Starting a self-taught journey through the anthology of poetic form. 1.Villanelle: came from an Italian rustic song, and from the word villanella thought to derive from villano meaning “peasant” in Italian, think villa (farm or country house) Known for refusing to tell a story, goes in circles, relying on recurrence of mood and thus on memory & my attempt is modelled after French Poet Jean Passerat’s work
first black out poem // in a cab in the LES // headed back to the ludlow // passionately in love
Another dream poem about a great escape that exists in dreaming. This poem works as a chance to enter the mind of someone that struggles with the day to day due to an overactive imagination & can’t wait to rest to be part of her real world
wrote & graphically designed this some time ago, sitting on Canandaigua Lake & included my love for pencil diving (and pencil skirts) and my issues with nakedness xx
Inspired from my recent study of the minds of Pablo Neruda, Zimbabwe poet Tapiwa Mugabe & the brilliant Oliver Sacks after rescuing a chair from the side of the road on my way to work albeit already being late. I imagined her having this 2nd life & someone I can share the experience of living in a brothel with.
Working on Royal St in the Quarter I saw a young girl walk by with her left arm severed from forearm on. My imagination swirled into the narrative of her life which cascaded down into a play-land where she is missing eyes and ear and fear and no tears stream because she is the most beautiful thing.
Obsessing over Elon Musk’s fascination & exploration of Mars City, his description of bright red midnight skies in a world w cool blue sunrises. Tickled my mind & inspired a whirlwind of toes & bones & wrinkled nose & hands of souls that touch so gently
How did the world get so big? Can’t believe it! cat dressed up as a bumble bee looking longingly at a mini swan bird cage hoping one day they can fly no matter what the form is
Learning about public art and self-portraiture via Alex Podesta has my brain leaking out of my hands & reinvigorating my illustration bones to pulse. This bunny is collecting & protecting identity ,masked up & ready for the imaginary war
[uh oh] found an old school typewriter in the office, trying to sort out the sorrow with micro distractions of passion
Just being more than okay with where you are at now, where you area headed [or not] and truly enjoying process is the rose bud to this piece.
Written 9/21 and another that is meant to be read out loud for healing. I dedicate this to a radical female visual artist & woman of so many more deserving titles named Kel Mur. Kel is tall, beautiful, strong, dedicated, real and an exceptional role model. I met her in NOLA late one night pouring wine at an exhibition she was showing in. I then got to be a part of the end of her long, hard road to land w/ 2 feet in graduate studies, where she is this year. This piece is for her strength in times of unique loss, in honour of a life that bore her the brilliant mind & hands that she is today.
Phew! Baked for the first time in over 4 months today. In between sessions (I have never gone longer than a few weeks) the time away always results in me forgetting— until that sweet moment when flour is flying all over, the unique bakers frustration and cleaning so many dishes and tools ----do I remember that nothing makes me happier. No feeling compares. Tonight, seeing the slime from the flour on the sponge simply inspired me. It’s a piece about taking too long to say yes to yourself, but no matter when that sweet moment happens, that new present you live in is your sunshine moment. Your time to shine. I dedicate this to a very important man in my life, who makes what use to feel like such long, torturous days of not baking go by so fast. With joy. With sweetness. With a happiness that compares to that feeling described earlier.
In a world where force stopping apps prompts a “may cause it to misbehave” message. Was inspired by Rick Rubin’s explanation of resilient & dedicated people. 1 of the most important characteristics is being able to see beauty in the world around you: in the way clouds form. I always saw this capability as a survival skill hotbed. From my eyes to yours this is meant to remind those that can & encourage those that don’t to look differently today.
