“Write your own blackout poem. Maybe you’ll find something of interest in the Internet Archives.”
According to Claire McNerney, from The Writing Cooperative, “blackout poetry is a form of found poetry where the poet takes a text and removes words from it, creating a new text”.
Here’s mine:
“The Woman who Couldn’t Die”
She looked like a goddess, no doubt, in another way, she seemed very much a woman. She was primitive, casual in her childlike uncovering of her body, in the unconcern of the eyes of others when she bathed. She knew that she was beautiful; and she had knowledge of the power of beauty.
She watched a wild goose fly overhead, watched it as it disappeared from sight. “Tell me,” she said, “where did I come from?”
Needling of apprehension through my body. How much she should be told was not easy to determine. “From across the sea.” “It must have been long ago.” “Yes. It was long ago.”
Slice through the heart of me and wonder why I feel so raw. There’s bleeding somewhere, and yet I’m still searching for the cut. I’ll seek out the scars, but I didn’t know I was the one clinging to the knife.
“In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.”
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I transcribed messages from Cupid onto your skin in lazy patterns. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I wrote you sonnets for each season your heart quivered. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I drank of the light that glimmered from your gazes. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I followed the pattern of your gait and translated it into a message only Morse himself could understand. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I took lessons in elocution, so I could speak your name in the most divine way. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I tasted the nectar of your cologne to better ache for your touch when you weren’t near. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I memorized poems to whisper into the moonlight to send off so you could still hear me – even when I wasn’t near. I wasn’t a lover; I was in love. I always did love you, even before the words cascaded from my lips.
Taylor Schwedux is an Australian self-taught artist and poet residing in Germany with her husband. Her journey into writing began at a young age, during primary school, where creative writing was one of her favorite activities—even in her free time. Over the years, she transitioned from many creative writing mediums, through songwriting to poetry.
Do you have any rituals when you write?
I do actually! When I sit down to write and want to focus, I refill my water bottle or make a tea on the side to drink, listen to lo-fi kind of music or music that helps to conjure ideas. There are some on YouTube I’ve come across where it sounds like you’re writing in a moving train or at a café. During these times, I also set timers. I may do a 30-45 minute session like this, or sometimes I could go over 2 hours just writing, turning off all the timers because I’ve been really in the zone with it, and my mind is burning with ideas.
Are there any particular poets who inspired you to write poetry?
Upon the first few poems I wrote when I was 13-19 and reworked for the book, I was heavily influenced by William Shakespeare’s sonnets. I had a lot of schoolwork surrounding Shakespeare and his plays. Also, not to mention – Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Oscar Wilde and Robert Frost.
What emotions are hardest for you to write about with great honesty?
As sad as this may sound, I find writing about happiness the hardest. Happiness to me is not always as universal as sadness or grief can be. When I’m sad, I find writing is the one thing I go to; when I am happy, I tend to live in that happy moment and not write about it was that made me happy.
Since a lot of your poetry seems to be autobiographical, does it ever worry you to share it with others?
Honestly, before publishing I had fears of being misunderstood for how different my life and upbringing is to a lot of people who never had that. It was the opposite for me, I felt a relief, as if weight was being lifted off my shoulders as I set my book out into the world. (Explain why I went ahead and published and why being misunderstood never stopped me).
I read a lot of poetry prior to it being published, especially more modern ones and seeing their works made me feel as though I can do this as well.
What does your first draft of a poem look like?
It definitely leans towards the messy type. I have poems written in my phone notes app, in a writing book, on my PC notes and even at times, scraps of paper If my phone isn’t near me. Thankfully, I keep my scraps of paper in a plastic sheet and go through it as soon as I can , rewriting what I wrote into my book.
When do you usually feel inspiration strike?
Inspiration can strike for me at any time, and sometimes being 3am, in the middle of being in a deep sleep needing to quickly write something on my phone notes. Sometimes when I’m out and about, something may catch my eye or I hear someone say something I will write it down and also a tiny description of what happened, what I heard or saw; to help with documentation of the inspiration.
If you could seal any one line from a poem in a message in a bottle, what would it be?
I think the poem “Dreams” from Langston Hughes is what I’ll seal into a bottle. “Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly…”
Fire With Fire
To fight fire with fire, Or to extinguish the flame? Oh, how I love to play this dangerous game— Me against the dancing blaze. I feed my sorrow to the embers, Watch them crackle, twist, and grow, As the fire slowly learns what it needs to know. To fight fire with fire Or to extinguish the flame? Perhaps it’s this question, That’s bound me to this game.
It’s easy to think someone else is the master of our circumstances – a puppeteer and we’re marionettes, strings tugged on. But if I were in charge of my own strings for a change, perhaps I would cross a few things off my list – not my to-do list, but my bucket list.
Instead of going grocery shopping, I’d go zip lining in the jungle. Instead of writing poetry in my room, I’d be performing it on a stage. Instead of being a coward, I’d be brave. Instead of loving, I’d make love in the rain.
I never wished to be hollow. I never wished to be empty. & yet, somewhere along the way, I lost sight of free will, and I gave my keys to a different master. Somewhere along the way, I surrendered myself and nobody found the heart to tell me I could be anything I want. I just need to rediscover my free will.
This is the beginning of restored sight. The start of a rediscovery.
Isabelle Palerma 