POEMFLESH2: RESURRECTION

Winter-Soul Triolet {OSI}

2012-01-13T09:15:00.000-08:00

Drowsy in late winter.
My soul shivers and sighs.
Stoking my spiritual center
Drowsy in late winter.
Listening to my Muse, my mentor.
I kiss the blues goodbye.
Drowsy in late winter.
My soul shivers and sighs.

Cynthia

Paper Muse, Mirror Me

2011-10-16T18:26:00.000-07:00

My pen pirouettes,
Onto the flesh of my Muse.
Shivers along her heated white aura~
Pen-to-paper we mesh our spirits.
No longer an island, I'm kissed with her poems.

Cynthia M.

OSI

hay[na]ku

2011-10-08T02:50:00.000-07:00

tasting
his mind
increases my appetite

Cynthia M.

If

2011-10-02T17:26:00.000-07:00

If, he faces a little to the left
he can hear her voice, her words
thread into his tattered seams.

Seduce him past bright dawns found
within the heart of her embrace.

And if he sits doll-like-still, the
sheer curtains slap his face with
psalms of forever until he becomes
drowsy with desire

imagining her ruthless kisses.

Cynthia M.

onesingleimpresssion

pray bliss come

2011-09-17T17:12:00.000-07:00

In our window
is a whisper
of loveliness
untold

Warm hands
seduce my timidity
imprison each breath-less denial

Your love for me:
a birdsong sifting sky
across this meadow.

Cynthia

Penelopes' Heart

2011-09-07T10:45:00.001-07:00

An abandoned wife weeps and dips, her heart

is heavy under the sway of long days.
She feels mocked my the moons' knowing observation.
Her life eroded by the humid days that lap against
spine of her need.

Her only companion, the nights' quiet breathing.

Cynthia

Safe in Dreamland

2011-08-24T20:45:00.000-07:00

sleeping
deeply
lost in dreamland
soothed by the sound
of your soft breathing

escaping your parted lips
wordless poems
the music of: once upon a time
whispers to my shy heart
previously unknown
now known
each night in your arms

Cynthia

wake-up

2011-08-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

a nation gasps
as viable solutions
go mute.

Hi- Please leave the title of your fav. poem. C~

A POETS' MIND

2011-08-11T15:26:00.000-07:00

PLEASE SHARE ONE or TWO of YOUR FAVORITE POEMS ~

1. The Dream, Louise Brogan - rec. by Poemflesh2.
2. In Broken Images, - rec. by Anonant.
3. And Death Shall Have No Dominion, Dylan Thomas - rec. by Moet & Medusa.
4. Anti-Christ and Barcodes, David Tibet [linked] rec. by Pouting Bear
5. Lesbos, Sylvia Plath [linked] - rec. by Pouting Bear.
6. Sex Without Love, Sharon Olds - rec. by Crinkled Dress
7. Here is the Spring, Dylan Thomas - rec. Sheilagh Lhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
8. How do I Love Thee,Elizabeth B. Browning - rec. Sheilagh Lee
9. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost - rec. Ovis
10. Mindful, Mary Oliver - Kim Nelson
http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/mary_oliver/poems/15853

WedNESdayS' cHilD

2011-08-10T05:18:00.000-07:00

aiko's journal:

my heart is immune
to jon's wildness,
i drench him with shy sonnets
that unwillingly radiate from this
heart i thought had died.

cynthia

WEdneSdaY'S cHiLd

2011-08-03T06:31:00.000-07:00

Faith's Diary

A comet struck the shelter.
His zealot eyes pierced mine.
Sunlight appeared, sunlight on crack.
Crazy reds with long fingers. I had
a dose of reality that night;
As his mouth struck my mouth
again and again.

Cynthia M.

TouCH - {bluebell prompt}

2011-08-01T07:39:00.000-07:00

her flesh,
a lonely beach
she yearns to be touched
instead, hot tears
like soft rain becomes music
to her pain
each night

fills her heart
pouring into her soul~
tells her heart's story

where love should be
insecurity holds her
her joy
hoping to be
fed

Cynthia

Summer 'Ku

2011-07-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

*

sunflower happy
brown and yellow babies play
pure hearts reap JoY

CyNthIA M.

Jouissance

2011-07-27T09:16:00.000-07:00

Her soul anchored in simile
banters with her flesh for fresh metaphors.
As her plump heart fumbles with smokey love
sprinkled upon her like hematite beads bracelet-
ing their way around her throat, filling her up
inside until she overflows brimming with joy;
all this joy for two people borne of just one glance.

CyNthIA M.
3WW

Tanka

2011-07-23T14:57:00.000-07:00

*

Early morning sun
plays upon our bed, offers
a haunting quality
jiggles fresh tears
from my tired eyes

CyNthIA

On Being a Female Poet

2011-07-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

... While the canopy bed hums and quivers to
the breath of the wind's spirit. Musing
some funny kind of love that bends like
a distressed ballerina at dusk's feet,
bends but never breaks... the poet writes and
writes ... forever and ever amen.

CyNthIA

I Wonder As I Flower ...

2011-06-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

We were told her house is a holy mess,
Where flowers wilt in throes of distress.
Wait patiently for a reprieve.
Each flower ponders: will I be pressed or finely sieved?
Perhaps she'll float as Ophelia 'til I sigh.
Moistening her knuckles on my languid goodbye.

My petals transfixed in lacquered decoupage,
A timeless piece kept in her ladies lodge.
Maybe I'll adorn her favorite pastry,
On her tongue ever so tasty.
Lovingly swallowed without undue haste.
At last, I see what my flowery fate shall be~
As Madam reaches for her hidden key.

Her coveted cache on her bureau, teasingly ajar.
My gaze captured as Madam retrieves her silken bar.
Refreshing our vase she softly bumps my trembling stem.
Madam, gently whips me up and places me upon her moist hem.
Slowly smiling she caresses the length of me,
Allowing me to nap upon the pages of her cherished diary.

CynthiA Marie

3WW

double hay[na]ku

2011-06-15T10:39:00.000-07:00

Open Up

Prefer
to grip
threads of forgiveness ~
live
in joy
of unfettered Love.

Cynthia Marie
6.14.11

3WW

Triolet

2011-06-03T07:00:00.000-07:00

Soul Satisfaction ~

One night he uncovered her soul.
One by one each precious cell at a time.
Patiently kissing open each fold.
One night he uncovered her soul.
With an ear to her heart, secrets were told.
He listens with care; her spirit no longer pines.
One night he uncovered her soul.
One by one each precious cell at a time.

Cynthia M.

Share a Fetish

2011-05-12T09:02:00.000-07:00

Of Yours, If you Dare ~

my current fetish
has become
items that easily
show stains

a pale yellow chiffon
scarf
wrapped around my neck
fluid and submissive
as an enraptured lover

everytime I use her
she must be hand washed
[which is new for me
'cause I hate handwashing
anything]

*
there
is a
stain lusting to

become
more, sinking
into my life.

~ now yours... come on fess up

Writing Self

2011-05-05T09:41:00.001-07:00

flushed
and open
to the light

I swell to a
hidden need ~

my second-self
known

thoughts smudge
upon words as ashes
seduce a belladona tone.

