Mastication:

My affairs of the heart and my writing have become inextricably intertwined. Although I refuse any attempt at ownership by another human being, I gladly sink my teeth into the very heart of the word pictures I create, hanging on like grim death. Who is feeding what?

cold, dark, proprietary heart

like an anglerfish

mating

 

After too much pushing and tugging the heart becomes stretched and thin and develops tears, rents, holes in its own story. Perhaps it is this which renders me incapable of accepting a lover’s words at face value.

after the butchering

rendering down the fat of love

into tears

Chewing up terror and spitting out words the heart seeks meaning in emptiness. My greatest fear is that the words will be, ultimately, senseless. Nothing comes from nothing.

now the sky is quiet

grey light filters the sound of thoughts

into dreams

 

Assimilation:

I think I was a druid in a past life. Trees are essential to the heart of my writing and so I waver between guilt over using so much paper and the absolute necessity of writing things down.

core of the tree

the foliage of my poetry

piling up dead

There’s something about the quality of light that can change the mood of my poetry at any given moment from elation to despair. The cold white sky of winter continually brings me up and then lets me down.

my heart fading

I reach for the sun like a venus

flytrap, preying

The wind and the rain tempt me to take shelter wherever I can but the fires of human nature force me back out into the teeth of the storm to try and write myself warm.

the heart lies bruised and rotting

overripe fruit

fallen far from the tree

 

Rebirth:

My fountain pen writes shimmering words on cheap paper while I sip my beer and inhale stolen cigarettes. Cold foam, hazy smoke-filled darkness, borrowed conversations – all grist for the poet’s mill.

many-colored tigers

leap from imagination

soft as the sun

Gaia slips out of the darkness and guides my hand to the edge of a creek. Dipping into waves I weave the words of trees and fish.

I swim lightly through

word’s leaves on sun-flecked rivers

like a speckled trout

The summer solstice swallows the moon and lights the fires of the sun and of my imagination. I scrabble in the grass for the words – the heart of this madwoman – seeking sanity.

consumption of darkness

brings forth light

I shed raiment and wear the sky