Stories
Je suis Charlie!
POSTED IN Stories January 8, 2015
Je suis Charlie!As darkness fell across Europe, tens of thousands took to the streets to show their solidarity with those killed by gunmen at the offices of satirical French weekly Charlie Hebdo.
The scenes were replicated across France, in London and around the world with crowds holding placards bearing the slogan “Je suis Charlie”, which means ‘I am Charlie’ in French. Others were seen carrying enlarged versions of the some of the newspaper’s anti-Islamist cartoons.
Meanwhile the website of French newspaper Le Monde last night showed an interactive map of vigils being held across the world in Dublin, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Brussels, Madrid, Rome, Berlin, Vienna, Moscow, and as far afield as Tunis, Lima, Rio de Janeiro and Madagascar.
In London, hundreds of people filled Trafalgar Square at a silent vigil for those killed when masked gunmen stormed the newspaper’s headquarters. Many held pens, pencils and notebooks in the air to show their support for the journalists, cartoonists and police officers who lost their lives.
The gatherings were held as French President Francoise Hollande declared tomorrow a day of national mourning tomorrow in respect for the victims of this morning’s attack.
Nobody has the right to take a human life! In the name of Allah / God / Buddha / Jesus / Jehovah, it matters not how one calls it, nobody has the right TO KILL! Evil spirited humans do that, not the right ones!
Justice for all! Those who have blood on their hands should answer in front of humanity! Paris is bleeding and the whole world cries. God bless the soul of those killed people and rest them in peace!
Maria Magdalena Biela
Actorul si salbatecii / The Actor and the Savages
POSTED IN Stories December 25, 2014
Actorul si salbatecii
Am vazut scena plina cu flori si Actorul sufocat, inecat de petale, frunze care ii patrundeau in gura, in nari, in urechi, il acopereau pana cand nimic nu mai ramase din el. Bietul Actor.
Ce moarte, dom’le! Sufocat de florile spectatorilor care il iubeau, care venisera cu mic cu mare sa-l vada, sa-l aplaude, sa-i strige numele, sa-si manifeste dragostea si admiratia pentru talentul lui, frumusetea artei lui, pentru darul cu care fusese harazit de a da viata cuvintelor.
Publicul venise cu intentii bune, cu intentii admirabile, publicul venise cu imense buchete cu flori, flori vii, intense, parfumate, flori harazite sa omagieze Arta, Artistul, Actorul.
Publicul venise sa-l asculte pe Actor, sa-i soarba vorbele si sa le memoreze, sa le invete pe din afara, sa le spuna copiilor lor si copiilor copiilor lor, ca o mostenire nepretuita.
Florile urmau sa fie doar un umil omagiu adus pe altarul Artei, un umil omagiu adus Actorului care trudea pe scena spre a lumina mintile, sufletele spectatorilor.
Ce s-a intamplat, totusi? Cum de Actorul a fost ucis de spectatorii sai?– Noi am crezut ca el joaca teatru, de aceea nu ne-am panicat si am continuat sa-i aruncam flori pe scena. Nici cand am vazut ca el nu mai exista nu ne-am oprit, am crezut ca asa e scenariul, ca va apare dintr-un moment in altul si ne va zambi fericit, ne va multumi pentru flori si aplauze.
– Eu am avut o indoiala cand l-am auzit suspinand…avea deja lacrimi pe fata, inca dinainte de a arunca noi primele flori…am simtit ca ceva este in neregula.
– Si de ce nu ati reactionat?
– Pai, noi asa am fost obisnuiti de mici, din familie, sa nu deranjam scena, sa aruncam cu flori, sa ne manifestam dragostea pentru arta si actori aruncand cu flori spre ei, pe scena, insa sub nici un pretext sa nu deranjam scena.
– Cand ati inteles ca Actorul a murit?
– Pai, noi nu prea am inteles. Nici acum eu nu cred ca Actorul este mort. Eu cred ca el este in spatele scenei si rade de gluma pe care ne-a facut-o. Chiar este mort? Nuuu, cine stie unde se ascunde el acum.