Cynthia M.

[redux a la 2006]

Keep Writing Poetry in Your Journals -

2011-04-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

and I will do likewise..."poetry is not a luxury"

Haiku

2011-04-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

*
night quiet
fallen beneath the bridge
petals drown

Cynthia M.

Haiku

2011-04-23T09:23:00.000-07:00

*
delicate drops
of rain
easily sadden
my impatient
heart

Cynthia M.

Poem Five Is ...

2011-04-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

... napping over here ~ my other blog
http://www.69momentosoflove.blogspot.com
or simply go to About Me and Click
my other blog - 69momentosoflove
Happy Poeming!

Faith and Risk

2011-04-19T15:18:00.000-07:00

Love comes in
small doses of faith
held gingerly just above sunrise

Seeing beyond the sin
Into the heart
of a another's unwelcoming look
taking a risk, and then it begins

A season
of breathing alone
becomes a lifttime spent listening
to the very voice that echoes your spirit.

Cynthia M.

Poem3

2011-04-17T16:50:00.000-07:00

Swimming Lessons

Tender leaves fall
onto the melting snow
float with lost buttons and divorced gloves
Along the lake of life
We learn to swim

Cynthia M.

The Teddy Bear's Widow

2011-04-16T08:18:00.000-07:00

*
The fetish
surfaced
after the loss of my worn teddy bear,
autumn-fured with a secret smile.

Quiet and sweet he was
until my stepmom got her talons on him
and trashed dear Harry in the nearest bin.

Once my cries echoed off ~
I fell for books,
the soft ones full of weighted words.

Fanning the pages I ate the breath of each
new friend. Swallowing words and fantasies.
Eventually these encounters became a
way of life.

Cynthia M.

Poem I

2011-04-15T06:42:00.000-07:00

Making Night

Quiet
As night
As pen across paper
We move in tandem
You the moon
I the tide
Our bodies an ancient song.

Cynthia M.

POETRY MONTH

2011-04-14T08:42:00.000-07:00

Oopsie - April is Poetry Month !!!
The challenge across the blogsphere
is to write 30 poems in 30 days -
however, since I'm late, the challenge
is amended {in my mind} to 15 poems
by April's end.

CREATIONS MAGAZINE

2011-04-12T14:28:00.000-07:00

*******

Hello fellow poets and writers, also yoga and holistic health
afficiandos - CREATIONS MAGAZINE is a most excellent, informative
and uniquely cretive magazine.

CREATIONS MAGAZINE
is a bi-monthly publication. You may find
this loving, well-written publication at health food boutiques
as well as many colleges and libraries.

http://www.creationsmagazine.com/

Sixes and Sevens

2011-04-07T16:16:00.000-07:00

Dreaming Awake

She's forsaken in the folds
of a lonely afternoon,
Imprint of lips awaken her
scent of musk captures her breath,
a dream of love-making psalms
sweetens her kiss-tender breasts.

Cynthia M.

Six lines/Seven syllables per line
Sixes and Sevens Poem content:
Ethereal love and or sensuality, longing,
confusion, disarray or dangerous partners.

Pen a Sixes and Seven poem & leave a link to your blog.

EatLovePray

2011-03-23T10:08:00.000-07:00
Hi There - Yes finally!
Hey, wow, it's been a pretty wild yet illuminating winter
for me, so please excuse my lateness.
The two poets that touched me for the EatLovePray
theme are Some Girl of As I Write & Elizabeth from 1Sojournal.
And Lost Verses, just found your poem inside a comment - Thank you!

I don't have your email addresses and everything is up
side down please mail or leave your respective emails
in comments- so that I may send you little goodies.
Thank you for participating in EatLovePray, it meant a lot
to me before however, now in my life it means so much
more that some one[s] would reach out and actually
play along with me because of their honest love of writing.
Love you two poetry Angels for your patience and talent.
* Also a huge thank you to the other poets who were
kind of enough to humor me and join in.
And thank you to the three poets who actually wondered
where I was, or just emailed to talk about poetry
especially Annonant a special thank you to you.

Joy & Health,
Cynthia

The Patient and the Messiah Collaborate

2011-03-19T16:19:00.000-07:00
bruises implode
in her head
pain burned off the petrified grey

nude, inside a white room
the woman inhales
muffled against a pillow
fragrant with waiting

murmurs of fingertips
a tree felled
hysterical limbs slap grey boundaries

some female messiah shinesmiles
takes a stroll along the
still body
sits on the porch of this other female
lips gargle her patient's pain
spits the pith into a vase full

of blood-roses dripping
fat open mouths
waiting

to be filled

the aroma is overwhelming

CynthiaM.
3.19.11

rebel haiku {osi}

2010-10-17T07:00:00.000-07:00
*

sadness used
breaks the sadness of others ~
victorious, all

cynthia m.

http://www.onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

dreams of a wildflower: a tanka for OSI

2010-09-26T17:05:00.000-07:00
Sun's love makes me rise.
Vast fields will not tame my spirit.
Stale weeds become sweet.
The world pulled into my joy.
My fellow petals stand tall.

Cynthia M.
9/26/10

http://www.onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

EAT LOVE PRAY

2010-09-18T17:42:00.000-07:00
Here are several delish ELP entrees ~

Lost Verses
http://papierparquer.blogspot.com/2010/08/ill-wait.html

Crochet Lady

Consume the lost days
Hears wrapped in blissful longing
Thoughts toward heaven fly

Justin
http://thinkingwithanopenmouth.blogspot.com/2010/08-persumptive-error.html

Carina
http://carinapartofthemain.blogspot.com/2010/05/you-are.html

Some Girl
http://asiwroteoneday.blogspot.com/2010/09/say-goodbye-to-summer.html

1Sojournal {Elizabeth}
http://intuitivepaths.wordpress.com/2010/09/02/summer-of-feathered-graces/

Toi
http://graceonwater.blogspot.com/

* Links to your poems and haiku are still welcome.

Thank you all very much, I so appreciate your participation!
XoXo,
Cynthia

on being still

2010-08-22T12:53:00.000-07:00
drawing near
to your spirit
i am lit from within

Cynthia

http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

* EAT, PRAY, LOVE Summer/ Give-a-way!

2010-08-21T16:56:00.000-07:00
It's been an Eat, Pray Love Summer for me.

Eating in Little Italy, China Town & the Caribbean Corner.
Praying inside the brick, red doored little Gothic Church
nestled inside the ancient graveyard.
Loving a wonderful new person in my life.

I will write the specifics of my ELP summer beginning in September.

Share your Eat, Pray or Love scribblings by leaving a link to your blog.

Three sweet poets will receive a gift: a journal, a cloth slouch bag
and a bracelet. Along with Miss. Emily's family lasagna recipe.

