Wednesday, January 16

Feasting My Bright on the Dark of the Moon


I’ve always felt that changes, especially the ones that break bones and force a brain to rethink the shape of her skeleton, can be blessings. So, when Rommy asked for posts birthed by change one wasn’t quite sure about at first but was delighted by in the end, I thought, Poetry, which began as a necessity for me (when I just couldn’t handle long pieces).

If you knew me then, you already know that welcoming poetry into my life wasn’t the easiest of things. I didn’t care for it. I didn’t think poetry could ever satisfy me in the way fiction did (oh, stop laughing already!). You see, I thought poetry and fiction would fight for my attention, and I worried about not being able to properly nourish either of my loves.

My initial worries were partially correct, at first. It wasn’t easy to give enough ink-time to poetry and enough ink-time to fiction. Then, after a year (or was it three?), I noticed Charles Baudelaire’s words, (which I might’ve stolen from Kerry’s blog *cough*), “Always be a poet, even in prose”, and realized that what I needed was abandon and balance in ink.

The following poem bit, which I’m linking to Poets United, was born out of those thoughts (and the creepily-cute moon at the end of the post):     


Sun light is my favorite
food for flesh,
but my soul feasts best
on the dark of the moon.


I’ve been rewriting old stories and poems, in an effort to feed my not-so-newly found need to be a poet in prose and a prose-writer in poetry. The process is… soul-filling (and perfect for this time in my life). I’m hoping to be able to share some of the fruits of my ink-labor before winter’s end. In the meantime, I shall delight in this old surprise which feeds me anew.


this creepily-cute moon (crafted by Dark Town Sally) was a gift from the one and only, Mistress Emma (of Groovy Gothic), who knows exactly how to make me bloom in grins (Thank you, my dearest Emma)

Tuesday, January 15

I Know Nothing About Clog Dancing, Jon Snow


According to my Knight Writer, “in the beginning [in the middle and a bit towards the end] there was nothing, which exploded” in raucous laughter at the idea of tomorrows that work exactly as planned. So, here is to living and writing and doing all sorts of stuff by the seat of Chaos’s trousers.

For her first week of Blogging Around with Rommy, my dear friend (and savior of sexy bald writers with fantastic teeth), asked us to tell her about our week, or about a change that became a blessing, or about our feelings on clog dancing. Since the depth of my feelings on clog dancing can’t be discussed while sober (and I can’t drink), I am sharing a glimpse into the first half of my January (which I’m also linking to the Imaginary Garden):

If
you look,
you’ll find me
in New York sculpted
rain.
 
when trees bare their limbs
for winter, I wrap my bits
to avoid the sick
in the fog,
New York City spooks
prettily
 
sweet madness
blooms out of art bits
wildly touched

in winter,
my amaryllis
springs for me


I’ve been taking pictures in the rain, making funny faces under my kitty face mask (and 5 layers of clothing), enjoying the magic of cloud-kissed skies, delighting in accidentally artful clumsiness, and loving my garden. 

All right, I’ve been writing, too. If things keep moving, a complete draft will show its face between my last chemo infusion and the beginning of radiation *fingers crossed toes, streets and eyes too, just in case*.  

Saturday, January 12

(Un)emptying Hollows


One of my favorite things to do (in life and in writing) is to take words or situations (that aren’t always pleasant) and twist them around until they do soothing things to the feels. So, when I was asked to spring a poem out of “hollow”, I was all grins (and elfchen):


I
fill hollows
(spawned by fate)
with writing that feeds
souls.

Words
brew healing
magic that shows
there’s power in sharing
hope.

spell words
(inked from living)
out of my (un)emptying
hollows.


i might be slightly obsessed (and totally in love) with my Frida calendar

 linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Poets United