– E mort. Cu siguranta a fost declarat mort, pe scena, sufocat de florile aruncate de spectatori.
– Ia te uita, dom’le, ce comedie! Si eu care credeam ca el joaca teatru. El chiar se sufoca, nu-i asa, cand horcaia sub muntele de flori? Ia stai ca-ti spun eu…
Si, zicand aceste vorbe promitatoare, oarecum premonitoare, spectatorul si-a scos din buzunar telefonul mobil, l-a deschis si, cercetandu-si contul Facebook, a confirmat:
– Da, dom’le, e mort! Uite, presedintele tarii a declarat ca Actorul a fost ucis la sfarsitul piesei de catre fanii lui care au aruncat cu flori in el. Asta da, declaratie, dom’le! Ia stai, ca e unu’ care afirma ca “ actorul a fost ucis la sfarsitul actului sau de catre salbatecii de pe net”.
Adica, cum vine asta? Salbatecii de pe net? Adica noi suntem salbatecii care au ucis Actorul? Cine e animalul care face aceasta afirmatie, dom’le?– Ia, zi si mie, ca ti-l descopar eu, se implica un alt spectator, agitat. Asa, asa, asta este!
‘Tu’i neamu’ nevoii, ia sa-i aratam noi “salbatecii de pe net” idiotului, patrupedului, frustratului, anarhistului, fire-ar mama lui a dreacului, da’ ce se leaga el de noi?
Lui nici macar nu i-a pasat de Actor, sa vina sa-l vada, sa se implice, a stat cuminte acasa, in fotoliu, cu berea langa el si are tupeul sa scrie pe Facebook ca noi, NOI, spectatorii loiali Actorului, suntem “salbatecii de pe net care l-au ucis”!
Pai, stie el cine suntem noi?– Eu i-am scris asa: “Ba, castratule, tigan nenorocit, tu stii ce vorbesti?” E bine? Ca sa priceapa ca el trebuie sa se informeze.
S-au certat vreme lunga pe Facebook. Intre timp, Actorul a fost inmormantat, totul a fost declarat un accident banal, pe o scena provinciala si faptul divers a fost dat uitarii.
Pe Facebook lupta continua.
…………………………………………………………………………………………
The Actor and the Savages
I saw the scene full of flowers and I saw the Actor choking, drowned in petals, leaves , which entered his mouth, nostrils, ears, covering him until nothing was left of him. Poor Actor.
What a death! Smothered by the flowers of the audience who loved him, who came young and old together to see him, to applaud him, to shout his name, to show their love and admiration for his talent, for the beauty of his art, for the gift he had been bestowed upon to give life to words.
The crowd had come with good intentions, with admirable intentions; the public came with huge bouquets of flowers, live intense flowers, fragrant flowers destined to celebrate the art, the artist, the Actor.
The audience had come to hear him, the Actor, to drink his words and memorize them, learn them by heart, to be transmitted to their children and their children’s children as a priceless heritage.
The flowers were meant to be only a humble homage to the shrine of Art, a humble homage to the Actor who toiled on stage to enlighten their minds, their souls.
What happened, though? How did the Actor get killed by his audience?– We thought he was still acting, so we did not panic and continued to throw flowers on stage. Not even when we saw that he did not exist any more, we did not stop, we thought that it was part of the script and that he would reappear at one point or another, smiling happily, thanking us for the flowers and applause.
– Somehow I had a doubt when I heard him sobbing … already he had tears on his face, way before we cast the first flowers … I felt that something was wrong.
– And why didn’t you react?
– Well, we’ve been taught so by our parents since childhood, not to disturb the stage: to throw flowers, to manifest our love for art and for actors by throwing flowers at them on stage, but not to disturb the stage under any circumstances.
– When did you realise that the actor was dead?
– Well, we did not really understand. Even now I do not think that the actor is dead. I think he is behind the scenes laughing at the trick he played on us. Really, is he dead? Nooo, who knows where he is hiding right now.– He’s dead. Certainly. He was pronounced dead on the stage, suffocated by the flowers thrown by his spectators.