Imagine: Southern sweat heat got you into a haze-daze to a point that you can’t eat or sleep // u begin to loose feeling to your feet // reach out for a reality that’s concrete // this poem provides all that you need // read the ending of Meandering Street
Writing a memoir that is now 55 pages of stories & in combing through some older content I have collected I found 4 old, unpublished poems from when I first moved to Brooklyn in Dec 2013. (This & next 3 poems)
Writing a memoir that is now 55 pages of stories & in combing through some older content I have collected I found 4 old, unpublished poems from when I first moved to Brooklyn in Dec 2013. (This & previous poem)
Writing a memoir that is now 55 pages of stories & in combing through some older content I have collected I found 4 old, unpublished poems from when I first moved to Brooklyn in Dec 2013. (This & previous 2 poems)
Writing a memoir that is now 55 pages of stories & in combing through some older content I have collected I found 4 old, unpublished poems from when I first moved to Brooklyn in Dec 2013. (This & previous 3 poems)
This is suppose to create a sensitive chaotic whirlwindy feel that makes no sense. It creates a world of additional unsought mathematical dimensions where 5 is being replaced with 6 and the impact that new mentality has on casual days in Southern summer heat. The concept that creates this world is expressing to the reader ‘6 months old’ in non-traditional forms beyond the initial thought of a living creature that’s started it’s life—to show various forms to add depth to how special that amt of time can be
Written after a conversation grappling with the beauty & horror of learning to communicate in a new friendship. Ugly nights of streaming tears compare to the ugly streets of Mardi Gras feet. The day after a night that’s exhausting an exchange of phrases buds a little golden flower—a time where rawer, realer thoughts are exchanged. This good/bad, neg/pos has a complex beauty. A complexity like the beads on trees post Mardi Gras that hang year round to remind the crescent city of its super-unique-celebratory core. 9/12
exploring the changes that happen as the mind matures to better understand the complexities of the concept of beauty. Beauty as this ugly form or ruin & beautiful b/c it realizes it’s falling apart yet preserving a base that’s worth studying
inspired by the idea of a person (all of us) that ends up on a journey to find comfort in being alone, this is a letter to oneself about how special it is to find solace in being with the self, not isolated but accessible yet working through the mind without human intervention outside the self
this woman is desperate to learn about a man & the only way he talks is if she buys facts from him but she is dirt-poor. She becomes hugely motivated and instead of being a broke-poet she goes out to “get rich” and then access his mind. She tries all sorts of gigs and through her journey becomes a street performer. She found that using the money from her success was better spent on building schools and donating to animal shelters so she goes on to donate all of her earnings and sacrifice herself, to give up her yearning to learn about him but through her painful journey she made it to the stage, which she was always so afraid of & she learns to find the real value of life in time.
wrote this after seeing a Kermit show in the Treme last night, it’s about a person that realizes at a family dinner table that she needs to escape & never, ever look back; no matter what it means. It’s not obvious to the reader that the family never notices she left, that she is gone & continues their lives as if she died or never was there or some other circumstance that creates this lost soul that took that step to save herself. It’s about a new life, a new person, a real-raw-you. Seeking truth through action and letting time roll on in such a way that collides with an ever changing reality
when it’s been ten days of waiting
Read out loud for healing. To all of the lovers & creatives, weirdos & natives, drink makers & servers, managers & culture alerters in the Bacchanal Family my heart & soul are with you always & certainly strong tonight, this 1 is for you Patrick you sweet, sweet soul
In an effort to expose my process & editing this is the 3rd iteration of a small collection of words. See version 2 in poem below. This will be edited 2 or 3 more times so enjoy xx
In an effort to expose my process and editing this is the 2nd iteration of a small collection of words. It is meant to embody a sad feeling that comes with watching your past play around you in the form of ghosts and spirits, but a more positive spin on PTSD. I wrote it late last night in the new haunted home in the quarter & went on to edit it this morning after feeling elated. I turned the relationship between the character who is watching the theatrics of their past into a love story. She is evolving into a focus on the future and falling in love with it throughout the narrative. This will be edited 3 or 4 more times to have less rhyme & structure but is a nice sneak peek!
Feeling sweet face, sugar life, got frosting for hair dye & chocolate covered eyes. Romance dances in honey comb masks & sweet little lady pulls hope from the anit-past
inspired by the visual of a woman who is slowly re-working herself in order to preserve and transform into a work of public art, this piece was written at Shake Sugary in the Bywater sipping on soya milk cafe, eating a vegan sweet treat & staring at a new colour of sunflower never before seen.
written waiting for the bus to work my first morning in NOLA since May 8/24/17
2 poems in 1poem to account for the shift and create a dynamic feeling to truly differentiate and carry the reader through the switch that happens when a woman’s lover caresses her hair. An entangling story of adoration and care to get lost in. A jungle head of curls the man craves to comb his fingers through.
A short in response to the shell shock I’m still doused in, still at a loss for words, to strings my mind into sentences is best done with sentiment.
My. is short for Miss You.
travel poem that had a very interesting editing process. I wrote It out and then as I visited the places I would go back and edit it. What is most fascinating to me is I stopped editing at Barcelona so that portion was written pre-terrorist attack. Very eery
Took me many combs through & more edits than usual to give this 1 to u –It’s about a woman that gets wrongfully arrested and meets the devil behind bars which turns out to be her own mind. She ends up surviving & making a name for herself as a candy dealer which leads to a life of dream making after creating a caramel glow aroma eating experience by way of annihilation.
