Anais Nin

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

-Anais Nin

Born on this day in 1903.

She is and will always be one of my favourite writers. Her journals are brilliant. She makes me feel as if I am not alone as an artist and a woman.

Celebrate #feminism and being a writer.

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

I took this photo last week when I was swanky.

#selfie for @jwprebich @authordkollat @dstudioarts @catederham

Thanks for tags.

Tagging you to show me your favourite quote.

#quoteoftheday #anaisnin #anaisninquotes #christinastrigas #poetry #journalwriting

From my Instagram post

https://instagram.com/p/BfeyzpulN2_/

Ariel Poets on Twitter

Ariel Poets is a Twitter Poetry and writing account that was created by Alexandra Meehan and myself. We run the account and help writers and poets around the world by inspiring them with our tweets. Twitter has sone phenomenal poets and writers. We have writing prompts that we are featuring on a monthly basis. Use the hashtag #arielpoets and write a poem about betrayal. For the month of January, betrayal is the theme. Follow us on Twitter @ArielPoets to read our daily inspirational writing tweets. Our inspirations are Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

This tweet on Ariel Poets is our most popular one yet. Take a look https

https://twitter.com/arielpoets/status/918067714769457152?ref_src=twcamp%5Eshare%7Ctwsrc%5Eios%7Ctwgr%5Ecom.apple.mobilenotes.SharingExtension

You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.

Take a look at what we are doing there too.

Thank you,

The ticket

I said,

stop the car, I need to vomit.

What’s wrong?

Must be something I ate.

I ate words.

His words

for breakfast

lumch and a québécois supper.

I told the police officer.

I never drive down this fucking street.

I wanted to be thrown in jail

but she let me go. Who knew

that being a bitch really worked?
I can’t sleep well.

I feel like I can’t write anymore

and I fear my secrets have a way

of becoming my only company.
What do you think Simone would do?

Is everyone knocking on his door?

Why should I care?

The line must be long

intense with chatter.

I struggle with letting go

holding on too tight.

I kept chains and locks

for him

but he cut through them

with penstrokes, cockstrokes

brushstrokes, I made up words

with flair and desire.

The full moon is in my heart

beating inside my chest

where he once rested.
There is someone else for him

so many lovelies

all colors, nationalities,

pageant show beauties

all for him.

She has brand new shoes

and purses to match

his ego.

I stumble around bookshelves

wander through poetry sections

take a look

at legends and death

peeking under glass bottles

from the wrong side.
Miss, be careful out there, it’sslippery. 


I thought it would be different this time.

I thought he could love me

for the right reasons

but a million poems

cannot make up

for all the lies.

I will stomp the grapes

write my name on the bottle

and dedicate

a book to him

so he could throw it out

and never know me again.

Drive carefully.




Loving a Writer

loving a writer is only for the strong,

the ones who care to stare

at the sky with you. or at a locked door.

you refuse to open. and this is why

love remains crazy. undefined. unbearable.

irrational. because loving a writer

has no rules. it’s like seeing the

world for the very first time.

 

 

from my book of poetry “Love & Vodka”

The Art inMe

if you could just dare

to fuck the art in me

the kind of sex

that would put

us both on fire.

the part where you

never leave in

the morning. i

disappoint you

all the time,

with my past,

my present,

my unstable future.

if you could just dare

to love me,

none of it would even matter.

 

 

From my poetry book, see link below.

Figment

figment

Everything turns blue

if you dissect it

even the color purple.

 

I feel how words exit

like last night’s

whiskey shots

as the burning sensation

warmed my insides

along with your hand upon

my skin. The combination

was deadly

sin.

Just because I listen to my voices

does not mean

you need to.

You go about and leave me

in this shallow water

it’s not cold at all

actually,

my illness has gone

my hands are warm again

my feet touching the ground

but my imagination

it creates blame

for misunderstanding

my own intentions.

Often, you deny it all

and I believe all the

lies. The fact is

I am a consensus

a Canadian statistic

and now I am

growing my own garden

seeds intact

you on top of me

digging deep inside me

for all the answers

to the questions

you can never ask.

Unleash the Soul in me

In the morning you were sleeping in the dark

you know that type of morning dark shade

that is so opposite from night,

and all my reasons to wake you

left me with cold feet on the hardwood floor.

I bought time once

and it left me broke.

Ancient people talk to me about how

we held hands and made choices

in the new land. A black and white shot

of all the dead people sitting on a quilt

up in the Greek village where

I saw the sky for the first time.

If my soul was on a leash

it would be easy to control

but I never worked out my life

like musical notes.

It would be ideal to see how

the last act plays

but the fortune teller told me

I would live long,

sign my name

over and over again

until I was tired of Christina

and change it to Chrissy

or Krissy with a K

or Chris, or Tina or Christine

and all the ways everyone

changes the spelling of my name,

but

it starts with an X

and not many people know the truth

of how I unleash

the soul in me

from time to time to breathe

and take deep sighs

then tie it back up

to write a book

or drink one bottle of Jack

in three hours.

Beware of a writer’s reach

and length of a book or poem

it means that nothing ever ends

and it all starts over

until all the smokes

and all the bottles are emptied out.

 

Here and Now

It is how the poem never ends

when you write about how

you loved her so much

in such a brief time

with so much passion.

It is how my poem always ends

when I write about how

he loved me very little

with not enough passion.

It is how you let her

close enough to hurt you

and how I let him too close

to burn me

and he certainly did.

I suppose as she burned you

with her fire.

He had this way of making me feel

like a poet

and nothing else.

Never keep up with stranger’s intentions

let them all walk on broken glass

as we sit and watch the show.

We will talk about how they

knew nothing about poetry

and French philosophers

and designer cafe lattes

we will turn the tables

on them

and watch them fall down

or be brave enough to sit and discuss

what we are even fighting for

when all the fight in us is long gone.

In the here and now,

I will let you close enough

and be prepared

for your desertion.

 

The Arch of 2016

 

It wasn’t up until the year ended that I thought of all the things I replaced you with. It was how the sun sets from my balcony

how the sun sets when I drive

It was how the day never ends early enough. How the night is so long that even sleep does not help.

I have been writing before you existed and when I do not reply to the calls,  I have stopped the sucking of my soul.

I hear the crying, but lock myself in rooms and escape. Make fun of me,

joke about my art

watch me drive on black ice

never  buy my book

you were the first

and the last

typical cliche

horrible poetry being written

on the other side

and sometimes I compromise

other times I stand tall.

Why didn’t you kiss him hello? I’m moody.

That’s not an answer.

My daughter tries to get me

but she questions my motives

I have no reply sometimes.

I don’t conform sweetie, that’s all.

She breaks the rules

and here I am

trying to guide her

in this mess.

No answers to the arch of 2016

but do not want to see death

this year

want to bury the past

and conjure it up

in fragments

in poems.

Never challenge me

I break down

too easily.

Change my mind

like the Montreal weather.

You deplete me

with your absence.

No more fight in me.

Focus on my books

and bury the year under the rubble

of regret.

People on the other side

of the screen

mostly want

to bring you to your knees

and point fingers

at your weakness.

it’s toxic in here

in my head,

in my world

but it’s a new year

and I must charge up

my battery

or I’ll be drained by

the scavengers

that hunt for the art they can’t make.