My Young Heart

 

It has no age
it feels as if you
grew ice in your heart
a magician constructing homes
out of broken hearts.

You wanted to love the parts
of me that no one knew existed.
It is hard to live
in a hidden world.
I never understood how
graveyards worked.
You could have killed me
with all the love and romance
as if teenagers had nothing
on us.

I wanted to know why
but these questions
are never answered.
I suppose wanting someone
with a heart
that matched mine
was too much to ask for
and I know that now.

See how my young heart
has no wrinkles?

See how my young heart
professed my love
to you? And all you did
was nothing.

You accepted it
and never gave me yours.

My young heart aged
and now it needs
a kind of love
only strange girls like me
require.

I can never go home now
it does not exist anymore.
All the furniture is gone
all the memories are packed
in used boxes with labels
of time and place
that I will not even look at again.

Erase my young heart.

Let it break over and over
as it is accustomed to doing.

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Infliction

At the time, I was nervous

for living,

when no one else

 

wanted to talk with my mind.

You have no free time

to sacrifice, nor do I.

 

All our time is filled up

with taking others for granted.

Yet we talk on the phone

every couple of years,

and become friends

 

over preferred lovers.

When  we were lovers,

we loved each other,

we lamented our skin

 

As old lovers do.

It never gets old. Your skin is my map

home.

Time makes clouds

of us all.

 

I have no hard feelings

over deleting you

It is merely a word. Define it.

Gone, evaporated. Hack me!

 

The moments are in hearts

reliving the kisses

and the touching

 

every spare day

I spent it all. Poor again

loveless;

Childless.

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

To Love

Did you forget what it feels like to love?

You would prefer to hate the past

and blame me for all your wrongdoings.

I am an open dart and your hands

the weapon. You did forget,

say the truth, you pretend

to love me. I see through it.

I lay down awake,

but I was a cliche dead

inside. I cried and you watched

me, sending others to comfort me

while you left

silence

destroyed us once again.

I knew this would happen.

I am a witch after all. Love

has a way of pulling you apart

when you close it down.

I can detach, this is my power

I can run, this is my ache

I can stay, this is my mission

I can order for two

and only be one.

All the love you promised

I mopped it away

with the urine stains.

Did you forget what it feels like to love?

I can no longer remind you,

for I forgot what it feels like to love.

I do answer my own questions

I am a poet

after all

and my dog needs me.

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.

The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

Spilt Wine

Start the night with wine

in my hair, on my dress,

in my stockings

brand new shoes

bare shoulder

and a few broken

apologies. I saw it

coming too,

and just watched it.

Kind of like life

that was yesterday.

Tonight,

now another bar

another jazz singer

singing the blues

under copper tiled ceilings

and feathers in her hair

you’d think it was suddenly

1920 art deco Paris.

But no,

it’s the house of Jazz

in Laval, Quebec.

Hanging with the girls

who sold my life away.

Do you pay the bill?

Cosmos and red chandeliers

blue bottine in the vitrine

and it’s a wonderful world

in here.

The only thing missing is you

with me.

It makes me cry

you’ll never see

what I see.

Not even pictures

do it justice.

Rita called me

she’ll be 20

minutes late,

god damn Montreal traffic.

It’s fine.

I’ll order another Cosmo

write a poem.

Listen to the jazz singer

and lament

you.

Healing Hugs

 

Everyone needs some healing hugs

that connect us all

without a touch.

One body to love

so hold onto

your mystery

clasp it like a lost key

embrace the wrongs

don’t make them right.

Let your soul flow like your hair on a naked body

want no one

ask no questions.

Sleep poets and dreamers,

do not ask why, do not,

don’t let the bastards get you down.

Are you aware? Are you asleep?

Keep driving, don’t stop at pit stops, they suck you up and never let go of white souls

-Christina Strigas

———————–

Photo by @antoniodjanikian ———————–

#fridayfuckery #longformfriday #streamofconsciousness

#amwriting #christinastrigas

#poem #poetsofig #writing #freeversepoetry #poetrycommunity #poets #poeticsighs #montreal #lovepoems #wordporn

Never Tell

I can never tell who loves me anymore

they like to rehash old shit

from five years ago

when I wasn’t the same person.

They like to pretend they know me

because they read my poems.

I can never tell who needs me anymore

they live their own life

without calling me

or texting me a simple hello.

I can never tell who wants me anymore

they don’t say “i want you”

they ignore me

and make me feel useless

and hated.

I can never tell the time anymore

it keeps on making my future

unattainable.

I am losing my witching powers

and becoming too normal

I dislike people

and only want them one on one.

Groups are killing my spirit

eating up my leftovers

and wiping their mouth

with glee

at my destruction.