– What a spectacular farce! And I thought he was acting. He really was suffocating, wasn’t he, when gasping for air under the mountain of flowers? Wait a moment, I’ll tell you …And saying these promising, somehow premonitory words, the spectator took his smart-phone out of his pocket, examined his Facebook account and confirmed:
– Yeah, he’s dead, all right! Here, the President said the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the fans throwing flowers at him. Yeah, that’s what I call a declaration! Wait a minute, here’s one stating that “the Actor was killed at the end of his act by the savages from the net”.
I mean, how come? “Savages from the net”? I mean are we “the savages” who killed the Actor? Who is the filthy weasel making a statement like that?– Show it to me, I’ll catch him, engaged another spectator, agitated. Well well, this is it!
Son of a bitch, I’ll show him “savages from the net”! Idiot, quadruped, frustrated, anarchist, mother fucker, are you searching for trouble?He never even cared for the Actor, never came to see him, never got involved! He stood quietly at home, on his sofa with his beer next to him and now he’s got the nerve to write on Facebook that we, we, the spectators loyal to the Actor, we are “the savages on the net who killed him!”
Well, does he know who we are?
– I wrote like this: “You, castrate, Gypsy mother-fucker, do you know what you’re talking about?” It’s good? To make him understand that he must be clearly informed.
They argued long time on Facebook. Meanwhile, the Actor was buried, everything was declared as a trivial accident on a provincial stage and the trivial fact was forgotten.
On Facebook the fight is still going on.
Maria Magdalena Biela
The Empty Room
POSTED IN Stories November 28, 2014
The Empty Room
I stood silently watching the room
it was my last time there.
My eyes in sadness mirrored the gloom
that was too hard to bear.
With heavy heart I swallowed my tears
while I was held and kissed.
I knew that after all those years
I’ll miss and I’ll be missed.
An empty room was quizzing me:
“How much do you remember?”
I saw myself through memory
until this last November.
How many children did I raise?
How many minds I’ve lightened?
I was a teacher all my days
and I was never burdened.
I loved them all in many ways,
I taught them to be honest,
to be themselves and run life’s maze,
to be kind, good and modest.
I taught them life in other land,
and other country’s language,
I gave them hidden in their hand
the key to wisest courage.
One day the Wind wrote me a leaf
that told: “You know it’s time!”
I took my books, I hid my grief,
and followed the Wind chime.
28.11.2014
Lanzarote
Maria Magdalena Biela
The silence / Hiljaisuus
POSTED IN Stories September 12, 2014
The silenceThere is silence and silence. Accepting silence, threatening silence, curious silence, hating silence, absent-minded silence, talkative silence, silence that hides either a great wisdom or a huge ignorance.
As a teacher I am afraid of my students’ quietness. I feel the different nuances hidden beneath the missing words.
I feel when they are angry silent, refusing to complain that they’ve been treated incorrectly. I try to persuade them kindly to talk. I feel when an intelligent person remains silent being interested in listening. I feel them like a hunting dog.
But most of all I fear ignorant people, who can hide their emptiness behind their silence, knowing all along that it is better to be silent and appear to be philosophical than to speak up and expose the nothingness inside their minds.
Often this kind of people could cheat and make one believe that they are what they appear to be.
They are dangerous, because they not only hide their ignorance behind their silence, but also their wickedness, the ugliness of their soul.
A fake smile behind the smile.
Protect me, Destiny, from this kind of people!
Hiljaisuus
On olemassa vaikenemista ja vaikenemista. Myöntyvää vaikenemista, uhmaavaa vaikenemista, uteliasta vaikenemista, vihaista vaikenemista, hajamielistä vaikenemista, puheliasta vaikenemista…Vaikenemista, joka kätkee joko suuren viisauden tai suuren tyhmyyden.
