“A Book of Chrissyisms” by Christina Strigas cover reveal

I took the summer off to work on some projects. At the beginning of July, I started working on this book for fun. I was not sure when I would finish it or where I was going with it, but it somehow wrote itself. I amassed some of my quotes and tweets that were popular on social media, especially on Twitter and Instagram.

This is the cover reveal. It is a non-fiction book, based on my thoughts, poems, quotes, and essays. I hope you truly enjoy the philosophy behind the book.

So many people wonder what it is like to be a writer, to be a creative person. I hope to shed some light from my perspective. The title is A Book of Chrissysisms because that is a word that best describes living in my own mind from Monday to Sunday.

I am aiming to publish this book on my 50th birthday, in September.

Let me know what you think of the book cover.

 

Peace & Love,

Chrissy xebook CHRISSYISMS (1).jpg

 

Ariel Poets

The exciting part about social media is networking and meeting like-minded people, especially if you are a writer or poet. A writer is a poet.

I first met Alexandra Meehan on Twitter. We have never met in real life, but our souls have probably met before. We became friends and we have come to appreciate each other’s poetic styles. I approached her a few weeks ago with the idea to open an account for lovers of poetry. We are both immensely inspired by Anne Sexton and Syliva Plath, who are two women who wrote about their turmoil life experiences. Men and women appreciate reading these two poets because through these women’s tough eyes the shape of humanity and relationships unfold in unique, female, poetic voices.

The pursuit of writing is an on-going struggle for writers and poets, especially women. Since Sappho, women have come a long way in poetry, but still struggling along. Emily Dickenson and Christina Rosetti are female poets who are world-reknowned and admired, but Sexton and Plath are still not a household name. In America they are. Just pushed aside for contemporary crap. The dark side and mental illness that haunts their literature takes too much of a front seat. Deconstruct it. Their brilliance shined among all. It seems there is so much more to their writing– to being women– that continues to fascinate us.

We created The Ariel Poets account on Twitter to further explore the inspiration that Sexton and Plath have given us throughout our studies of English literature. To be honest, when I was a young graduate studying English literature, in downtown Montreal; at Concordia University, my professor of modern literature did not even have them on our reading list. I discovered them on my own, like a deep secret you could not contain. That was the early 90’s. Ironically, Alexandra’s college experience has been similar, whereas the only poem ever covered was “Daddy”, which according to her, was not even taught properly.

 

Alexandra Meehan and I hope to inspire you with this account. We want to combine our efforts in writing, and give you some inspiration so that you never stop writing or reading.

No matter how a poet dies, it is how they live that matters most.

We both admire the bravery in Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath’s writing style, and the brutal honesty.

Our Twitter account: @ArielPoets from:@ArielPoets
Thank  you so much for your support,
Christina Strigas and Alexandra Meehan

http://www.alexandrameehan.com

Poets sleep awake

Photo by @dan_cretu from Instagram

 

I need my naps

I am a modern poet

in semi-deep sleep

never fully awake

dreaming about pre-raphaelites and the Rosettis

still thinking

in all the colors

you left behind.

I hug you close

yet you disappear

into orange clouds

and sunset lawns.

I want to forget

the long trails

to your heart

and climb up

your mountain

to kiss your eyes

to sleep.

Alas, I slumber awake.

Awake, yet not.

International Women’s Day

To the beautiful women who I read and who inspire me daily, thank you. I admire your strength through words and images. Celebrate being a woman and surround yourself with people who love you and encourage you. Kick toxicity out. Bring in love and acceptance.

If you know anything about me then you know that I read and write daily. I find the poets who I have read for decades are always the ones who inspire me, but some modern poets are breaking through into my heart. I am picky and critical when it comes to poetry, I am in love with the ideals behind it and less with the stigma of it. I have discovered some phenomenal women poets who have inspired me lately, Sharon Olds, Joumana Haddad, Mary Oliver, Dorothea Lasky, Clementine Von Radics, Sarah Howe, Lang Leav, Natasha Head, Warsan Shire, Sarah Kay, Yrsa Daley-Ward, Amber Tamblyn, Melissa Bull, Julie Bruck, April Green, Rupi Kaur, to name a few whose poetry books I connected with on a humane and spiritual level.

Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment as to the women who inspire you.

Hymns for the Hopeful

I will make this a Hellenistic hymn to all my ancestors

who believed in the twelve Olympian gods. We had to

memorize them in Greek school, learn how to write

them, practice our diction to continue the traditions

of people I never met. We learned that  Zeus and Hera

were the Queen and the King and everyone that came

after did so with intentions to create this world of caves,

darkness, silent roads,  mountains that reach the

sky. I learned to see mirrors in rivers. I was taught that

stories can corrupt my mind into believing myths

as real. So young, even Hercules became my idol and

my hero. Who can compete with the gods? No mere

mortal man could ever win my heart. I wanted the

top of the echelon. I wanted my own Zeus, who created

the world out of chaos. Who else could tame my soul?

