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
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.
First published in Your One Phone Call, Wales, available here
big fat bottles on a kitchen shelf.
A collection of colourful glasses,
with human hearts
preserved in salted water.
I live in a round house across the road
and every day I wave the invisible white flag
just to distract you from writing so many letters.
Other times, all I do is stare at your reflected image,
bent over the desk,
thinking whether your back is broken,
having to bear so many words.
You do not lift your eyes up,
never see anything but yourself.
The only time you stand up and walk to the door
is to refill the glass with sand.
You do not receive news from the outside world
you do not know we live in times of peace now.
©Maria Stadnicka 2017
For more information about Andrew Keenan’s work, check https://www.andrewkeenanphotography.com/
‘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 )
– to Liu Xiaobo –
Like all those people I once knew,
who came and then
left my life as if they never existed,
many cities inherited this flesh
under the weight of my fears.
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