Opettajana pelkään oppilaideni vaikenemista. Tunnen niiden eri sävyt. Tiedän milloin he vaikenevat vihaisina, haluamatta valittaa, että heitä on kohdeltu epäoikeudenmukaisesti. Yritän vaivihkaa houkutella heitä keskusteluun.
Tiedän milloin älykäs ihminen vaikenee kiinnostuneena kuuntelemaan. Vainuan heidät kuin metsästyskoira. Mutta eniten pelkään ja inhoan tyhmiä ihmisiä, jotka kätkevät tyhmyytensä vaikenemiseen tietäen, että on parempi vaieta ja vaikuttaa filosofilta kuin puhua ja paljastaa päänsä tyhjyyden.
Usein tällaiset ihmiset voivat pettää. He voivat olla vaarallisia, koska he eivät kätke vaikenemisensa taakse vain tyhmyyttään, vaan myös pahuutensa, sielunsa rumuuden. Hymyillen teeskenneltyä hymyä vaieten.
Varjele minua, Kohtalo, tällaisilta ihmisiltä!
Maria Magdalena Biela
The Red Rose
POSTED IN Stories September 2, 2014
The Red RoseOnce upon the time there was a Princess in a far away kingdom…
Her Father, the King, was lonely, because the queen died when the Princess was born, so He had that sweet little girl as his only hope, joy and the reason for living. That is why he gave her whatever she wanted.
The Princess was known for her beauty, for her clothes, for her laughter, and for her wonderful roses.
She had a splendid garden, which she loved very much, and she had in there only roses: yellow, white, violet, even dark roses.
One rose she did not have: a red one!
But the Princess was too young and she did not know what a red rose is!
So, day by day, she grew up in her kingdom and the King was happier than ever. And every morning the Princess went to her garden, chose a rose and put it near heart, and she always chose a colour to fit her dress.
One day a poor gardener, a young boy, came to the palace, searching for work and he was hired as the master gardener of the Princess’ roses.
Every morning the poor boy was watching the Princess walking through the garden, and slowly and secretly, he fell in love with her.
One morning, the Princess came like always, to see her roses and pick up one for her dress. But, by accident, she pricked her fragile little finger into a thorn, and blood came out, on her yellow dress. Then the Princess asked the gardener:
– What is the name of this colour?
– I don’t know, my Princess, maybe “the colour of blood”?
– It is beautiful! Do you have in here a rose of the colour of blood?
– No, my Princess, I do not have any rose like this colour.
– I want one, said the Princess, and left the garden.
Day after day, the Princess came to the garden asking:
– Don’t you have my blood colour rose yet? I told you to find it! I WANT IT!
She became very sad, did not want to eat anymore, not to sleep, not to go out into her garden. All she was thinking about was the blood colour rose.
Doctors came to see the Princess, but sadly, no one could help her sadness, and she was slowly about to die.
The King, in his despair, came before his people and said:
– Who could find a blood colour rose for my daughter, and make her healthy again, I will give him half of my kingdom and my daughter’s hand in marriage!The word of the King spread very fast, and many Knights tried to find the blood colour rose, just to marry the Princess, or to take the kingdom.
Only the poor gardener, sad and lonely , was thinking what to do to save the Princess’ life.
And, he suddenly remembered how the Princess discovered that colour. So, he took a thorn, pricked his finger, took a white rose and shed his blood into the white cup. And the rose became Red.
Then, quickly he went to the court and said:
– I found the blood colour rose for our Princess!
The King took him to his daughter’s bedroom where she was sleeping, pale and beautiful.
When she saw the rose, she became alive again, she put it on her chest, and sang, and laughed the whole day long.
Of course, the King could not give to a poor gardener half of his kingdom, nor the Princess’ hand in marriage, but he promised the gardener lots of money.
The boy wanted nothing but to be the gardener of the Princess’ roses.
By evening, the Red Rose died. The Princess, very angry, went to the gardener and said:
– Why did it die? I want another one tomorrow morning.
