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
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
The hunger was the woman with a friendly, foreign name-tag.
That busy Saturday.
A miracle healer, as pale as milk, passed through the city –
a reminder that we all had our role to play in the war.
For a moment, his voice stopped the curious shoppingbagscrowd-
echo between tall cement buildings.
A sudden rain followed, baptised my sleeping bag,
in the queue at the Lower Street Food Bank.
The history sliced a nearby road in tiny squares of holy bread.
– published in International Times, available here
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 )
– 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