high fence.
Beyond the distant melted sands,
bullets across the sky keep in order
our grey memory –
dust in the old man’s bone.
The promised justice moves further away,
into unlit dampness.
Nothing happens in the past, nor tomorrow.
A whisper grows closer, hungry at bedtime,
dissolved by the sound of
stones and cracked glass under my shoe.
The wooden clocks announce the return ashore
of an empty shipwreck.
©Maria Stadnicka MMXVII, published this morning in
‘Stride’ magazine edited by Rupert M. Loydell
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
art, Britain, censorship, community, culture, debate, journalism, literature, Maria Stadnicka, poetry, poetry book, politics
Photo: @John Stadnicki
A great writer said in 1920s that ‘
a man did not have to be insane to be sensitive‘, I believe. But there are people who could be wounded by a simple dot and whom a single word could kill. And this, at times, is true about the world itself.
photo: @John Stadnicki
A poem for ‘
Europa‘ by Andrew Heath https://www.amazon.co.uk/Europa-Andrew-Heath/dp/B01LYHL716
For further information on Andrew Heath’s music, please click here:
June 7, 2017 July 1, 2017
art, Britain, Maria Stadnicka, poems, poetography, poetry, politics, revolution, social change, social participation
It was, after all, a beautiful day.
Your hands, resting on the white tablecloth,
the lost sheep in a perfect desert with no compass.
You passed me the tea, I took the newspaper and
arranged my dress in a neat knot on my lap,
smiled and looked the sun in the eye.
The fresh air suffocated us.
The summer, gone.
‘Too much beauty’ I thought to say before I slowly placed the cup in front of me,
‘too much of you’
but I kept a symmetrical distance between my toes and yours.
I stood up and went to the other side of the room
to watch you watching the sea.
On the floor, the breakfast crumbs.
Memory of my passing.
Photograph: @Maria Stadnicka, Lines’, Stroud