It was time. I bit the bullet until all I could taste was metal, but maybe that was the rust in my mouth from my teeth serrating my tongue. I have a duffle bag packed. Who knew my whole life could fit in a bag? The clothes were nothing, but packing away my crystals and tarot cards, that was when my eyes began to grow wet and puffy. I snatched my favorite photograph off the clothesline it hung from. The room began to tilt as though I had just gotten off a carousel.
I was doing it.
I couldn’t look back.
I had slipped a note inside of her favorite book so she’d see it before she settled in for the night. It was like pressing dried flowers between the pages. I put another note on the leftover Pad Thai she’d reheat when she got home from her shift at the hospital. I kept fidgeting withthe ring she had bought me last year for my birthday. My legs were restless as I sat at the bus stop.
All these people coming and going, and I still felt alone.
My lips were dry but tasted of fear. I did not know how to cry, but my heart drummed like it was sore. I didn’t know anyone in Montreal, but that was the point.
The terminal grew quiet, and I could have sworn I heard her whisper my name. It was like a pair of butterfly wings fluttering together. Her lips buzzed with the familiar sound, and I turned my head at the sound. A ladybug sat on my shoulder, its antennae twitching like it was sending telegraphs, using wires and needles. I never felt at home in my own skin, but today, my body was a map, the veins riddled with roads.
My handkerchiefs are stained as though I have been suffering tuberculosis all my life, but instead of blood staining the cotton a crimson Rorschach test,
it is the black of India ink.
She pressed a needle into my skin, and I think the color seeped into my bones. Now, I am fated to spill ink wherever I go.
My scribblings have found home with me (like shadows, like fireflies inside of a Mason jar).
Even when I was locked inside of a cellar, threatened with the rust of blood and the tarnish of my reputation, I carved poems into my mutilated flesh.
A dragon guarded my door, false love glimmering in his eyes (lust poisoning his tongue, naïveté curling around me
like a lonesome lover).
The taste of gasoline numbed my soul and left me begging for an exorcism. (I never knew the Latin word for surrender, yet I pleaded with the demons for the fruit of knowledge.
Desired for them to vacate this hollow body, but they traveled the miles to remind me.)
The more ink I spill, the softer their wailing becomes until their keening is their own elegy.
I will never forfeit these words again.
(I will not neglect them like a surrendered child because some call them an obsession.)
I might never shatter the walls of this foreign heart, but give me a fountain pen and I’ll wield it like a sledgehammer.
The last poet in my poetry spotlight is Carlene Gist or “T.C.” Not to make Carlene self-conscious, but she is the oldest poet I interviewed in this series and has a broad range of experience. Named after her father, Carlene is the first born of seven children and was born and raised in Detroit, Michigan. In her own words, this poet says, “Poetry is a genre of writing that I’ve always admired. While in the first grade, I committed to memory and recited “The Night Before Christmas”, for the Christmas play. I’ve been writing but mostly reading poetry since then. Acting, singing and dancing are a few of my favorite things. I went from beating on tabletops to beating on the djembe, which is something I do to center myself. I hope one day to be a published poet.”
You have witnessed several historical events throughout your years as both a person and a poet. Do you find that current events shape your writing, and if so, how? What kind of events propel you to write poetry?
Being born in the late ’40s, I’ve seen a lot. Current events most definitely influence my sentiments when expressing myself through the written word. Poetry, to me, is one way of expressing one’s feelings and perspectives. I can find poetry in almost anything if I but just be still and observe. I find myself stirred by events that display man’s inhumanity to man on any level.
How has your writing changed over the years?
I used to write only poems that rhymed and a lot of love poems. I now write in free verse and about a variety of subjects. I also like writing haiku.
What influence does being a spoken-word poet play on the way you craft your poems?
I know that poetry, as all forms of art, is subjective. I do give effort in trying to find the most effective words and weave them in a manner that might help the audience receive the sentiment I am aiming to convey.
What poet, living or dead, would you like to meet and have dinner with? What would you serve your special guest?
