Dream-Drunk

“The man lectured his pupils on anatomy, cosmography, and magic: the faces listened anxiously and tried to answer understandingly, as if they guessed the importance of that examination which would redeem one of them from his condition of empty illusion and interpolate him into the real world.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

.
I woke up dream-drunk,
darling, with the taste of mud
in my mouth…

a giggle,

or, was that a cackle,
fighting for the gift of being
real, after the awakening? Not just
a memory of pine
-apple chunks and wild swallows,

but night shade(s) made flesh.

Darling, I’ve written you
alive, in ink and bone
and thoughts (no illusion).

.
the wee notes…
– Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, an extremely stunning Toad invited us “to write a new poem that begins with a line out of [our] own words.” I chose a bit from a blog post I published a few weeks back, “I Shall Dream You and Write You a World”, mostly because… well, I’m sort of in love with the phrase “I woke up dream-drunk”.
Nightshade: atropa belladonna; belladonna; deadly nightshade… is remedy and poison.

I just know that passion fruit flowers were grown out of a dream.

It’s Not Insane to Want

“There is something about words… manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.” ~ The Thirteenth Tale

.
I watch her,
this girl who’s all me
and not me at all,
and I wonder…

Do you know what’s happening?

“Of course, I know”,
she says
to the world.
“And I understand that
it is insane,
BUT
I want more.”

I hear her speak
with such familiarity,
and I wonder…

Do you know how dangerous—?

She stops me before I finish
asking, faces him, and says,
“I’ll rock
your wilds mine.”

She believes her every word.
I know.

You see,
he writes lies she loves,
and well-told stories can turn

fib into (wanted) fact.

I know
it’s not insane to want
to rock wild words real.
So, I watch

and wonder…

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– An Instagram reader messaged me to say, “I really like that your little poems always look like you put a lot of work and time into them.” I told him, “That’s because time, thought, and effort goes into them. But no, it never feels like a lot of work.”

I was asked for “an actual erasure blackout”; meaning that I was to take an eraser and, well… erase the words I didn’t need. The page I chose snickered at my erasing efforts. So, I grabbed my fruit knife and knifed away with gusto. I think the drastic measures add to the intensity of the poem bit—the “more” is made stronger by it.

No sharp tools required. But I like what the rocks and the red do for the “wilds”.

I used sandpaper to create this erasure poem, out of the following passage: “And the writer’s pangs arise, not from dread of what lies after death, but from the thought of leaving a husband she loves and children half-reared”, from On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978, by Adrienne Rich. The sparkles are eyeshadow. I thought it went well with the lies (and her blinded love).

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform

My Stitched Darlings

“Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough… Make good art.” ~ Neil Gaiman

.
Most things are born screaming,
fighting a world too new
to be wanted by any.

Not you, my stitched darlings.

You crawled out of me
serene (dark ink kissing paper
tasting of coffee or tea),
imagination and patience
making new out of old.

I love watching you grow,

my stitched darlings, watching you
being wanted by (m)any hearts…
and being loved (so loved) by me.

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– I started stitching poetry in an effort to fight a combination of injury and disease that was stiffening my hands—handwriting and stitching requires specific movements that exercise tiny muscles that would not get a daily workout otherwise. I really liked the stitched results, loved them even. So, I started collecting them. Then, my friend Emma suggested they were so cool that I should consider making them available for purchase.

I giggled at her loving silliness. Who would want to buy this stuff, really? I thought. I love them because I love everything that is mine. Emma loves them because she loves me (she’s insane like that). Then, strangers who saw my stitched words on Instagram started asking if I sold them. When I said, “Of course”, they began to buy them. Yes, I’m still a tad surprised, but also proud… of my stitched darlings.

–  Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ A Glance at Narrative. K, asks us to “think of some story in writing [a] poem.” I’m handfasting K’s prompt to Paul’s Scribble It, which invites us to birth poetry “that speaks in some way of a ‘First Time’”. Also adding to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 364.

Another Note (for those who’ve emailed me about my shop’s opening date): my online store will open in September. I apologize for the delays… It’s just that life insists on throwing wrenches my way. And I can only dance so fast… But September seems all right (for now… we don’t want to tempt Fate, do we? And yes, by “we” I mean “me”).