* Leave a link to your poem, prose piece or journal entry, photograph, haiku
or collage about your EatLovePray summer. Ends September 30th.

night tanka

2010-08-12T10:46:00.000-07:00
the sky is empty
stars randomly thrown off
bereft of light
sleep becomes a cool cave
neither bliss nor death

Cynthia M.
8/10/10

Absence of Sanctuary

2010-08-05T20:59:00.000-07:00
haiku

feeble hands tremble
drink from the cup of self-doubt
your thoughts predict ruin

Cynthia
8-9-10

Intelligent Blogging -

2010-08-03T07:57:00.000-07:00
http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com/
http://babaylanpoetics.blogspot.com

Chain of Angels

2010-07-25T07:10:00.000-07:00
haiku

flocks of clouds wander
echo angels in distress
heaped upon my pysche

Cynthia
7.25

http://www.onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

Oops

2010-07-21T03:19:00.001-07:00
Eileen, Fly Girl I published comments from
each of you - but can't find the poem -----
if you did comment please contact me -
or if possible re-comment {a word?}
I seem to be losing some of my comments.

Cynthia

REBIRTH

2010-07-09T21:51:00.000-07:00
Thank you Calli for ordering my petite chapbook!
I will send one of my handcrafted bracelets Asap.

Read Calli here~
http://withinshadesofgreyexistsaplace.blogspot.com/

Order a chapbook {$3-} & receive a bracelet from me~
http://haynakupoetry.blogspot.com/

found, double hay[na]ku

2010-06-30T17:57:00.000-07:00
*

in
our attic
stacks of boxes

mother's
forgotten life
her voice escapes

smooth,
cold, stones
label me trespasser

Cynthia M.

source: awake in the dark, shira nayman
[random words from two pages]

Fairy Tale

2010-05-30T01:42:00.000-07:00
carnelian hair wilts
beneath a firey wind

portia plays dead
for a lost lover
heating the air
with torched breath

and lost verses

Cynthia

chained hay{na}ku

2010-05-09T10:15:00.000-07:00
*
shelf
doll so
still so broken

parts
of her
break for love

Cynthia
5.8

my tiny booklet Rebirth {$3-} of hay{na}ku + a unique bracelet

http://haynakupoetry.blogspot.com/

Nevine Sultan - Part One

2010-04-28T17:47:00.000-07:00
Nevine Sultan writes with a haunting
metaphysical quality that leaves each
reader breathlessly in wonder.

Midnight shakes the memory...

Cynthia: Nevine, do you keep a dream journal ?
Also, how often will a dream influence your poetry?

Nevine: I do keep a dream journal, and I've kept various
volumes of dream journals for many years. I call my dream
journal "Dreams and Deliriums", hence the name of my blog.
Dreaming is a great way for me to develop self-awareness
for finding our who I really am and not who I sometimes
think myself to be. I usually dream in color, but there is a
certain type of black and white dreaming that I sometimes
experience, like a cyanotype shade of dreams.

These dreams have a very concrete and harsh landscape, and I
often awaken from them with a new understanding of something
that puzzled or troubled me deeply. Many of my poems and other
writings are influenced by my dreams. But "Your Beautiful Face"
is, I think, the piece of writing most influenced by my dream.
I started writing this piece as a poem, but the thoughts poured
out too quickly for me to form them into coherent and structured
poetry, so I went with a stream-of-consciousness exercise instead.

Cynthia: Your poety has a labyrinth quality. Mysterious and
compelling. Each line seduces the reader deeper into some other
supernatural world. Is it difficult to "come-out"of your poems
after writing them? Nevine, have you ever become lost inside
of your own poem? Also, have you ever solved a mystery
through one of your dreams?

Nevine: I am often inside my own head. I am a dreamer by
nature, and even when I'm awake, I prefer to live inside my
dream world and look at life through my rose-tinted glasses.
And it's interesting you should ask if I've ever solved a mystery
through my dreams, because I've done this many times.
I'll go back to "Your Beautiful Face", as an example. I knew
something was wrong at home before I learned the facts.
I cried over what my subconscious new had happened because
I had seen it in my dream. And yet, in my awakened state I
didn't understand why I was crying, exactly. There was a
darkness inside my soul, but I was afraid to acknowledge it.

I also had a similar experience with a dream about a family
friend. In my dream his face was ruby red and his eyes were
bulging like he was choking. And then he reached up and
clenched the left side of his chest with both hands. The next
morning I learned he suffered a heart attack the previous
evening. And this is not psychic ability. This is just a subcon-
scious with developed levels of awareness and communication.

Experience Nevine's poem Your Beautiful Face ~
http://nevine-sultan.blogspot.com/2009/11/your-beautiful-face.html

Cynthia: Nevine we both are enamored with the same
movies. Movies of obsessive love: Vertigo, Lolita, The English
Patient. Nevine, do feel that love that renders the soul
helpless, that becomes unforgettable, must have a quality
of the illicit, or perhaps never physically consummated
{at least not very often in the relationship} to obtain an
obsessional level?

Nevine: I believe unattainable love, by its very nature,
becomes a subject of obsession. This is almost inevitable
because it is so implicit to us humans to desire and crave
what we know we can't have. I do think that illicit and/
or obsessive love can be consummated, but in most cases
the consummation of such love demands deviant or in the
least, frowned upon behaviors according to normal
social standards.

*Rhapsody on a Windy Night, T.S. Eliot

read Nevine's mind-altering poetry here:

http://nevine-sultan.blogspot.com/

Hay{na}ku for Haiti

2010-04-22T20:58:00.000-07:00
my tiny booklet REBIRTH is available for $ 3.00

HERE - http://haynakupoetry.blogspot.com/

For $ 3.00 ~ You Can make a contribution
to an important cause - Through Meritage Press.
[Click the above link for the address]

* You will receive one of my delicate bracelets
when you order a booklet.

Thank you!
Cynthia

night door

2010-04-18T03:02:00.000-07:00
*

Night
shade butterfly
fills the sky

bedroom
lit with
small graces

waters
the memory
alive in dreams

Cynthia M.

Forget-me-nots

2010-04-10T14:08:00.000-07:00
Open on the desk, Kafka
takes flight in his little bucket
the drops of ink he spills while becoming aloft
form the profile of a woman with a swan's neck
breakable...
Gently crumbled forget-me-nots softly sing, their blue and yellow faces
upturned in hopeful unison
buoyed by the heavy crystal vase, eager to her justice.
I trace your smooth shank, school-girlishly admire you
unclothed,
My lips here and there, my mind everywhere and madly
advancing...
Sylvia on my lap, again, I try to understand her, cannot.
No room for suicide in my imagination not now.
While i'm hung up on the exquisite hot tiny deaths
that burst inside me each time you
breathe my name.
.......

Cynthia M.

*** Originally published in the poetry journal 42 Opus.

Catherine Mark-Beasant

2010-04-03T12:04:00.000-07:00
The Disciplined Art of Creative Writing.

~ Catherine is a poet and prose writer whose writing
never fails to touch us. Her pen delves deep into the
heart of the emotional despair and ecstasies that
are inherent within all humans as works-in-progess.

Cynthia: Catherine, your prose is exquisite. Do you feel
the MFA programs have a paradigm set in stone and that
writers are redefined to adhere to this standard? Also,
if the poet's isn't a confident writer there is a chance of
the poet's own style not evolving into his/her own voice?

