archaic or dialect question, in appropriate. a lowly start
with slight misgivings, i come arrived from the country, an immigrant
here.
if the task came to me unlikely, i should sew profusely. a safe bet in that
something grows decently.
do you know how to stitch a lie, when all about grow honesty? mine was
white last year,
now nothing germinates.
the question is irreverent, no disrespect meant. forgive me, this is the second
time. this time,
i shall stay.
despite my nationality.
she needed the fare home, i gave her change.
the school girl bent level, gave her the note, touched
her and left.
sometimes
we look after our own.
moving on from the last verse of girly looking
after girly, we stopped at the jeweller’s window.
the assistant, neat looked bore & very clean. the
rings were three thousands and more.
enough to take her home and more.
“yes sir you may buy the ring, for a
thousand pounds, or choose to save
her life”
did you dream of evil last night, for evil it was.
pocked, bleeding and dead. back broken.
this morning the garden is damp, a mole died
peaceably.
plans for a new path are growing, yet there was
evil.
again.
last night.
bloody danger everywhere. here. there. words look the same.
dots abound. he followed the road, fell from the sky. the thing
was heavy.
during the day the bus burned up the road.
the nails are sharp, we can split our fingers.
be very cared for my dears.
Please
don’t let us die
we that are starving
in all corners of the world
..
we have our dreams
butterflies in the air
with a full tummy
before we sleep.
Bio-
Stephen Jarrell Williams writes and draws late into the night, watching out his window for the Coming Good Dawn.
a long protest march
against all that is wrong
and in their faces I saw us
a better us
doing so much more
and here they come
their laughter
and spirit
and strength
disarming
all the sad monsters of this world.
..
Stephen Jarrell Williams writes and draws late into the night, watching out his window for the Coming Good Dawn.
This is where we sit to watch the night come in
ever since Trumputin bombed our English towns.
We emptied freezers, ate our neighbours pets.
Now in the bird-settling, when once we sat down
to be tamed by tv shows we can’t recall,
we recline here and watch the weeds approach
knowing soon their rope will be a ligature
that tightly winds itself around our throats.
..
numbers came suddenly, soon after one. nothing added any more, all began to subtract, divide, the result algebraic there are no rulers, lines to divide, the total is irrelevant now, the addition foremost. i have been to the counting.
initially, crossed the sea to the land, from one to another, then, talking. crossed the narrow bridge spoke of the past, you know what i mean. courage to walk
away.
a book about death. 14.
irregular, you came, your best clothes shining. never mind. the first tune hit the mind, patterns and mathematics. the kindness that is.
he said. machine you see. glass reflecting. slowly it starts repeating. the walls of differing colours. we have the dvds. on and on repeating on and on repeating on and on repeating.
back to the counting, how many have there been, how many are left still standing. an issue for some, yet we amend the figures here and move on. lucky ones, maths divides and decimates others.
1.2
repeating.
speech.
simple notes, there is much discussion now, where the place used to be pure quiet and acceptance.
it seems to him that talking does not get the job done. gently balancing wool. words fall .
we had gathered here before to watch the weathering. referendum come and gone with fury.
speech
fails us.
simple notes. none rise higher than the one next.
to you, to me, this may not be
the acceptance
expected.
As if I lost my eyes,
regained them again,
I stroll past the abbey.
Monks pray in sotto voce.
A neon sign knifes
the silence.
I stroll past the field
where my father
still seeks his only son
who won’t return home
after a game.
with great love and care ( adverb) he made them. each one by hand.
most were killed before breakfast. visitors asked to see the bodies, having
none, he imported them from abroad. more killed than
the somme. thousands after dawn. he has models now of dead
soldiers, some with arrows in.
small scene first world war, glow in the dark. memorial.
having spent time among his battles, i went and ate a donut. lovingly.
The citizenship lesson, on Wednesdays afternoon,
ends at three o’clock
with a Mozart concerto, live broadcast
from our detention centre.
The outer heavy traffic,
the rain washing the roof tops across Nairobi
penetrate the walls –
a sharp, urgent, high-pitched cry.
The ants come to light, across the border,
through a crack in the wood.
Perfect day for unattended prayers.
win or lose. hedge your edge.
write of parlay. slowly ending bet.
forbidden child! drift into another.
world. tabbed.
dice or other games.
no one wins…..
One immense hand
stirring
the cauldron of chaos
with millions of little hands
pitching in
with their unknowing souls.
..
Stephen Jarrell Williams writes and draws late into the night, watching out his window for the Coming Good Dawn.
