Maria Stadnicka
DUST BOREALIS
Beware the winter traffic on a drive
from the airport. Hours get smaller
to fit in a suitcase, speed past old
school grounds, ruined classrooms,
geometry books, letters, pins, blazers.
White socks mother is mending at night
when her silver needle stiches a lie:
There will be cakes and trips to the sea.
Thread twists in a hand-sewn background
where children abandon their beachball.
Move away from the water, you cannot swim.
Lifeguards respond to emergency calls.
Tiny bodies hold hands, round up ashore
in a prayer for painless skin-shedding times.
Long-term life plans stop including her.
Lost toys leave home, wave to mothers
at the departure lounge. Luggage waits
on conveyor belts, gates slide, curtains
shut slowly like at the mortuary.
Adulthood starts anytime once you list
common-sense choices: birthdays
in mourning for demolished castles,
time set aside at a best friend’s grave.
Say goodbye and grow-up, be a good girl,
winter traffic echoes in an urban car park.
Dust borealis shines on my steering wheel.
WIND NOOSE
There is a break in hostilities.
Long enough to exchange prisoners,
embalm scattered shirt buttons.
A temporary ceasefire to bury
our collateral losses then pause
for a live broadcast at midday.
Coloured bar charts hurry up to
catch the moment cyber runners
reach their finishing lines. Race over.
Winners grow up to have long legs,
fitted for mile-wide life hurdles.
Empty seats line up in combat gear.
ASH CIRCLES
bread-birds rise golden at summer’s end
v-shaping wheat fields and grain towers;
those gleaming in my memory smoulder
for years, spread circles of ash at sea level /
I drink my past in small sips from a chalice
my brothers polished with their sleeves /
it does not matter that time tastes of
mud / in those days we often thought
everything came out of the soil /
UNEARTHING
Wash your hands, they say,
after a day in the fields.
A daughter with soiled dress
must clean her shame.
My preparation foretells
starched days in rooms
where everyone wears masks.
Impossible to tell who teachers are.
Forthcoming lessons surrendered
to hunger at the back of a classroom,
bound to kinship: black flats
passed down to barefoot offspring.
Poverty chooses its bloodline
with the same care storks roost
in the tallest houses. Safe nests.
Look for weeds in mid-meadows
but when I bring home seeds
under my fingernails they run
the tap, scald my hands raw.
Blisters grow over my lifeline;
the elders bow to their fear.
As in Latin, timere is being afraid
of unearthing ageing blades.
Schooldays on hands and knees.
My son and daughter born
in mid-meadows raise their palms
high at the back. Clean wounds face
forward to honour their birthright.
OVERTURE
Curtains go up on a scene
whose rear walls are shaking;
stagehands clear the background.
Spotlights on at the cast’s entrance.
I am your memory, he says,
the back rows whistle, heat
rises from our seats to the LEDs’
green flicker on the ceiling.
Breath-monologue, breath-monologue:
the script stumbles over line breaks
interrupted by adverts for bleach,
toothpaste, locally sourced colours.
Cheer at the hue glazed upper circle,
long sigh at the back when the speed
of a camera flash sets off a fire alarm.
Curtains down for emergency exit.
We push against tar-water dams,
open floodgates then move
to the front for a better view.
The theatre holds the roof up.
Every moment of terror begins like this.
It matches our lives, us performing onstage.
DOMESTICATION
Thank you for calling our service. You are
fifth in the queue. An operator will be
with you shortly. In the meantime, watch
the beasts in our zoo through the keyhole.
Please observe safety precautions and
remain in your vehicle. A lion born in captivity
has recently been reported missing.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
fourth in the queue. Apologies for the delay.
All our operators are busy at present.
We are experiencing unexpected disruption,
someone will be with you shortly. For information
in your own language, access online tutorials.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
third in the queue. The operators hear
shouting and screaming outside the call centre,
high alert. Please remain in your vehicle
and lock the doors. Our clients’ welfare is
very important except in emergency situations
when staff come first. To survive the jungle,
you have to become animal.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
second in the queue. All our operators
are dealing with a serious incident.
We are sorry for this inconvenience.
The background music contains sounds
which you may find distressing.
Press zero to return to the main menu,
press one to continue listening.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
next. Please have your bank details ready.
Bear with us and someone will be with you
as soon as possible. To listen to these
options again, press star. To keep on,
please hold. You are next. You arrr…
Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting,
you are through to the Samaritans. How
can we help you today?
Beware the winter traffic on a drive
from the airport. Hours get smaller
to fit in a suitcase, speed past old
school grounds, ruined classrooms,
geometry books, letters, pins, blazers.
White socks mother is mending at night
when her silver needle stiches a lie:
There will be cakes and trips to the sea.
Thread twists in a hand-sewn background
where children abandon their beachball.