Catherine: Cynthia, thank you fo such a generous
introduction. This is quite a tricky question and I don't
think there is necessarily a right or wrong in whether one
chooses to utilise the experience and exposure of MFA
in their structure. However, I do think that different
programs will suit different types of writers, for example
some writers would respond better to a more flexible
approach while others might be suited better to the
more structured method. I feel it is important to do the
groundwork to find a course that matches your needs,
goals and objectives as a writer. In the main, I believe
you get out of the MFA program what you choose to
get out of it. Personally, I am a firm believer that to
master any discipline you need a good grounding and
knowledge in that discipline. In my opinion the MFA
program can provide a platform for acquiring that
knowledge through a process of analysis and critical
thinking. I have found that this course of study rather
than redifining me into a different writer has quite
simply enabled me to find my 'persona and voice'
as a writer [though in my mind, there is a tenable link
between 'redefining and the 'finding'] Therefore, as
much as my experience has been a positive one. I do
believe to be a quality writer you have to be a quality
reader. And, I guess the MFA program has worked for
me because it has encouraged me to read, read, read.

Coming from a non-literary background the
MFA has built my confidence as a bona fide writer
and honed by writing skills. To such an extent that
I would like to pursue a PhD in Creative Writing
after this MA as I would combine lecturing at my
University with the ongoing process of seeking
publication. Hence, I see the MFA as a valuable
investment to my writing, career aspirations.

Cynthia: Please share with the readers a typical day
in the MFA program.

Catherine: The breakdown of the MA/Poetry:

Writing Workshops [20 credits] involves working on
your own writing and submitting it for peer critique.

Reading PoetryI [20 credits] looking at modern poets
and their works; reflecting on how it might inform
your own writing.

Reading PoetryII [20 credits] looking at contemporary
poets and their works; and reflecting on how it might
infor your writing.

Text Portfolio II [20 credits] producing a portfolio via
a series of excerises, for example, a synopsis, a dust-
jacket/cover text, an author biography, etc.

Transmission Portfolio [40 credits] an independent
research unit that allows students to explore a
specific or different text form with an accompanying
critical essay.

Final Portfolio [60 credits] A complete poetry collection
of at least 1250 lines.

Another great support offered by the distance-learning
route at Manchester Metropolitan University is the
one-to-one tutorials where students have the wonderful
opportunity of 15 to 30 minutes of a professor's time to
give comment and feedback on submitted poems.
And of course, having portfolio supervision when working
on our final portfolios.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the academic rigor and
discipline of the MA process. The assessments have been
in the form of a critical and/or reflective essays, plus
the creative writing output. I particulary gained so much
from the Text Portfolio process as it focused my attention
on what it is I am trying to achieve with my work, in that
the main objective was to pitch our selves and work to
prospective agents and publishers.
The highlight has to be the Transmission Project where
I had the opportunity to explore the short story form
which I have found liberating and has become a strength
in my writing.
I spend about 10 - 12 hours a week on my creative
writing. Realistically, as much as I can manage with
around my full-time teaching job.

Cynthia: What is the poem, that as Emily Dickinson
writes "takes the top of your head off"?

Catherine: "No room has ever been as silent as the room/
Where hundreds of violins are hung in unison".
Terezin, by Michael Longley.

Thank you so much for this opportunity to share my
thoughts with your readers.

Cynthia: Thank you, Catherine for your detailed critique
into the MA/Poety Program. I can't wait to read a short
story collection authored by you.

*** Please refresh your spirit and read through the
heart-rendering poems written by Catherine on her blog-

http://walumba.blogspot.com/

* Catherine's short stories may be found here:

http://walumba.blogspot.com/search?q=short+story

The Thorn Rosary

2010-03-27T17:26:00.000-07:00
Eileen Tabios creates a world of wonder and grief
of ancient desires and present miracles. Enter-

http://marshhawkpress.org/

After reading The Thorn Rosary in a Weekend

shelterless
the mind
refuses to fade

words
softly sowed
in dusk-cloaked fields

compassion
weeps for
the denuded lover ...

Cynthia
3.10

murmurs

2010-03-14T07:03:00.000-07:00
days of rain
fill her
mind

with
murmurs she's
forgotten lost lullabies

he sung to her
playing her
flesh

like
a harp ~
she becomes his

ghost ...

Cynthia
3.14

prompt @ http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/ Ty!

& Ty! to Eileen for creating the hay{na}ku form which I am
having so much fun playing around with.

* Read Eileen's dialogue about poetry a hop & a skip below this.

double hay{na}ku

2010-03-06T19:24:00.000-08:00
his
sacred love
pools around my

frail heart till
all my sorrows
fall

Cynthia
3/6

http://haynakupoetry.blogspot.com

EILEEN TABIOS

2010-02-19T16:12:00.000-08:00
"Knowledge for knowledge's own sake
is the path I take as a poet", Eileen Tabios.

I feel honored to have this exceptional
poet grace Poemflesh2 with her poetry and insight.

1. Your poem "Reticence" captures my breath each
time I read her. There is this pleading with God,
the cruelty and beauty of life and with the poem,
to answer you. The interior life of your poem
edging towards knowledge, nudging, needling,
never quite giving it all up.

When a poem is certain, for me that's quite often
when it's least effective. And yet I write poetry
{partly} to discover knowledge. Those discoveries,
though, even when they add to what I know also
point to uncertainties and/or the unknowable.
What you call "silence" are perhaps what I write
as deliberate inabilities to connect dots within the
poem- I say deliberate because I often consider
such making of connections to be the reader's role,
not mine. What incremental knowledge I gain is
kept private, as such is subjective and I don't want
to get in the reader's way of making his/her/hir
own connections within and to the poem. The path,
of course, is also often the goal- and for a poem like
"Reticence", if it moves the reader as it moves you,
then a certain beauty was achieved and that more
than suffices for me as its author.

Let's have the poem speak for itself:

Reticence

Silence lengthens
scorpion's sting

nicked twice by
wordless "scare quotes"

the horizon
a mute{d} line

No fairy tale stallion
whipping a mane

into fringed
shawls

veiling
a sun's death

No sky torn
into strips

float-falling
as blue satin

ribbons
hemming a gown

never worn
dancing

in your arms
{music, for once,

not dissonant}
No wind

releasing cinnabar
or cinnamon

then rain
then sheen

of quicksilver
trapped in tubes

or "impressive gravel"
flickering amidst wet leaves

& another much-favored poem of mine by Eileen ~

Reticent

Acutally, I've long lost touch
with the definitions of certain words:

obscenity, blasphemy, sin, morality.
I had to lose their culpable narratives

to understand something else {like the
passion of spiders} whose color

burnt me to ash {but pretty ash}
which only made me ever more enamored

with its singular raiment- is that Egyptian
cotton with a thousand-thread-per-inch count?

This Word uplifts by destroying. No,
I am not thinking of "Poetry" or "Love."