This poem and the next is about a person who is perpetually in a lucid dream state and is falling in love w a man she meets while (really) dreaming. Each stanza (unrelated) goes into her story each time she wakes up and actually realizes he’s not real. Regardless, she spends a lot of her conscious-awake state planning a life with him so that her subconscious guides her when she gets 2 to see-sleep each night.
it’s about a person who endures a particularly challenging time. After getting a horrifying call late one Tuesday evening, their life changes drastically. The burst of colour is meant to symbolize a person, place or thing that intrudes the fear & terror with hope and bright yellow light. Enjoy
This poem is about a 24 hour day cycle, the sun rising and setting and all the little moments in between that only get strung along because they share the common title Tuesday evening call. Notice, the common thread is lighting. The relationship between daily activity is planned or erratic, surprising, first times, terrifying, and so much more. Use your imagination on this one to guide you through a regular Thursday gone absolutely mad. I wrote it in response to the horrific terror attacks in Barcelona yesterday after being caught in the middle of it, running for dear life. How Humans loose trust under unimaginable fear. Also, some of the lines and words were collected from an excersize where you ask some1 to rapid response in 3 words to create a feeling of x, y, z. For example create a feeling of suffocation and a sample answer could be: trapped under water.
Read an article about an epic astrological spectacle coming Aug 12th & was jolted with a juice of inspiration. I wrote the 2nd chunk of txt here & kept going. I noticed the pattern of t-starting verbs and the last line. I then wanted to bring the mechanics to life & wrote the first 2 lines,of the title. I would try 2 sleep & then awake abruptly w more of the story.
Took a lot longer to finish this one and it spans over 2 weeks or so. Usually my process is to collect words, phrases, numbers, ideas then when I feel a certain way I will let it flow. I try e/a time to ensure there is a beginning, middle & end. I will revisit a poem over and over, over 2 or 3 days and comb through it. Re-working the structure and tightening the form, taking out words that aren’t needed or change the meaning of it. I will say, this 1 is not done, but worth a read & a share. Two chairs is a reference to intimate dinner tables, empy or with company, inspired by Two Pints by Roddy Doyle. I am also working on a female version that will be titled after 2 gin drinks, a conversaton digging into the mind of a woman. (If not) is an open invitation poem, about the real option to say no. No to yourself, no to others, no to saying yes. So much more to say, but I will let you enjoy ths one & make your own meaning.
Spent time in Charlie Byrnes immersing myself in the poetry section reading works by Dani Gill, William Carlos Williams, Eileen Myles, Alexandra Pope, Andrew Marvel, Louis Pereiro, Laurie Lee and Geoffrey Hill. The one thing I learned was more on strucure but breaking lines, punctuation and brevity. The very first poem I wrote was One Day. Especially Hill’s A Prayer to the Sun.
Out of the dream state & observing field flowers where bees land on the sweet grounds of Salt Hill, this poem let me take on the role of a mythist. I do this bizarre daily thing where I photograph a combination of purple & yellow flowers to better understand some unknown emotional feelings related to human dynamics. The purple flowers need to be tiny and mark made & the yellow are typically huge, unruly & partly dead.
spent a weekend in Westport, Ireland & wanted to capture a strange feeling also still on the whole dream motif & playing w/ structure & endings
exercise to completely bonker the real-life meaning of words & describe a feeling that is being discovered or re-imagined, with of course, the dream state
one more for the road, playing with heavy rhyming, structure, typography a lil' & trying to encompass a short story. It’s another about a woman that lucid dreams & thinks & blends realities to make for a playful landscape that’s all her own beauty. In particular, she is struggling to describe a feeling, a new emotion just discovered by man & shes been tasked with defining it in one line which induces a dance in her mind.
Just a quick note after all these strange dreams taking place, which I like b/c I have a lot of say over the kingdom. I am also trying to play with form, build up, more obvious rhyming schematics & imagery that’s more post-impressionist
Every year I spend 11 months devoted to the lives of my clients & students. W/ my whole heart I relentlessly support the art & music & talent of others. July is 30 days …a time to finally heal & nurture my own soul & work. Not selfish I hope, just needed so I can make those 11 other months really count! Turned the pen in my direction & wrote this after I thought i was hallucinating hearts in the loo
finally working on concrete (or shape) poetry which is way harder then it looks!
this is a process piece for learning concrete poetry. I took a block of text & attempted to shape it
Listening to Bishop Briggs' The Fire & wrote out Lay Down To Rest, a poem for one of the most important people in my life & for others to read and be okay with some of life’s biggest pains because like that awful, cold pierce of a wild winter storm that bites in bad ways, in time, the snow will make more sense
Take on by NY based vocalist Junelle Perry with beats created by her 9 year old son. More to follow!