I just can’t tell anymore

if love

is real.

Book review of “whisky words & a shovel III” by r.h. Sin

“whiskey words & a shovel III” is a modern poetry book that redefines poetry in the modern era

   Book Review by Christina Strigas

5 out of 5 stars

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I know that being a poet in the modern world is never easy. Everyone judges you. Your husband, your wife, your lover, your friends, your neighbours. It’s not easy to pour your heart out on paper, on the internet or in a book. Poetry books are sacred to me, I get to carry them around, fold their pages and read them over and over again. r.h Sin is a modern pop poet. He is making poetry popular again, with his Instagram account and his simple, brilliant way of writing from his heart and sleeve. There is nothing wrong with that. Most may criticize this, but I can easily read Dorothea Lasky in one sitting and r.h. Sin. Poetry in another and enjoy both books for different reasons. Reading great poetry is an experience, an individual experience that varies from person to person according to their own life and knowledge. I can connect to poetry and its various forms and techniques, as an English lit Major and as a woman. These are some excerpts from his book.

 

I have been following r.h. Sin ever since he was with Underwater Mountains and the whole publishing fiasco that I was a part of with 451 Press, another division of that company. Although Sin may have many trolls and haters, he has an abundance of love and support. In essence, he is a poet that carries on and focuses on his art.
The free verse and honesty that is shown in “whiskey words and a shovel III” actually surprised me. To be honest, I was preparing myself to not like it as much as I did. My daughter owns his other two poetry books and I glanced at them and although I never read them and never gave them a chance, I jumped to the conclusion that “it wasn’t really poetry.” And who am I to say that? I am trying my best to keep poetry together. Sometimes I write to express, other times to spurt forth words that choke me. It seems to me, that we need to evolve in our perception and high brow attitude of poetry. This is a best-seller. This book has sold so many poetry books that, damn, you ask yourself, who is reading poetry? Well, it appears to me that r.h. Sin has a gift and the masses are reading his uplifting words. His gift and brilliance lies in his simple expressive way of telling us a story from his own personal experience.

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If you are a woman, who has been taken advantage of, ignored, rejected, abused, not loved the way you deserve… it is easy to see yourself on these pages. Most women have fallen prey to men that can’t love them back and vice versa. Sin sees the strength in women and expresses it with beauty. The fact that the poet is a male, makes the words he writes about women even more poignant. His point of view gives us another perception as well, of a man, who wasn’t loved the way he deserved; how women too, can take advantage of love and not give back any intimacy or love in return. That is what I adore about this book…the fact that we get both perspectives of not receiving the love we need.
I also adore the size of this book, and its compact nature. The paper feels almost like newsprint and the typeface is typewriter font, giving you the feel that it is typed. It has an old feel to it in a modern way.
In the poem, “strange love” Sin writes, “ I hope you find someone who falls in love with the strange that lives within you.”
I read this many times, grasping that we are all in some way strange and we all hope to meet a person that can love that part of us. In essence, this is a fear for most people and we try to hide the weirdness in us, up until we can’t anymore. In that simple phrase, so many emotions run through your mind of being accepted for who you are and realizing that most people just didn’t accept that part of you that you so desperately want them to.
I have read this book twice so far and I know for a fact that I will read it again. This is what a great poetry book should do, make you want to go back for more. I suppose it could be during this particular time in my life, I am feeling more vulnerable and this perhaps made me connect to the words and emotions in this book; however, I felt as a woman, he hit the nail on the head with the misunderstanding of love and lust.
I think that the way he writes is pure and from the heart, and even if you have heard some of these quotes or expressions before, reading them again only hammers home the fact that life is short and don’t stay in a relationship that harms you, but try to move on, no matter how hard, and find a true love. It may be a bit idealistic, but that is what poets do, create a world for the reader. r.h. Sin has a unique poetic voice in the natural way he writes and creates a world for us women, that feels safe and loving.
In “a New York summer” Sin writes a longer piece which portrays a man understanding that he has to walk away from a harmful relationship, and by harm, I am implying not being loved back in return. This is how we harm ourselves, by staying in a relationship that cannot give you what you are giving back.
I have chosen some of my favourite pieces in this book to share with you, but there are too many so I will leave you with a few above.
This poetry book fully explores relationships and how they can turn beautiful and loving with the right partner or the complete opposite with the wrong one. So in the words of r.h. Sin,
consilium I.
the love you deserve
can’t be found
while holding on to someone
who doesn’t deserve you”

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Social media links:
View profile at Medium.com
Twitter: @byRHSin
Instagram: @r.h.sin
https://www.instagram.com/r.h.sin/?hl=en
To buy his book:

Never forget that literature is an art expressed in words.

Thank you for reading and if you have any comments please leave them below.