This Word destroys in order to..
but never mind that Word. The

moral- moral? - I meant to share
is that I did not anticipate needing

to recover words I had disposed.
It seems I sacrificed the wrong curses

while exploring the significance of my tongue
so promiscuous if even penetrated the sacred

curls slipping from beneath your blinding halo.
Nonetheless, Dear Reticent One, other words

fail to replace the hummingbirds' drinking water
flavored with sugar. What stabs is that you will

never admit creating false idols with glimmer, gleen,
hint, wink. To be a second-generation Merleau-

Ponty is to be as pale and matte as "compromised."
That is sadness: my story that will never overlap with yours.

Let me fail to distract by noting my prayers for
the brown bird whose broken wings forced it to stay

on a concrete parking lot until noon arrived. The sun,
while non-judgmental, burnt it into ash with the same

light that's inspired such sonnets as "Ode" -
Oh, millions of letters I sent to seduce you!

2. I marvel each time I read a poem of yours, at your
ability to transport me right into the middle of your poem.
A shifting takes place. How does this birth? Is the poem
actually taking over, calling to mind another knowledge?

Well, for "Reticence," for example, I remember that there
was a particular person and incident that inspired its
beginning. I guess beginning because then the poem
became about something else not consciously planned by
me as its author. When the poem transcends autobiographical
intent, for me that's when the poem indeed takes over, as you
aptly put it. When that happens, the poet is blessed. Or I am
blessed- for the type of poems I wish to write are those I
hadn't realized I could or would write.

A mundane part of "Poetry as a Way of Life," which you
cite in your next question, is how I do a lot fo research for
my poems before I even inscribe the {potential} first word.
In living my life, I try to learn about as many things as I can
cram into my brain. I'm not necessarily researching for a
particular poem at those times {knowledge for knowledge's
own sake is part of my path as a poet}, but then when I
actually get into the act of writing a poem, many of those
learned things might pop up unexpectedly in the poem-
writing. And if they surface unexpectedly, it's often an
enervation of the poem, in the way that surprises can energize.

3. Many of your poems contain or perhaps cradle the word
"poem" within the poem itself. As if poem is in your lungs
and breathing is impossible without her. Your inscription in
your book "I Take thee English, for my Beloved", reads
"To Poetry as a Way of Life". This sentence reminds me
of Audre Lorde's essay - Poetry is Not a Luxury. Eileen do
you agree that poetry is not a luxury?

Actually, yes I don't think poetry is a luxury. There are a lot
of luxuries out there that I can do without. Poetry is difficult
and I'm no martyr- if I were able to do without it, I'd have
hightailied it out of he town a long time ago for Las Vegas.

Poetry is difficult- by this I mean living as someone who
believes in the importance of poems. That kind of person,
for me, must always be attentive and care. It can be
exhausting, painful if one has empathy, and so on. But
the poems can reflect these attributes, to the benefit of the
poems. You live like this long enough and there ceases to
be a line between living Poetry and writing poems-its often
insufferable to quote one's self but let me show a flaw to share
a recollection of a couplet from a poem series entitled -
"Conjurations".

To bring a poem into the world
is to bring the world into a poem.

As a poet, I try to understand and honor that to live Poetry
and to write poems are both verb-acts.

Thank you, Eileen for graciously sharing your thoughts.

Eileen's blog The Blind Chatelaine's Keys

here http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com/

a small sampling of Eileen Tabios' poetics:

http://www.moriapoetry.com/tabios10.html

http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooThirtysix/tabios.html

a poetry collective with a cupfull of fine poets -
http://mhpress.blogspot.com/

***hay[na]ku for Haiti
http://haynakupoetry.blogspot.com/

golden

2010-02-16T20:21:00.000-08:00
hay[na]ku*

candlelit
golden sky
dawn's shimmering hymn

Cynthia
2/16

* the hay[na]ku is a poetry form created by Eileen Tabios.
information on this form may be found here

http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haynaku.htm

prompt - http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

love

2010-02-13T16:42:00.000-08:00
tanka

pool of light
downy fresh and deep
envelopes a bruised heart
little beads of faith
born in the heart of your gaze

Cynthia
2/13/10

untitled 2

2010-02-10T19:16:00.000-08:00
she cut a vein
mesmerized by the
rose drops pillowing
on her wrist

and just as quickly
her heart experienced
a righteous movement
towards lucidity

the folly that loneliness
may bring so her
fearful fingers clasped

the glittering wound
and held tight

cynthia
2.10

http://threewordwednesday.wordpress.com

i get lost in my silence

2010-02-06T20:15:00.000-08:00
walking to a lover's house
in silence

bathed in mauve
my ears filled with quiet

a lily turned inward
hidden poem made known, almost

spills on concrete, grey-
life ruined inside the mouth

of a weary eve, not quiet lost
just seeking the moist flesh

covered in red
red the color of blood and charity

the cigarette's lit clit
her second mouth, hotter

yet silent.
silence is a mask

seductive as a lover's hands
weaving blue flame orgasms

chains of little addictive deaths
unnoticable 'till you're gone

shimmering to dante's heaven
{like a captured mermaid}

all body
and buried you.

Cynthia
2.6.10

going home

2010-01-30T02:25:00.000-08:00
what a glum bus

pulls rain clouds low

slow
sigh

across the oblivious sky

in the middle of the bus
an old man sings gospel

low into his painful life
searching inside a song for comfort

his throat holds back the sea
a threat forming behind his eyes

sparse lashes a frail moat

at home I have scrambled eggs
and cheap champagne,

scrambled eggs are always lukewarm

last night I was a princess
my name a prayer

hushed
in the poise of love

as a buttefly I came
voiceless and beautiful

butterflies have no mouths
only a thin reed

so quickly they expire

my hair was tiara-pretty
upon a cool pillow, my legs seaweed

his lips plant all sorts of need
that catch in my throat

and live there.

Cynthia M.
12.31

CALLI WHITTALL

2010-01-18T07:48:00.000-08:00

Hard-wired to the Spiritual.

...dare you see a soul at the white heat?

A wonderful experience to dialogue
with this free-spirited, beautiful poet.

Calli, like Emily Dickinson, your poetry has
a strong inward quality. How are you able
to offer such essential truths about yourself ,
your emotions with each poem?

To begin with, Cynthia, thank you for this
opportunity to talk about my work.

My poetry is essentially; my inner truth.
I think I am able to write it because it is
the reason I write, in the first place, and
I am not one for pretense. I feel we all
need to speak our truth and I have an
innate desire to express and make known
who I am at my core. I have always felt
the need to have my voice heard, and to
find a way to express my individuality.
I believe that can be said for many of us,
yet only some recognize and act on that need.

Has there ever been a poem you did not want
to write, a poem that kept haunting you until
you acknowledged her?

Yes, emphatically! A poem that expressed hurt,
betrayal, and my knowledge of that betrayal.
I felt I could not express this to the individual,
therefore, my poetry took the place of
'confrontation'... When one has a plethora of
emotion swirling in their being, it needs an
out, a release, yet a safe one.

What pulls me to your poetry Calli is the
annointed thread of spirituality hemming
the edges of your poems. Have you given any
thought to writing a chapbook of spiritual poetry?
In your mind is there a separtion between the
love of two people and the love of God?

