October is usually saturated with pink for breast cancer awareness, but October is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month. The purple ribbon always reminds me of the line of bruises his knuckles left on my stomach.
I try to speak about my abuse broadly so not to trigger any survivors, but please read with caution if this topic is a sensitive one for you.
I am a survivor. I was only with him for less than a year, but that type of abuse knows no timeline. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been with a person. This type of abuse, like most, thrives in the dark and the shadows.
Some people ask me why I share my story. I’ve been accused of using my status as a survivor to garner sympathy, but this is just a page in my memoirs – not the entire story. The reason I share it is to bring awareness to the problem. To show people how it can happen to anyone.
I thought I was smart enough not to let it happen to me. I thought, I’m educated, I’m smart. I’ll leave if it ever gets too bad. But what I didn’t realize was the dangerous hold an abuser has over you.
It’s been over a decade, and I still have nightmares. I don’t know if they will ever go away, but I do know I saved a shard of one of the plates he threw at my head to remind myself that I’d never put myself in that situation again.
It wasn’t just physical. It was mental and sexual and financial. I no longer could afford to leave him. I was trapped.
Getting out was dangerous, but I needed to escape if I was going to live and for months, I was looking over my shoulder, constantly vigilant.
If you are in an unsafe relationship and need resources, I have some available here.
White knuckle it, and the pain still sears through these autumnal bones. Crumble them like my skeleton has memory. It hasn’t forgotten the calendar days piling up (as thick as novels).
It’s time to start spitting matchsticks and not caring about the consequences (the aftermath) of fire.
My ears, stuffed with cotton, muffle the sound of silent, blood-curdling screams. I have crushed tears into my palm and have screamed silently into lungs of shower stalls (yet the world still whirls as though I were flung off a carnival ride).
I wasn’t being coy when I said “no”. I was being adamant. My teeth marks in your shoulder blade should serve as a reminder.
I will punch through glass with words alone. No amount of duct tape, super glue, will repair the realms destroyed.
Memories are like binge drinking. I wake up with my throat burning. (The ghosts wail outside my house, rattling the windows and causing the rafters to shudder. Begging to be let in.)
He mistook my empty for hollow and tried to fill me when I was merely seeking fulfillment.
Another left shadows form-fitted to my figure, lying, saying I was just an angel slut falling when really, a shove sent me flying. (The truth tastes as rusty as nails and goes down just as smoothly.)
He lied to me about the taste of electricity, claiming it was a needle to a vein. And all I ever wanted was the stars to be bright enough, I never needed a neon sign again in this town.
These memories are skyscrapers, and these skyscrapers are leveled by volcanoes. (And now, I am soaring like a phoenix, above the rubble, taking me beyond the landscapes I once knew.) No longer do I care about where these matchsticks may land, nor who may scorched by the words that sear.
I remember tasting the tobacco shored in your lungs, and you had the courage to tell me my auburn hair smelled of a bonfire.
I once vowed a dress I owned would forever smell of rain and my ink-stained fingertips would fidget – restless with memories, but now, when I cradle myself to sleep, my eyes are empty.
I no longer name the silhouettes that landscape my bare walls or dance along my broken skeleton bones.
I remember when my brittle skin was scented like my favorite library, but no one picks up an abandoned tome when the ink that travels the pages is nothing more than a smudge and ashy dots.
I am an empty teacup in a house that is haunted with your name. When I reread the letters you wrote me, shards of glass glitter along voids of thought, threatening to lacerate the emptiness. To puncture the silence where memories once towered like infernos.
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
In her own words, the poet LowKey says this: “I go by the name LowKey. I write about anything and everything that stirs me enough to want to pick up the pen. Blessed with an attention span of a goldfish, the brevity of my literary work comes as a given. Simple yet effective is my writing mantra.”
LowKey writes poetry that hearkens back to more traditional poets, yet has a distinct style all its own. Whether it is one of her short pieces or a longer work, she stops to make readers of her poetry think and contemplate the content of her works. They are a reflection of the world we live in, both our interior realms and the external.
When did you first discover that you were a poet? What was that experience like?
When I was around 18. It was more of a “okay, so I think I can write poems” than a “aha! me is a poet!” I remember being pretty nervous when I asked my mum to have a read. She is an amazing writer and poetry is her thing. I saw her eyes welling up as she was reading the piece. I think that was the first time I realized how my words could actually impact people. It was empowering, humbling, liberating, all at once.
What are some of your favorite subjects to write about? What inspires you to write poetry?
I think the darker shades of human emotions is what I like to explore and write about. We as a society present ourselves in a neatly wrapped package with a red bow around it. What goes on underneath that shimmery wrap is something we usually shy away from or deny. So that is what I love to discover through the words I pen. I think pain inspires me to write the most. I know that might sound a bit whack, but some of the best creative pieces I have written have been from when I was in a dark place. Maybe it is because my need to lean on creativity to express myself is the most during those times.
If you could spend the afternoon with another famous author or poet, who would you choose and why?
Has to be Sir Walter de la Mare, although he isn’t amidst us anymore. He is my absolute favorite. The way he built an entire atmosphere around the reader with his words is beyond amazing. From his poems, he seems to have been pretty intense and quiet. It would be fascinating to see what he really was like.
What is your favorite aspect of writing poetry? What is your least favorite?
I think the healing that comes from writing, regardless of the form of writing is my most favorite aspect. The least favorite aspect is someone out there always does it better and you go, “Damn! why didn’t I think of that!!?”
How did you discover your style of poetry? How did you find your voice as a poet?
I feel like every writer has something unique to offer that might be lost if one tries to emulate. I think “inspired” would be the right word for me here. I like subtlety. I always have. So when I began writing, it was something that came naturally to me.
What advice do you have for poets who are just beginning their careers as poets?
Be honest and unfiltered. Creativity is where you can just let go. So, make the most of it. Most importantly, don’t be swayed by the negativity that your readers might hurl at you. As long as you keep your “writer conscience” clear, it’s all good.
Do you think shorter poetry is easier for readers to digest? What influence has social media had on your writing style, if any?
Oh yes! I am not sure about the digest part, but people nowadays definitely prefer brevity. Social media fortunately has not affected the way I choose to express myself through my writing. The reason I said fortunately is because it is so easy to be engulfed and affected by social media in this day and age. From creating pressure to making you doubt yourself to making you lose your originality because you have fallen prey to trends, social media can take away the voice that it so freely provides as well.
Who are your favorite poets to read?
Beside Sir Walter de la Mare and your pieces, I really like reading Edgar Allan Poe and J. Andrew Schrecker.
Little Tommy, five years old Sat with Grandpa and learnt to fold Colored papers, ribbons, and casks Into little party masks.
Birthday masks and ballroom faces Held together with glue and laces Funny, scary, bold and rude Different masks for different mood.
“Why do people hide their skin Behind a veil, so weak and thin? Tell me, Grandpa, if you can,” Tommy asked his grand old man.
Grandpa smiled, a smile of lime. “People do it all the time, Scared to come out in the bright They keep their true self out of sight.”
“They coat all bitterness with sugar and honey- They cover their sins with grey black money; The colorful masks cover their lives, But their real self reflects in their eyes.”
“No mask ever made can cover the mirrors That show perfectness and all errors; The greatest gift of God, no lies, All truth surfaces in one’s eyes.”
“So, be true to your own self, You’ll need no mask, you’ll need no help- Let your face reflect the love That He showers down from Heaven above.”
“Be honest, and love mankind- These things these days are hard to find; One by one, these steps will grace And make the world a happier place.”
Isabelle Palerma 