The Liberty Statue in Budapest

Retirement and beyond

The Liberty Statue in Budapest stands on the highest hill overlooking the city.   It is a 14m bronze statue of a lady holding a palm leaf, and is on a 26m pedestal, so can be seen from many parts of Budapest.

The statue itself has a bit of mixed history.   Initially, it was constructed in 1947 to commemorate the liberation of Hungary from the Nazi regime by the Soviets in WWII.  However, that was before Hungary realized that their “rescuers” had no intentions of leaving anytime soon, and that they (the Hungarians) had to endure the Communist ideology that the new bosses imposed.  The original inscription on the statue read :

“To the memory of the liberating Soviet heroes [erected by] the grateful Hungarian people [in] 1945”.

The Soviets finally left Hungary in 1991, Hungary went from Communist rule to democracy,  and the inscription on the statue now reads…

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божевільний *

* “Божевільний” means “mad, crazy, insane” in Ukrainian. “Боже (Бог)” means “God”. “Вільний (воля)” means “freedom” or “will”. So now it makes us wonder if a madman is someone who’s free from God or someone who fulfills God’s will?

unbolt me

“worship me!” says god
“ha! you first!” i answer him
then god gets angry
and leaves me, slamming the door
good lord, he needs to grow up!

now i live alone
time to be an atheist
though the rent is high
at least i am my own man
in this ward for lunatics

© All rights reserved 2016

* “Божевільний” means “mad, crazy, insane” in Ukrainian. “Боже (Бог)” means “God”. “Вільний (воля)” means “freedom” or “will”. So now it makes us wonder if a madman is someone who’s free from God or someone who fulfills God’s will?

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No Consent by Rhiannon Ward

I am not a silent poet

Dark alleyways.

Cold, lonely nights.

Short skirts, low-cut tops.

She was asking for it.

He was asking for it.


No-one asks for it.

It doesn’t always happen like this.

Boyfriends. Girlfriends.

Brothers. Sisters.

Family members.

People you should be able to trust.

Children, adults; no-one is safe.

They don’t understand the word ‘no’.

Taking advantage of naivety,

drunken states,

low self-confidence,

sometimes even sleep.

Too scared to speak out,

fear of not being believed.

Drowning in your own thoughts,

unable to trust anyone again.

Whatever they told you,

none of this was ever your fault.

Biography; Rhiannon Ward is currently studying Creative and Professional Writing and English Literature (BA Hons) at the University of Worcester. She discovered her passion for poetry when she was 11 and now uses it to convey emotion, focusing on previous experiences and issues of the world.

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Veronica Aldous


Grown from spider’s wings and legs of ancient Manxmen
The wizened apple doll within its earthy silence
The masked knobbyknockers and freuds
Of linked and spiny museum curiosities
Enthrall the visitors that peer behind the plushy curtains
Inspecting vats of shimmering mermaid toes
Aeolian harps strung on dripping hawthorns
Unsilence of Einsteins, unflowering of blooms
Unpicking of Mallarmes and obstinate flickerings
In hushed seance rooms where dark ladies
Deal cards to  cardboard men for half a pfennig
Serving barbaric custards from enamelled spoons
This is the end of one nerve ending’s impulse
The final bifurcation of an inky scratch on vellum
A spectral thoughtrune tied to a running apis
Down corridors of damp flagstone, here’s the endgame –
My mind sings hollow fulminating tunes.

Veronica Adous 2016  All Rights Reserved

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A day’s report

Bart Wolffe


The horses gallop beneath her fingers. Faster

Than thought, accelerating even when she is so still,

Just gazing at her words. She could be writing of journeys

Or simply opening boxes, perhaps there are colours there

That I cannot read. Instead

I listen to the rhythm of her speechless language

As her swift mind covers unseen distances.

I am still. Overcome by the walls, the rituals of tea,

The small passages of hours that lend to tonight

When I will take to the streets to view the shining

Of shop windows, while on a steel bench I warm myself

With chicken wings and chips, escape the indoor prison

Of necessity, take my flight from the telephone calls

And having had my fill and flung the bones into the bin

Come home again to claim a further indolence

Smoking a cigarette beneath the night sky

And wondering why

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Introducing The Wagon Magazine with Mr Chintan Prasad

The Written Word Matters

I was privileged and subsequently delighted to attend the launch of the newest, and I suppose, one of the coolest, and most carefully crafted literary magazines on the block on 17 April 16 at Chennai.

This here is my open letter to Mr Chintan Prasad, the founder and editor of The Wagon Magazine.


Release event of the print version of the magazine on 17th April 2016 in the presence of Indra Parthasarathi, S.Vaidheeswaran, D.V.Moorthy, Paravi, Era Murukan and Venu Arvind

Dear Mr Prasad,

Ever since I spoke to you two months back, I had been intrigued to meet you. More so, I was very excited to speak to someone who exuded such passion and energy for poetry and the written word.

My intuitions bore fruit when I saw the online version of the magazine. It had indeed been a daring effort; one that not only provides a potent platform to…

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“balloon” by e. g. burrows


Bristling, dogs howled.
The smallest ran in circles,
unable to escape
the terror that fired with a roar
and hovered above runs and kennels.
Flame wrinkled the air
under the belly of the orange balloon-skin.
The ribs grinned like a jack-o’-lantern,
eyes lit
by a candle inside the skull.
A man held out his hand
to reassure the dogs, then he too
howled and ran in circles,
joyful that finally
the prophesied dragon had arrived,
descending with all its warheads primed,
its steel teeth bared to the gums.

from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

What price progress?

Do You See What I See??

I’ve noticed of late just how many older dwellings are being demolished to make way for multiple apartments.  With every demolition, memories of old are lost forever.

Yesterday, while waiting for an appointment, I had a coffee at a cafe run by local indigenous in the small seaside town of Wynnum, here in Queensland, Australia. On a building opposite the cafe, there’s a huge piece of indigenous art. The colours are what attracted my eyes initially, however upon closer examination, it was the detail that kept them fixed for some time.

So what’s the connection to demolitions I hear you ask?  Well, sadly, that building is to be demolished to make way for some gaudy looking apartments, and I wonder will the art be saved? I’m investigating its future right now, because it is too beautiful and representative of indigenous traditions to be lost to a bulldozer.


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