I have to say when I began writing poetry
after a long absense, the poems naturally took
on 'spiritual connations'. Partly due to the
fact, that I had long been immersed in studies
of an esoteric nature. I have found many
truths from studying the metaphysical and
the mystical. I suppose it had no choice but to
find its way into my writing and art. I guess
you could say, I am hard-wired to the spiritual.

As far as a chapbook, I had not given much
thought until you posed the question. It is a
definite possibility.

The last part of your question is a tough one and
I hope to articulate fully my thoughts. I believe
we are created as individual expressions of God/
Goddess or the Universe, whichever term one
wishes to use. I also believe through 'relationship'
we can become our truest most divine selves.
I think this is what God intended. God is Love~
We are Love and it makes sense that the union
of two is the ultimate expression of that Love/God.
I have high ideals, no doubt, but overall, this is
why I believe we are here. Presumptous? maybe.
But I think we can have a 'knowing' about some-
thing that feels right to us, as to the explanation
for our existence, regardlss of what we have
been taught.

In your provocative art, Calli, you use yourself
as a muse. Do you do this as a catharsis to eliminate
your pain or to better understand the deeper
feelings held within your heart?

The answer is yes to both. Many times, I am
attempting to find th source of my pain, but more
often than not, I know the source and feel the
need to express it outwardly. It is a release of
thoughts, feelings and emotions. For me art
and writing is a 'transformative process', and
while I often execute it consciously, the result,
to my delight and surprise ~ comes from by
subconscious.

In one of your recent poems you write:
"... she wants to understand this limbo, the gray
space with so many broken pieces...". Is this
ultimately what informs your work; an attempt
to repair or to puzzle back together the broken
pieces? Perhaps, your broken pieces or/and
those of women who feel through life as you
seem to, as many woman do, myself included.

This is such a great question, Cynthia!
I believe there is a strong element of brokeness
that does inform my work, though I do not
define myself as broken. I am simply a culmination
of all that I have experienced and the feelings and
emotions that coincide with that experience.
I do feel that I am speaking for many women
who feel deeply and whose emotions ultimately
direct her life. I am my voice and hers too.

Do you have any rituals for writing poetry or
climbing out of writer' block?

Sometimes the words simply fly and beg to be
written. Other times, I sit with my feelings, go
about my day until the words eventually come.
I do not force it, but do keep a notebook near
and write a verse here and there as an exercise,
until something resonates and urges me on.
My muse can be ignited by an image, a word
from a friend, a 'intuitively' and simply needs
expression.

Who are two favorite poets of the moment?

At this moment I am reading and completely
resonating with Sara Teasdale and I am
genuinely enthralled with Keats.

Thank you Calli, you are truly a free-spirit.

Two extraordinary poems by Ms. Whittall ~
http://withinshadesofgreyexistsaplace.blogspot.com/2009/12/monastery-of-soul.html
http://withinshadesofgreyexistsaplace.blogspot.com/2009/12/remnants-to-ripples.html

Living on Air

2010-01-09T16:39:00.000-08:00
Here I am
making angels out of snow
and air
yet unlike sylvia I'm past 31
and men
eat me instead,

rough lips probing
studying
what they cannot know.

Cynthia
12.09

2009-12-31T18:37:00.001-08:00
a melodic blog of sonnets:

http://365sonnets.blogspot.com/

haiku 1

2009-12-26T17:22:00.000-08:00
drifts of snowfall
baptize me
ankle and wrist

cynthia
12/09

Ink for an Odd Cartography, Michele Battiste

2009-12-22T17:47:00.000-08:00
http://www.blacklawrencepress.com/

Ms. Battiste's poems are cleanly written with
a holy imagination. She rolls up her sleeves to
the elbow and digs and digs until the truth
within place is uncovered blooming and scented.
I am so enjoying Michele's book.

