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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@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

Movement

Photograph ©John Stadnicki 2017

 

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.

Economy, this morning live at ‘I am not a silent poet’

(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’ https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2017/07/12/economy-by-maria-stadnicka/

with many thanks to the editor Reuben Woolley.

‘Plastic’ politics. In ‘International Times’

http://internationaltimes.it/plastic-2/

Illustration by Nick Victor copyright Published in International Times

The local MP came to visit today.
He played with his tie, in the half-empty boiling hot classroom.
Nobody offered him water.
He looked outside at the summery fog and
chewed his nails for an hour or so.
I tried to think of a question.
But all of them were already answered.
He paused and smiled at the camera.
I had a name badge around my neck.
He had nothing.
I sat on a tree-legged small plastic chair.
He sat on a piece of cake.

 

Plastic

The local MP came to visit today.

He played with his tie, in the half-empty boiling hot working class room.

Nobody offered him water.

He looked outside at the summery breeze and chewed his nails for an hour or so.

I tried to think of a question.

But all of them were already answered.

He paused and smiled at the camera.

I had a name-tag around my neck.

He had nothing.

I sat on a tree-legged small plastic chair.

He sat on a piece of cake.

Photograph: @John Stadnicki

Uranium Bullets

I always arrive late for everything.

Stuck in a traffic jam by the docks,

missed Noah’s boat but

survived under water

accidentally trapped between stolen books,

trapped by a word heavier than a stone,

lighter than a feather.

 

Hidden in the overcrowded wooden train carriage,

radicalised by the anonymity of my blue name-tag,

with a heart growing outside my body.

Each beat painfully visible to the guards

around the Monopoly table.

 

On the waiting list for ballet lessons,

radicalised by the price of uranium bullets on Mother’s Day

handwriting an apologetic note.

My deep eye silenced.

The familiar solemnity of a world without a face.

Photograph: @John Stadnicki, Bristol MMXVI