All these hymns for the hopeful left me breathless

for such intrigue and adventure, not even Aphrodite

could have the visions of beauty I imagined. She

took hold of my body and showed  me how to dream

the imaginable. Could you see how I became another

person in my mind, the one that spoke to Goddesses

in Ancient Greek and touched the sky with her

fingertips? Artemis guided me to the moon, to hunt

for my solitude, to hide from all the demons claiming

to be on my side. I learned about deception, betrayal,

brotherhood and sisterhood through the ancient ways

and much like others I became invisible. People mocked

me, sold their adventures to me as golden tickets. All

these leaps, I have taken for no one but my ancient

soul that saw the constellations up close from a

chariot in the sky, along with eleven other friends.

 

Sonnet #1

Let us think of a road far off our path,

where we could walk holding hands in full view

and not feel the hatred of other’s wrath

while the letters remain in my pocket too.

Love will be aflame along the grey road

and a subtle caress will become law.

On your back you will carry my full load

sensing the drive in me is purely raw.

The streets will be silent full of false hope,

while our fingertips travel each other’s skin.

If we walk away we will stop at the rope

reach the line that tells us we can never win.

Here is one last wanting thought for your ears

there never was a road filled with these fears.

Surrender

The line up for free coffee
is growing daily up until
they too
take away the free love.
Not something I am unaccustomed to
all I crave is
the surrender to your clever ways
play me anyway
I’m game
raising flags at red lights
stopping my heart from beating
to feel yours
hiding away under the life machines
holding on to technology
like doctors
who are poets in their own way
like us
saving lives
with words.
It seems redundant to write
how you
have the words
I want whispered in my ear
you have the hands
caressing my skin
and all the other ordinary words
poetry stems from
but ’tis true. Yes.
Shakespeare is in love again.

I found these words scattered
around from six in the morning
where my notebook lay empty.
I raise my love to you
and bore you to death
with my obsessions
and that is how easily
you can forget me.
You are the air
I am of the earth.
(And this is another reason
I will surrender
for both
need each other
more than they know.
It could be science.
It could be love
it could be none of the above.)

Hoodie

keep your hoodie on
stare into my extreme distance
yet with a touch of a button
I could be right in your trance
I like the rhythm of your hands
as they soothe my ruffled words
my constant negative off shore lands
at your doorstep along with my birds
cannot go far without them
you in my head
lay me sweetly on your turned hem
adore the French, Italian, Spanish food
as you feed me their pots of stories
each lover unique Yet obscure
ready to lure
you in
intrigue you with secret recipes
aren’t we too old for that game so untrue
to our claimed values
of pop culture phenomena, the blues.
Enter my booth made of church wood pew
tell me everything and all that I knew
without a glance
three times I heard your voice in my fated chance
to see how your breath tastes in mine
to let the suds dissolve in their own time.
Nothing is certain
draw the red velvet curtain
just kiss me
under the sycamore tree
.
You have all the beauty inside you

if only you could open your heart

and see how
.
Sunday is meant to be with your lover

and if you can make any other day

a Sunday you have the magic

in you.

Muse me

Uploading photos to freeze time

sitting on Santa’s lap

to release laughs

singing songs to remember

the way it was. The time

we all spent Christmas together

in one home. When he woke

me with pancakes and smiles

and all the traditions really did

matter. Now I stare at

the ceiling while I should be

sleeping

instead of dreaming

about you and your made

up fantasies. I can be just

as creative while staring hard

at darkness. True artists

need the night more than

the day. I know I do.

Thinking is best done

while pumping heart and soul

into a poem. Guts and all.

Fright and the fall. Duck

and be gone.

Stoned at a party

drinking green cognac

how we hold onto

our youth while clutching

plastic cups in suburbanite

dynamite. I listen to the silence

and wait in the darkness.

How did you write a book?

How do you answer a question

with a question. That’s been

my biggest problem. Never want

to answer with truths so made

up stories of chapter sessions in

late night bars. I chase it hard.

I live hard. Surrounded by the love

that limits me, that wrecks me,

that adores me, that complicates me,

digging deep withing the bottles

to find the recipe

to nothing at all

but existentialism.

Open up The Little Prince

and see once again

the importance of Living.

Everything else I can watch burn

in a fire. Except You.

Words of Love

Hanging up the words on a clothesline

to dry up the sadness. The tears wet

my bra and panties and now look

at me. Wrong kind of wet. Right

kind of wrong. Such a deep

mess on the outline of the sea.

Wrapped around the belts

around my waist, in your hands

around my thoughts in the

wandering streets. Love wakes

me up with kisses on my cheeks,

it startles me out of my reverie

while I pump gas. Left the locket

on my dresser, left my mind

on your doorstep. Walk with me

the day is long, the nights are

windy, the pain excruciating.

Make the scene sexy with

all the words left out,

all the fantasies played out. It

is only a dream within a dream

the theater of the absurd

and we are sitting in the last row

playing footsies underneath

the imaginary mistletoe. Grab

your coat, your pen, your

drink that is not for

the faint of heart. I can

down a bottle of Jack honey

so trust me, believe in me,

as the news travels fast

among the wanted. The point

is that there really is none.

My coffee is cold, and

still I drink it. My needs

are vast and still I chance it.

Love switches on and off

from hate to love from love

to hate from me to you

and from you to me.

Must dry the words

and let them settle.