Interview with MICHELE BATTISTE

2009-12-12T16:02:00.000-08:00

Michele Battiste is the former MFA poetry fellow
in Wichita State University's Master of Fine Arts creative
writing program. Michele is the author of four books:
Ink for an Odd Cartography, Raising Petra, Mapping the
Spaces Between and Slow the Appetite Down.

~~~ ~ Michele's Landscape ~~~ ~

Michele, you delinate space, distance and place in an
amazingly precise way within your poems. Are your
poems informed by moving so frequently as a young
child? Has space, specified in your poetry become sort
of a cathexis for you?

It's interesting that you bring up my transiency{I had
to look "transiency" up to make certain it is a word.}
as a child. Up to this point, I hadn't make the connection
between the constant relocations in my youth and the
fixation on place and distance, but the connection makes
sense. In my childhood, I considered geography in terms
of distance between my nuclear family and my extended
family, all of whom lived in upstate New York. When we
lived in Georgia, we lived "far away". When we lived in
New Jersey we lived "close by", but we still didn't live
"there". Location had a double meaning for me; it wasn't
just the place I occupied, it wa also the measure of
separation that kept me from my tribe.

I have, at times, written about place in an attempt to
capture it, but those attempts have failed terribly.
That failure is envitable, at least for me. There's a
whole slew of travel literature that succeeds in
capturing place. But it's impossible for me to separate
place from the personal. And when I say personal,
I don't mean my own experience. I mean that
interaction, the exchange is constant, and so place
is never static. It is constantly changing and morphing
and it is multiple. To capture place is to hold it still,
to demand that is remain a single entity, which is a
skill that eludes me. Instead, I focus on the exchange
of influence between place and the person.

And distance is infinite and chaotic. It is space where
messages get lost or miscommunicated, where time
laspses or stretches, wheree interpretation and
translation become necessary, where, like in a child's
game of telephone, meaning changes. Distance is a
space ruled by chance. So I think distance functions
as the site of transformation and crisis in my poems
both of which I believe, are largely a matter of chance.
So, yes, it would probably be futile to argue that place
and distance are not my cathexis, which I'm thrilled
to find out includes the focus of libidinal energy as
well as the psychic energy {I looked that one up, too}.

.......

Your poem Lessons in Stalking, pushed me to email
you with much kudos and to subsequently closely
follow your work. A phrase from that unique poem:
"the logic of hours and distance remaining...",
continues to haunt me. Do you distance yourself
from your poem - the narrator - during the process
of writing her? Sort of like a god bestowing a
contained reality to the other {the reader}; or are
you in the thick woods of the narration, subsituting
yourself for the hidden I?

It's perfect that you paired these quesions with this
poem. You set me up perfectly! I distance myself
from the speakers in my poems the same way that
a stalker must distance herself from her object of
love/desire/obsession. A stalker's job is to know
her love object intimately through observation,
conjecture, imagination and analysis, but she can
only obtain that knowledge by keeping her distance.
If the stalker gets too close, if she starts to feel an
artificial kinship with the love object, then she
sabotages her project. A stalker's role is maintained
through distance and by tempering her emotions
and subjectively with critical analysis of the informa-
tion she obtains. A stalker at times may identify with
the love object, but to confuse her identity with
that of her stalkee minimizes her ability to think
critically, and she's bound to make a mess of things.

I feel the need to qualify this statement by saying
that I've never stalked anyone, but I can understand
the urge to do so.

.......

Reading your poems Landscaping, Pick me, pick me,
and Impatient Fruit {ripe title}, caused Roethke's
Root Cellar to spring up in my mind. There is this
visceral quality of slight squalor that pricks at the
reader's veneer of morality and her connected bodily
cleanliness. "A mouth can fall into a persimmon...",
and "...sometimes the dead things smell..." lastly,
and most telling for me - "...and resenting the
maintenance of dirt...". While writing this series
of poems how do you manage to dig deep the earth
until the dirt is beneath your fingernails and
eventually the fingernails of your reader?

I love Roethke's "Root Celler"! I allude to it in a poem
addressed to his housekeeper, something about
"lightless cellars where dirty tubars sprout". The
body is my favorite source of metaphor, my favorite
site of conflict precisely because it isn't neat or mange-
able. It's excessive, needy, grotesque at times, slobbering
and spewing and prone to decay. But the flip side of
the decay is its generative powers, which are also
excessive and needy and slobbering and spewing. If
I wasn't certain of that before giving birth to my son,
I became convinced during labor and delivery. I think
about Walt Whitman's poem "This Compost", his
insistence that the earth is fecund precisely because
it is nutured by all the dead bodies of its past occupants.
The dirty, messy stuff is essential. I can't avoid it.

.......

What book would you recommend, Michele to a poet
as a resource for writing?

Richard Hugo's Tiggering Town. It is a brilliant book
about craft that I return to again and again.

...

Michele, please name poets you admire.

Early influences were Getrude Stein, Anne Sexton and
Langston Huges and the Beats. Later influences were
Linda Gregg, Jeanine Hathaway, Richard Hugo, Roethke.
But now there's such a bounty of amazing woman poets,
I wouldn't know where to begin. Leslie McIlroy and
Marcela Sulak, Martha Silano, Erika Meitner, Danielle
Parfunda, Sarah Vep, Mary Bettinger, Cate Marvin
and Deborah Ager, just to name a few. And of course
Albert Goldbarth, the best American poet today.

...

What is the first poem that captured your imagination?

I'm a big fan of narrative poetry, and I always make the
crack that admitting I like narrative poetry is the literary
equivalent of saying I like pimento loaf. But I'm going to
go one better. My father, who died when I was 15, loved
Robert Service and read his poems aloud to me. I can
still recite the first ten or so lines from "The Cremation
of Sam McGee". The sonic quality of the poem is hypnotic,
and the arctic images are captivating. It was through this
poem that I first understood that poets use sound to
convey meaning just as they do with their words and
images. It still reminds me of my father and the beautiful
way he read Service. I was a witness to this love of poetry.
What a legacy.

...

Is there an essential element to your process of writing?

I write and revise in marble composition notebooks. I write
in pen and revise as I go, crossing out and crowding the margins
with rewritten lines. I like to see the trace of former drafts
so that I understand how I got to where I am in a poem. Once
the draft is completed, I start a second round of revisions
immediately by rewriting the whole poem over again and,
again, revising as I go. I look through old notebooks and I
see entire pages crossed out, poems where only one line is
salvaged. Pen and notebook. It's the only way.

.......

Thank you, Michlele.!

Savor two of Michele's poems:

Lessons in Stalking -

http://www.thediagram.com/2_3/battiste.html

Landscaping -

http://rattle.com/blog/2009/10/landscaping-by-michele-battiste/

For more about this beautiful place-driven poet click here-

http://www.michelebattiste.com/

2009-11-29T15:54:00.001-08:00
anthology - call for submissions.

http://thealchemistskitchen.blogspot.com/

hurt or truth

2009-11-28T06:31:00.000-08:00
the vase falls
petals cling to my skin
his tears surprise me

wet, real
like the truth
he wants hidden

Cynthia M.
2009

LOVE Inhale/Exhale LOVE

2009-11-26T08:22:00.000-08:00

poemflesh

2009-11-22T20:24:00.000-08:00

after night falls & my wings lay temporarily broken,

then

close as night
i hear his voice
unsheathed

feel

his breath in my mouth
moist as summer
gentle as a secret unfolded

this.

Cynthia M.
2009
[33]

blog alert

2009-11-21T06:14:00.000-08:00
~ a delciously dense book blog
paked with ideas and complexities.

http://evesalexandria.typepad.com/

Poemflesh

2009-11-15T16:44:00.000-08:00
Girls

I gingerly bathe her tired hands, she massages
my tender scalp with the last of our stolen cream.

I whisper into the dead night of my Aunt Micha's
year in Paris, her tight secrets and her older lover

Julian, Julian of the graceful hands and long mane.
And the icy blonde women in trousers, smoking

thin cigarettes held between blood red lips.
From memory I recite Aunt Micha's love letters.

My bed mate murmurs to me of angels in her
native tongue, as we make babylove in the

corner of our worn cot. So terribly quiet and
desperately in love, a stainless love.

We kiss and cry into eternity. Unaware of the