And, so it happened, day by day. The poor gardener took every morning a white rose, pricked his finger, shed his own blood into the white cup, made a blood colour rose and gave it to the Princess to see her happy.
Until one last morning, when, with his last drop of blood, he made a last red rose, gave it to the Princess and, turning pale, he fell down at her feet, dead.By Maria Magdalena Biela
Kuunnelkaa kaikki! / Listen everybody!
POSTED IN Stories August 28, 2014
Kuunnelkaa kaikki! / Listen everybody!Nuoruusvuoteni soivat kuin laulu…
mutta ohitin ne
käsi kädessä
rakkauden kanssa
ja jäin käsi ojennetuna kuin kuningas Lear.
Kuunnelkaa kaikki iloani ja tuskaani!
Sydämeni on katkera,
kuin suolapallo,
kaivosorjien suolakaivoksessa tekemä.
Joka ei tunne
sitä janoa ja tuskaa,
joka on tällaisen suolapallon sisällä,
väistyköön!
by Maria Magdalena Biela
Weep no more, my Willow Tree
POSTED IN Stories July 31, 2014
Weep no more, my Willow Tree
Weep no more, my Willow Tree!
Fill by tears the ruffled Sea.
Shiver not, hold your breath still.
An it harm none, do as ye will.Wave your branches to and fro.
Tied the mirrored Moon below.
Touch the Fate with your goodwill.
An it harm none, do as ye will.Take root from a single log,
that has fallen into bog,
grow, reach high, your life fulfill.
An it harm none, do as ye will.Weep no more, my thriving Willow!
Grow wise roots on wavy billow.
Weep no more, live lives with thrill.
An it harm none, do as ye will.
Finland, 31.07.2014
Maria Magdalena Biela
From now until it’s now again
POSTED IN reading poetry, Stories July 19, 2014
From Now Until It’s Now AgainI’d like to be a drop of rain,
a tear to shine in eyes of crane,
to feel no sadness nor a pain.
From now until it’s now again.I’d like to be a bitter chain
to hold those hearts that only drain
the human will. Those hearts too vain.
From now until it’s now again.I’d like in every soul to reign,
to caress fearful thoughts profane
that a poor heart deny would fain.
From now until it’s now again.I’d like the power to restrain
mouth-honor, curses and disdain
away from every heart and brain.
From now until it’s now again.Time, Father of the mighty Vane,
make seconds sleep outside of gain,
stand still for all that is humane!
From now until it’s now again.19.07.2014
Chania
Bielka
Written on the wind
POSTED IN Stories June 29, 2014
Written on the windWritten on the wind the words came one day,
shivering, and tired, and confused.
Lost was their meaning, wand’ring all the way.
They fell on my lips deadly mused.I’ve buried them kindly in my mind’s willing ear,
and I opened forgotten locked thoughts.
As a flame lights a shadow and the truth ends the fear,
I was hearing the connected dots.They were telling a story that came from beyond,
from my people that wanted me free.
All their dying words were for me a blood bond,
a life breath, a life scent, a life plea.So I’ve listened to the wind, that told me:”It’s time,
time for you to go and forget.
You belong to the rainbow, to the stars’ dust and chime,
to a world without fear and regret.You shall fly once again to a land that’s unknown,
you shall open your heart yet again.
You shall love those new people and call them your own”.Then I kissed the words with no pain.
Maria Magdalena Biela
Sonnet
POSTED IN Stories May 2, 2014
I’s born to never have a perfect sightI’s born to never have a perfect sight,
to nothing see while in the light of day,
to feel, and beg and wander like a stray,
until from heaven comes the light of night.
Then, eyes wide open, I light up the stars,
I take some adjectives and light the moons ,
the nouns will blossom trees from ancient Runes
and verbs will bring the cranes from their jars.
Gatekeeper of the Night I’s born to be,
to hide the wisdom shining in the dark.
My eyes were blessed with the Seer’s mark
and with the Seer’s blindness plea to see.For humankind is blind by night, so they,
they beg, and feel and wander like a stray.
Maria Magdalena Biela
