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
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 )
It is a great privilege to be a guest at ‘Tears in the Fence’ poetry festival this year. 15th-17th September 2017.
I will be reading from my latest collection Imperfect and discuss the relationship between journalism and censorship as well as the role of the poetic discourse within the current socio-political climate.
This year’s Festival weekend will be at The White Horse and Village Hall, Stourpaine and The Festival’s theme is the politics of engagement.
Further details and programme to follow.
Thank you David Caddy and ‘Tears in the Fence’ Festival and I am looking forward to it.
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.
The poet says he would
sleep anywhere just to be
in the same town with you.
He does not have
his own place in the world yet.
© Maria Stadnicka