horror or the cloud of darkness we die in.

Cynthia M.
2003

Please offer your thoughts on this poem, what you
think the subject is and how it can be improved.
Only cavet, be gentle. Thank you. Titles are welcome.

Poemflesh

2009-11-07T14:40:00.000-08:00
*

pushing pass the brush
here, in the woods of our love
i find you less sham

cynthia m.

PoemFlesh

2009-11-01T06:25:00.000-08:00
Beyond Love ~

At nightfall he crucifies her, both faint-hearted from
fasting. He kisses her on the hollow of her throat, feels
the prayer caught there, reads the psalm with his lips.
In his mind they are already of one flesh, joined, sealed.
Dressed in ivory silk she is the full moon rising on a
quiet ancient night in any holy city. Fourteen candles
are lit. He breathes Latin sonnets on her bare flesh.
And whispers her given name.

Cynthia M.
2006

Fulfilling

2009-10-31T17:01:00.000-07:00
the conditions of this wonderful award from Rachel

Three things you probably don't know about me ~

1. I hate going to bed and I love going to bed.

2. Floating through Strand bookstore excites me.

3. I still have a childhood habit of playing with other
people's earlobes - however my control is better now.

Passing this award onto:

The crochet lady for her lovely designs & spirituality.
http://crochetaday.blogspot.com/
psst...she writes poetry also.

Amias because she is so prolific & eclectic.
http://magicofintergratedcircuits.blogspot.com/
& check out Amias awesome acrostic blog.

And to Nevine for her exquisite other-worldly prose.
http://nevine-sultan.blogspot.com/

Also, for Sarah of gentle heart.
http://wwwwherethewindblows.blogspot.com

I know, the conditions call for seven but that is too
many at one time for me.

Thank you, Rachel!

faLLen fLesH

2009-10-25T06:23:00.000-07:00
i watch his flesh fall
and turn away
while droplets chase my ankles

love is too strong

if the scent shall stain my hands
or this trembling, empty heart
i fear i will become meaningless

love is too strong

eyes shining into stars
she opens hidden portals of need
{especially the unaware}

abiding within
openly jealous
a possessive night

love is too strong
and i am weak

so turning my back
i listen to the sound
of falling flesh

as if i had no heart

cynthia m.
10.25.09

Poemflesh

2009-10-21T17:11:00.000-07:00
...he hears her throb in the shadow, a riddle shaped like an hourglass *

the blue moth
lanquishes
inside the hot bulb
lapis wing quivering poems
against the prism's soft shell

he reads the words
through her translucent wings
smears each word onto
palm of his hand

when he breathes her name
she hears a faint sound
sunlight eclipsed
he needs her silent as water
before he resides within

he feels his light superior
to her fractured glow
rubs her poemflesh
obsessively on his arms,
torso, between his legs,
adorned with her blood tattoos

last night at starbucks
when he reached for his wallet
blue's slim chapbook flew out
a tall barista caught it
her eyes glowed
hands moist with moth dew

barista would not return the book
and stung him painfully with her
red lacquer nails
he was forced to leave

another night on the terrace
he searches for his blue moth
searing his face, his heart, life
but all that remains is a tiny piece
of a tissue-paper wing
with the word lucid.

Cynthia M.

* Wind from all compass points, Octavio Paz

Obsessive Readers

2009-10-13T17:16:00.000-07:00
Please post the best book you've read
lately that is 350 pages or less - Thanks.

My poet's heart would ask that you
feel free to include poety chapbooks.

I'd Rather Be Reading

2009-10-12T14:46:00.000-07:00
check her out - wow!

http://readallday.org/home.html

i'd rather be reading has always been
my mantra, well until writing poetry.

me thinks i'll do a novel a week
or perhaps 50 novels next year - yeah.

Poemflesh

2009-10-10T16:10:00.000-07:00
midnight's love song

one night

the stars

sang your name

an image of you

cast upon the
river

captured
my heart

and

branding galileo
a liar

the earth
stood motionless

now here i am

forever

still
in
your
Love.

Cynthia

Passion Nights

2009-10-04T11:28:00.000-07:00
under the glare
of hooded eyes
affixed to the prey
his pearls begin to luster

the threat of his love
taunts her
with skilled fingers
gloved in leather

his strong mouth
claims her throat
encircles it with purple tattoos
indelible

ancient desires
reigned upon she who is
the reincarnation of his only love

candlelight evenings,
the wick trembles,
spills along the candle, as she
trembles and spills beneath his cape
this bold love demanding submission

night waits for her aria
of sighs, murmurs and helpless moans
as they become one
again, again

at daylight,
a ruby necklace lay upon angelique's bed
his slim love poem of blood
the scent of his musk in her hair...

until the next full moon.

Cynthia
10.3.09

Poemflesh

2009-09-24T18:44:00.000-07:00
Again

echo lover
i'm here

yes, again
trembling

telling
secrets

remembering
how you

loved me
curling back

to
that love

tell me nightly
you only

Cynthia
9.24

2009-09-13T07:06:00.000-07:00
aubade

fairy-woman
faced pressed to dawn

shivers poems upon
threadbare journals

the breath of her
words steal into the holiness

of the bedroom and
into the christ-like body

of her young
husband, he absorbs

the sound of
bells

Cynthia M.

Poemflesh

2009-09-04T15:25:00.000-07:00
indelible heart-stain

hushed fountains.
the quieted lover rests his face
upon rain-worn stone

a bouquet of trembling lilacs
and impossibly white roses
lay abandoned, sprawled.

for one season he lived
inside an unnameable affair
late suppers at la cantina

clasping wet pearls around her throat
tracing long stemmed roses down her spine
soft lips and softer words.

he did not know how to bury
his heart, how to free himself from
the one person inherently capable

of erasing his childhood terrors,
another being who lives inside the mind
cultivating pieces of torn flesh

shredded clouds giving
birth to dark butterflies. a lover who
kissed the worst parts of his soul

and found them to be
unflawed gems
worthy of cherishing.

Cynthia
9.04.09

Poemflesh

2009-08-29T16:11:00.000-07:00
lost & found

glory-
haired mary
loses her religion

shivers
until sated
beneath his hands

Cynthia
.08

Poemflesh

2009-08-21T15:51:00.000-07:00
tanka

in time,
cries the vet
from his sidewalk foxhole
we all slay
the wounded god

cynthia
8.21.09

finish me... love, lilith

2009-08-21T15:23:00.000-07:00
i'm i not good enough? she thought
dogding his words and her own fears

lilith graced around the attic
completing a pas de deux with antonio

antonio's hands on the small of her back
pushing her towards a future she viewed

with drowning eyes...

***hi fellow poets & readers, feel free to finish lilith.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amazing mythology, jewish folklore and feminists theories about Lilith
[jewish folklore: adam's first wife who would not lie beneath him and
so flew off into the air, refusing to return w/ the angels sent after her. Wow. Who knew?

Originally demi-goddess of air. However, she was demonized by the
the patriarchy - who among other negative attributes claimed she is the
personification of erotic desires & possesses women through mirrors. Uh oh...LOL.

http://feminism.eserver.org/theory/papers/lilith/ladylil.html

nyc tanka

2009-08-15T19:45:00.000-07:00
* for lucinda

light murmurs
into the vacant hallway
luc rests her body
in a familiar silence
vague handprints mock her hope

cynthia

ethereal designs at luphia ~

2009-08-14T20:54:00.000-07:00
www.luphia.co.uk/engine/shop/category/-+NEW+IN+-

Poemflesh

2009-08-08T17:54:00.000-07:00
nyc haiku 1

kmart cafe
shattered lightbulb
and girl

cynthia
8.8

Poemflesh

2009-08-01T17:31:00.000-07:00
haiku

baptismal rain
dapples petasl fell to ground
bruised angels

cynthia

Poemflesh

2009-07-29T19:35:00.000-07:00
haiku

in the woods
scent of rain lingers
i find you

cynthia

ode to these endless, sensuous days & nights.

Poemflesh

2009-07-26T06:33:00.000-07:00
CLII.

Untitled Love

her heart
a wildflower
wraps around his grief

his face torn dreams
melodies playing to her
lonely fragility

elusive needs
are her seven veils
slipping off in the light

midnight repast
beneath the chandelier
they dwell in each other's eyes

she begins their sacred ritual
placing her lips there
filling up until his hands

drift to her hair
sighing ... once again
lips touch scenting

her friends can't understand
this late-day love or sin
so beneath her, they scoff

nor can she fathom her friend's
soft coos with pale husbands
who lip sync arid i love yous
to the oblvious air

Cynthia M.
6.16.08 {orig.}
{revised 7.24.09}

Poemflesh

2009-07-22T01:02:00.000-07:00
*

rain on me
until i bloom inside
joy's dawn

cynthia
6/08

Poemflesh

2009-07-20T18:50:00.000-07:00
*
Haiku

crimson tears
bleed into gray waters
families mourn

PEACE, please.

cynthia
7.20.09

Poemflesh

2009-07-18T19:31:00.000-07:00
*

emotions folded
inside the palm of her hand
safe away life

cynthia
7/18

Poemflesh

2009-07-17T16:39:00.000-07:00
then

scent of lilacs
slipped beneath his skin
sorrow abated

cynthia
7/17

Poemflesh

2009-07-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

one
girl hurt love
shelters half-moon inside
quiet chaos
cynthia
7/16