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.
Maria Stadnicka is a writer, freelance journalist and lecturer. She started writing at the age of seven and published her first poems in 1995.
Between 1996 and 2003 Maria lived in Iasi and Botosani, Romania and won 12 Romanian national prizes for poetry, as well as Porni Luceafarul… – First Prize for poetry collection and Convorbiri Literare publishing house, T. Arghezi – First Prize for poetry and V. Alecsandri – First Prize for poetry.
She worked as a radio and TV broadcaster, presenter and editor in chief for Radio North-East, TV Europa Nova and Radio Hit and was a member of the literary group Club 8, Romania.
In 2003, Maria moved to England and in 2010 she became member of the Stroud Writers Group, Gloucestershire. She read poetry in London, Bristol, Cheltenham and Stroud. Maria is a freelance journalist and works as a lecturer at South Gloucestershire and Stroud College, England.
Maria Stadnicka published poetry in:
– Wienzeile (Vienna, Austria);
– Cronica, Poesis, Hyperion, LiterNet, Convorbiri literare (Iasi, Bucharest, Cluj-Napoca, Suceava, Botosani – Romania);
– Contrafort and Discobolul (Chisinau, Republic of Moldova);
– Gracious Light and The Clouds (New York, USA);
– International Times (London, UK).
Books and pamphlets:
– O-Zone Friendly poetry anthology (Iasi, Romania ISBN – 973-99824-7-6, 2002);
– Pamphlet 15 – Change and Permanence (Stroud, England, 2012);
– Pamphlet 15 – Trust and Betrayal (Stroud, England, 2014);
– A Short Story About War, poetry (Yew Tree Press, England, 2014 ISBN 978-0-9562038-4-7);
– Stroud Poets pamphlet, poetry anthology (Yew Tree Press, England, 2016 ISBN – 978-0-9956603-0-4);
– Imperfect, poetry (Yew Tree Press, England and Two Wood Press, England, 2017 – 978-0-9562038-5-4).
she talked rapidly
about family,
history, opera, poetry.
i idled,
listened a bit,
eyed her clothes.
wished i dressed liked that,
treat myself,
et cetera.
then.
she told me
that
her uncle,
in war painted
white crosses on men who deserted.
an aim for those
who shot them.
she said,
he was never the same after.
is left behind with tiny writing. salisbury cathedral.
the back way. written in latin for those who matter.
those words and those words
an historian uttered sent me reeling outside.
where air is cleaner.
oh , by the way
left you both there too. were you trying to appease
the barons?
I’m from a country at war
I am from a country that’s bleeding
A country of anger
And revolutions
A country of martyrs,
I’m from a country once called Mesopotamia
I’m from the land of black gold
I’m from the richest land on the earth
I’m from the land of sunshine on a golden desert
I’m from there
But I’m not there
I had beautiful dreams
I had friends, brothers, sisters, sweet parents and pink hopes…
I had green gardens, tall palms and olive trees
I had a warm winter
Blue rivers
Red flowers
I was born on land before the crossing of swords on the body
Turned into a banquet table
Before Bush and Blair turned our rivers into blood
Then they donate us millions of tents instead of roofs for our houses
The rain has died in my homeland..
They left graves in the green grass in our fields
Only cacti remain laughing in the barren desert
The sun has become ashamed behind the clouds
Where is God ?
Has even God became a refugee in His land ?!
Where is our ancient law?!
Even this been stolen?!
No choice
I crossed the seas of death
Waves of grief have led me here
To the land of my usurpers in an old and narrow shelter
No job
no identification
no dignity.
The victim cannot judge its executioner
I now speak in two languages, but I have forgotten in which one I used to dream
I have learned all the words to take
the lexicon apart for one noun’s sake,
The compound I must make:
Homeland
No choice I came here
I’m here
but I’m not here
You are a refugee and
Your choice is not your choice
But remember…
I’m human
I’m human
..
Malka Al-Haddad is an Iraqi poet, academic and defender of Human Rights and has lived in Britain since 2012. She is a member of the Union of Iraqi Writers and was one of the first delegates to the US for the Iraqi & American reconciliation project. She is an activist with Leicester Civil Rights Movement: https://www.frontlinedefenders.org/en/profile/malka-al-haddad and has presented her academic paper Political Changes and their Impact on Iraqi Women at LSE in 2015 https://brismes2015.wordpress.com/panel-5d-politics-gender-and-nostalgia-in-contemporary-iraq/
I am not a silent poet 