Perspective

 

Photograph: © Maria Stadnicka

 

From afar,

the poetry,

big fat bottles on a kitchen shelf.

 

A collection of colourful glasses,

with human hearts

preserved in salted water.

 

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In Other Words, Freedom

The fatal morning Europe woke up and thought it had something to say,

there was nobody else left in the world able to listen.

Oh, earth, the bones had gathered to queue for bread,

by the front door at Saint Joseph seminary.

 

An ordinary day for ordinary death.

The bakery opened and closed.

The workers arrived on time for a last shift then went home.

The ovens had no traces of grain.

 

The ink stained hope filled up rusty water pipes.

The crowds’ whisper went on, up the hill, out of the city.

 

After that, freedom meant nothing.

It all came down to

who could hold the front running place the longest.

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With the Risk of Repeating Myself

I haven’t finished speaking.
With the risk of yet repeating myself,
the struggle to remain a poet means nothing
in front of an empty bowl of soup.
No, the dark sky cannot disguise anymore
the dead bird on the driveway
and even though art, you say,
can hit me in the head from anywhere,
learning to sleep with an eye open
is not humanly possible.

I do not propose an alternative,
just saying…why not come
and visit the zoo at dawn,
take the cloth off the cage thirty seven and
see with your dilated pupil
my two heads resting on top of my neck
leaning forward.
I promise I will perfectly smile, be polite and well behaved
and even refund the tickets
with utmost consideration for your hurt feelings.

We are not in the same room,
nothing to each other.
My liberty is reflected in broken glass,
by the missed punctuation.
You talk, complain that the weather
in Britain is oppressive, I observe everything
through the cloth and enjoy
the crumbs of potato cake,
within the walls of another poem.

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Photo: Maria Butunoi