If

If the water on the windowsill

could be your molecules

they would give me a paper

to smell

a pen to place safely away

near my utensils

think of me when it rains

how the droplets

become you and me

falling from the sky

like bullets on a battlefield

like trees in the rainforest

sometimes still

most times turbulent

aged and chopped

preserved and honoured.
From “Love & Vodka”

All my books are available at all on-line bookstores, Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, etc. Thank you for reading & your support.💞


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Review of “Honeyface, Hers Truly” by Maria Magdeleina Lotfi

I met a poet with an old soul trapped in the body of a twenty-two year old. I told her I was trapped in a forty-eight year old body and we understood each other.

We both come from Montreal.

We both come from immigrant parents.

We are both poets.

We exchanged our books on Sherbrooke street. It was a meeting of the minds. We both agreed that we come from a different world and not many people understand us. Upon reading the first page of Maria Magdeleina Lotfi’s poetry book, I felt the pull of her words upon me.

The feeling you get from reading this book is one view from a poet’s life. You delve into her art and admire her way of writing and view of the world. The isolation of being a poet, the freedom, the yearning…all these emotions are poured onto every page.

 

I especially love this poem:

poets

poets

are like

werewolves.

their true selves

come to life

under

the full moon,

howling

their soul out.

 

I must have folded a dozen edges on the corners of my favourite poems. I will go back to read them and that is what makes a poetry book stand out. Going back to read it again.

Her book is full of wonder and knowledge, soul searching and experience. If you want to get drunk on a poetry book, get drunk on this one. If you want to read a refreshing poetry book full of culture, family, love, pain and love, this is the one.

In her poem, “crazy.” Maria Magdeleina Lotfi writes,

” when people call me crazy,

it’s as if they’re pointing out

a mental disease.

i am not a freak.

i am you are me.

i speak out loud

your darkest thoughts.

i wear the details they miss.

i love what is ugly.

i am overwhelmed

as the water

that fills sirens’ lungs.

i don’t twist words

you hurt me with.

i remember them exactly

like old photographs,

and the tone of your voice

with which they were said,

and the hesitation

that surrounds them

never escapes me.”

It is in these effortless ease with words, that Ms. Lotfi writes all the words you cannot say as a writer and poet. There are dozens of poems and prose that leave you breathless.

It was a pleasure to meet such a soul and it is the beginning of a poetic friendship that I will hold dear to me.

Below are some links where you can discover her work.

 https://www.amazon.com/HoneyFace-Truly-Maria-Magdeleina-Lotfi-ebook/dp/B01FRU7212
 

 

 https://mariamagdeleinalotfi.wordpress.com/books/

And her Instagram, where we met…

Where I lay my nest

Along the shores of my bank,

I spotted this seashell; it was

the color of my childhood.

In a tiny plastic bag, knotted twice,

I was given ink-colored rocks

along with a note,

written by his aunt,

Greek tiny writing.

 

These rocks are from Voulagmeni Beach. For you with love,

so you could always have a part of Greece with you. 

Your aunt, Tasia. 

 

I did a DIY and recycled

glass lime pies

cute decorative bowls

I could not throw away,

along with Petite Maman jam jars.

Covered the note under them

like a lost treasure.

 

Who will find it next?

 

The dead

have so much more to say

after their death.

Tiny handwritten notes,

photos from 1956, first passport

upon entering Canada,

more recipes,

my own cards with no dates.

 

It was my father’s birthday yesterday,

he would have been 76.

I said Happy Birthday to you,

to the ice cold day, parked in

front of the cemetery on my way

to Starbucks.

I lay my nest in all the places

where I lived.

On Stuart Street, 1974,

running across the street

to elementary school

while the bell rang.

Grade four, suburbia nightmare,

large backyards

and poker parties.

I lay my nest

where my children are

my husband’s hand

my dead father

my mother’s midnight panic attacks

my brother’s sweet soul,

while

everyone else

begins and ends my days

with artful quotes

maniacal attacks,

while everyone begins to think

they are just a character in my next

novel. The truth is

no one exists

for that long

except characters.

Lay my nest within

for soon enough

everyone will be gone.

 

 

 

 

 

hallucinations

Once he saw my eyes

and left me blinded

by his look.

