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

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Rituals

Sometimes when both of us have dinner

the silent wolf stops by to watch.

I hear the urgent knock on the window but

keep looking forward, keep laughing.

 

We talk about the constant rain and

listen to the tapping sound on the roof.

I offer you another glass.

A distant howl breaks in – metallic echo in the room.

 

The ocean drips and drips

cold over the plates, cold over the tablecloth.

I wipe everything clean.

The milk teeth are ready to crush new words.

Photograph: @John Stadnicki, MMXVII

An Absolute Silence

There is so much poetry in the house
that nothing ever gets done anymore.
I simply watch this room with scribbles all over it:
the shiny floors reflect the open sky
the music has stopped
the dust has settled on all our books.

It is like snow to me but you
stand up soldier when talking and
ask that I go to bed early and
switch the lights off.

The war does not scare me any longer
just the fact that I am
of no consequence to you.
The only way I can speak now
is by keeping an absolute silence.

Poem published today in ‘Stride’ magazine.

http://stridemagazine.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/so-much-poetry.html?view=flipcard

Photograph: @John Stadnicki

Toxic Petals

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: https://andrewheath.bandcamp.com/

Pockets Full of Wings

We stopped the car.
You smoked a cigarette and watched for a bit
the fast clouds bringing another rain to our promised land.
I went out and did not look back
to catch a dragonfly suspended by a thin thread
over the undisturbed waters.
I could not swim but
I quietly jumped in, following
the only spot of true colour
since my unfortunate birth.
I did not leave a trace as I walked the meadow.
The only memory sitting now on the empty chair,
the poem I’m writing to you
from the grave.
HAM MILL 24
Photograph: John Stadnicki