Move away from the water, you cannot swim.
Lifeguards respond to emergency calls.
Tiny bodies hold hands, round up ashore
in a prayer for painless skin-shedding times.
Long-term life plans stop including her.
Lost toys leave home, wave to mothers
at the departure lounge. Luggage waits
on conveyor belts, gates slide, curtains
shut slowly like at the mortuary.
Adulthood starts anytime once you list
common-sense choices: birthdays
in mourning for demolished castles,
time set aside at a best friend’s grave.
Say goodbye and grow-up, be a good girl,
winter traffic echoes in an urban car park.
Dust borealis shines on my steering wheel.
WIND NOOSE
There is a break in hostilities.
Long enough to exchange prisoners,
embalm scattered shirt buttons.
A temporary ceasefire to bury
our collateral losses then pause
for a live broadcast at midday.
Coloured bar charts hurry up to
catch the moment cyber runners
reach their finishing lines. Race over.
Winners grow up to have long legs,
fitted for mile-wide life hurdles.
Empty seats line up in combat gear.
ASH CIRCLES
bread-birds rise golden at summer’s end
v-shaping wheat fields and grain towers;
those gleaming in my memory smoulder
for years, spread circles of ash at sea level /
I drink my past in small sips from a chalice
my brothers polished with their sleeves /
it does not matter that time tastes of
mud / in those days we often thought
everything came out of the soil /
UNEARTHING
Wash your hands, they say,
after a day in the fields.
A daughter with soiled dress
must clean her shame.
My preparation foretells
starched days in rooms
where everyone wears masks.
Impossible to tell who teachers are.
Forthcoming lessons surrendered
to hunger at the back of a classroom,
bound to kinship: black flats
passed down to barefoot offspring.
Poverty chooses its bloodline
with the same care storks roost
in the tallest houses. Safe nests.
Look for weeds in mid-meadows
but when I bring home seeds
under my fingernails they run
the tap, scald my hands raw.
Blisters grow over my lifeline;
the elders bow to their fear.
As in Latin, timere is being afraid
of unearthing ageing blades.
Schooldays on hands and knees.
My son and daughter born
in mid-meadows raise their palms
high at the back. Clean wounds face
forward to honour their birthright.
OVERTURE
Curtains go up on a scene
whose rear walls are shaking;
stagehands clear the background.
Spotlights on at the cast’s entrance.
I am your memory, he says,
the back rows whistle, heat
rises from our seats to the LEDs’
green flicker on the ceiling.
Breath-monologue, breath-monologue:
the script stumbles over line breaks
interrupted by adverts for bleach,
toothpaste, locally sourced colours.
Cheer at the hue glazed upper circle,
long sigh at the back when the speed
of a camera flash sets off a fire alarm.
Curtains down for emergency exit.
We push against tar-water dams,
open floodgates then move
to the front for a better view.
The theatre holds the roof up.
Every moment of terror begins like this.
It matches our lives, us performing onstage.
DOMESTICATION
Thank you for calling our service. You are
fifth in the queue. An operator will be
with you shortly. In the meantime, watch
the beasts in our zoo through the keyhole.
Please observe safety precautions and
remain in your vehicle. A lion born in captivity
has recently been reported missing.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
fourth in the queue. Apologies for the delay.
All our operators are busy at present.
We are experiencing unexpected disruption,
someone will be with you shortly. For information
in your own language, access online tutorials.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
third in the queue. The operators hear
shouting and screaming outside the call centre,
high alert. Please remain in your vehicle
and lock the doors. Our clients’ welfare is
very important except in emergency situations
when staff come first. To survive the jungle,
you have to become animal.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
second in the queue. All our operators
are dealing with a serious incident.
We are sorry for this inconvenience.
The background music contains sounds
which you may find distressing.
Press zero to return to the main menu,
press one to continue listening.
Thank you for calling our service. You are
next. Please have your bank details ready.
Bear with us and someone will be with you
as soon as possible. To listen to these
options again, press star. To keep on,
please hold. You are next. You arrr…
Good morning, sorry to keep you waiting,
you are through to the Samaritans. How
can we help you today?
© Copyright Maria Stadnicka 2021
Maria Stadnicka is a Romano-British writer and journalist based in Gloucestershire, whose poetry collections include Buried Gods Metal Prophets (2021), Somnia (2020), The Geometric Kingdom (with Rupert Loydell, 2020), and The Unmoving (2018). She is a PhD researcher at the University of the West of England, Bristol, exploring psycho-social aspects of socio-cultural trauma and migration in Britain. As well as writing in English, Maria has won numerous national awards for her poetry in Romanian, including the Porni Luceafarul, the Convorbiri Literare, and the T. Arghezi. Further information about her work can be accessed at mariastadnicka.com.