Edgar A. Poe; Kahlil Gibran; Henry W. Longfellow; Paul L. Dunbar; Langston Hughes; Maya Angelou, to name a few. I would have said my peer, Nikki Giovanni. After hearing Amanda Gorman recite her poem “The Hill We Climb”, I would love to sit, chat, and break bread with her. I’m interested in what the younger generation has to say. I believe pizza might work.
What are your favorite aspects of your own poetry?
I like the way I’ve been able to provoke one to think about what I’m trying to convey.
When do you usually write your poetry?
Usually at the midnight hours-between midnight and three a.m.
What do you do when you experience writer’s block?
It’s really tough for me to start a flow when I’m experiencing writer’s block. Prompts, music, or just write what flows through me and edit later.
It
Written before the new time of 9 min. and 29 sec.
"It" looks into the camera. I watch Knee on neck, hands tucked comfortably in pockets Some might say cavalier, I say eviler A cold and icy stare. My eyes feel frostbitten, they hurt. I sense danger. Like an ostrich who buries their eggs in the sand Like an ostrich who senses danger and can’t run. I bury my head in my hands. I feel not better but safer Can I fear what I can’t see? Under the covers a child will hide for fear of the boogeyman Two minutes pass, spread my fingers and peek. My heart races, as pressure rises. “It” is still there, knee on neck hands comfortably in pockets. Under my covers I retreat. Bury my head in my hands a little longer this time. Hoping this time “it” will surely be gone. Three more minutes pass and “it’s” not gone yet. Still there, icy stare, knee on neck, hands tucked comfortably in pockets. Hugging my pillow tight, I start sweating and crying. A fearful child becomes so scared it will call for their mother. They trust and believe Mother, the person who witnessed them take their first breath is able, and will save them from taking their last if she can. Sounds of voices unfamiliar to me, I decide to peek and see. I’m petrified I can’t breath, “it” won’t leave. Why must “it” torture me so long? Three minutes seems like three hours I’ve waited for “it” to cease. Eight minutes now, seems like eight days of holding my breath , suffocating under my covers. They say fear leads to hate and hate to destruction Forty-six seconds later “it” is still there but George Floyd is not. Mother came to get him. I slowly lift my head out of my hands and start to breathe again. -Carlene Gist
These love songs wallpaper my heart and smother my sleep.
(This insomnia takes the best of me and churns out poetry instead of rest.)
I am stupid with love, my tongue too thick with desire to be profound. I’d give up every dream I ever dreamed to be with you (and to see what illuminates your eyes like moon).
I know all the beauty the world has to offer, yet all I can do is shelter myself (in a cellar crafted of words).
I have buried myself in this tomb for too many years, and when I finally emerge, my words are bombs. We are starting afresh, and only roses & dreamers are allowed second chances.
I haven’t dreamed in years. This restless sleep haunts me and I wander these courtyards like a ghost. (In my memories, we drove for hours, your hand on my knee, humming the songs we loved.)
Tell me the grass is greener. I’ll gladly hop the fence to be with you, but tell me: will you still hold my hand on the other side?
Always keep me close even when I push you the farthest from me you could ever be.
My heart isn’t cold merely because it is distant. (The stars are how many miles away, yet they burn.) I haven’t dreamed in years.
I need you more than your witnessing eyes can see. Maybe perhaps once I visualize these things like you do, I can return to dreaming.
In less than an hour-and-a-half, I’m participating in A.R.K. Horton’s release party for Flirting with the Tempest on Facebook!
Interested? Join her Facebook group (A.R.K. Horton’s Adventurers Club) now and you can join in the fun, plus take a chance at winning an autographed copy of Phobia! from me.
Some fun news for those of you who are on Facebook: I’m participating in a fellow fantasy author’s release party. A.R.K. Horton has written two books in her Telverin trilogy. I’m excited to be a part of this special day!
The second one, Flirting with the Tempest, is being released on Wednesday, March 31st, and I will be a part of her celebration. From 1:30 to 2:30 p.m. CST, I will be sharing snippets of my writing, playing games, and more in her Facebook group.
I did it! I did the podcast interview for What the Book? I know, I know, you all are clamoring to hear the sweet, smooth voice of Isabelle Palerma, and I do not want to disappoint.
I’ll share the link here. I had a blast doing it and would love to do it again.
