Sharing Is Magic that Grows…

A poem is a gift of wonder, one that never stops giving itself, that never stops growing, that never stops evolving with the love that feeds it…

Those were my thoughts after reading Victoria Patella’s latest post, which includes one of my stitched poetry bits—“I am made of wild”—and a delicious poem by her.

see how Victoria made the poetry grow for her

Victoria’s words, her way of digesting the piece, the way in which she relates what she sees… helped me answer a question I hadn’t known I was asking: Why is it that the word “ink”, in a page I’m blacking out, is so difficult for me to resist?

My last three blackout poem bits (after I crafted the first one, a friend challenged me to create two more using the worlds “love” and “ink” *like that’s a real challenge*):

“I art my love in ink.”

and

“I live for bold ink
‘n’ cheeky love.”

and

In the sun,
love her eyes,
her cheek…
in ink.

*to see the first two on Instagram, click here and here*

Photos evolve, too… as you share them and re-experience them with others. When I first saw the picture below, I thought, I really love my t-shirt, and, I so love seeing a bit of urban wild in the middle of New York City, and Goodness, I could cut worlds with that jaw. Hey, I think a lot. Anyway, then someone described what they saw in the picture, and added at least 13 more thoughts to my list.

Sharing is magic that grows.

I Was Wild, Savage, Human

Red is soothing (to me). The same is true of sex, laughter, creative ripping (paper or fabric), and of reading and writing containing the aforesaid bits. So, when my flesh and bones hurt so bad that sleep is an unbelievable dream that could only happen to extremely lucky fictitious characters, I call on red and we go wild.

I’ve been in ridiculous pain for a few days. The throbbing started under my left scapula, then it spread to my left hip, my left gluteus maximus (I’ve always loved that word), the back of my left leg… all the way to my toes *red, red, red*.

Still, I’m not unhappy. I’ve had moments when I was angrier than a mantis in heat who has just discovered he is a male, but not unhappy. I’ve written a lot of fiction, stitched several poem bits, and blacked out (red-out?) seven or nine pieces.

There were tense moments when I cursed Comfort (in creatively ripped red):

Another time, I crafted a blackout poem that is all sex (joy and sweat and screams and bliss-filled old lies howled out of pleasure-drunk-panting lips):

Earlier, when pain made me shake and shrouded my all in chills, I laughed (crying cackle-coated tears), lay on the bathroom floor—cool tiles *and the right book* are such a blessing… Then, after Laural Merlington finished narrating the 3rd chapter of A Stroke of Midnight, I dragged my flesh and bones to my writing space, and with hands that barely shook, I red-out a note about Pain and Me:

*the background is from Vampiros, illustrated by Meritxell Ribas Puigmal*

Things are better. Some of my bits are still screaming. But something tells me that tonight, I’ll kiss the Sandman on the mouth… and will both like it.