I told him jokingly I would be

his Brooklyn Baby from Montreal,

but he never listened to Lana

as closely as I always do

and

my boyfriend was singing on stage.

I’m too old to love him; I’m to cold to hold him;

I’m too sweet to know his bad-ass;

but he holds my feathers

and sees right through me.

transparent, he whistles, as I walk past him

then he holds the door open for me.

follows me to the sortie

and is gone

but he

watches me smoke

i thought he was gone,

as i stare at the stars

ignoring the chatter

of who wanted to know

how i shared my mind with the world.

i have no choice

i say, i’ll die if i don’t.

he waves from across the street

and i wondered if it was

my mind

hallucinations again

playing tricks on me.

pass the bourbon, i said,

once the dark became light,

serious, intent on getting so drunk

that i wouldn’t reflect

on the exact blue of his eyes

and why the specks

even mattered at all.

Sunday morning portrait, 2015

You may wonder

who I am

or who you are

or who we are together.

or apart?

leading highway lives

from the end to the start.

I saw you first

you were talking with friends

embarked on your high horse,

the room was hazy,

smoky, jazzy, of course.

Did you forget your desire?

At first glance,

was there a burning fire?

Were you in a poetic trance?

or a real life dance?

I am no one you want to love

been there and done that,

let my need float up above

blend with the sky

I fall out from

like a gift from the Greek gods’ nectar pie

here to ease your numb

feelings from life,

the blended coffee strife…

which to choose?

I forgot, you take no cream,

you never lose,

you are high above all the sports’ teams

the judgement call

you like to watch me fail, fall –

admit it –

nothing would please you more

than to hear me

moaning

like a paid whore

You do not have to put

your hands in your pockets,

I am free, I need no wallets,

no words of lies

please wear your secret lockets

and cover my eyes

in seductive disguise.

I should be asleep

but the words are heavy, knee deep

in your sweet-smelling mud.

I like it

when I am drowning

in my own flood.

Not any closer to who I am

just take my fucking hand

eventually we will land.

Urges

I fell into his dream

did not want to wake up

are you believing everything you read again?

stop that shit

believe in nothing for a while

so drove into the city

bought vampire socks from sports stores

and white boots on St-Laurent

from a cute Parisian

twice his age and twice the addiction

everything is a message in the air

around me

straying and trespassing

into those brief moments

we shared

help me through

the long day

the snowstorm residue

lack of sunshine on my soul

press your lips up against mine

I will write you a romantic love poem

about how much of a beast I could be

instead of a beauty

block my love from your ego

my hair always hangs down

and when it doesn’t

that’s when you should worry

or never think of me at all

better off

ignoring my rants

poetry

books

you’re more of a pleasure seeker

more of a traveler into dark passages

I will lay on the grass

alone

staring at the sky right above Montreal

as if

a sky needs a name

or a poem

needs a title.

As if

you could ever understand me.

Your language

Language is wine upon the lips. – Virginia Woolf

You made me reckless

and I loved that about you

for

you are like the star in the sky

I can never reach. There is always

that one

that catches your eye

my grasp can only reach

the forest. The sky is

another space I will one day

fall from as I do in my dreams.

Drink wine from my glass

head out into the party with me

St-Laurent is still trendy

you just have to know

where to go

my friends are waiting with

their high heels and Facebook quotes

ready to take my picture and tag me

as I so abhor

as they ask “Do you mind?”

Yes, I fucking do. 

Jack White once told me

“the heart never ages”

and we spoke for a while

but he hates to be famous

and he hates to conform

as most artists do.

I storm through my messages

ignoring most

reading yours over

until I delete

forget over this wine

giggle like school girls

wait for our husbands at night

to wake us up

from our drunken stupor

late night cab rides.

When the fuck are you going to grow up?

Never

That’s what I fucking love about you.

Your lips still taste like wine. 

Tiny space

That space
between us
which marks
our death
can be reached
at two in the morning
in my dream
your lips pressed up
against my ear
my every nerve
feeling you inside of me
my body knew yours
my eyes never opened
but my heart did
and in the morning
my soul felt yours
even if my eyes
never saw
your shade of blue.

It is my brilliant friend
who hears my hopelessness
and misunderstands my poems
my romance
for a love story
I have not written yet.
Toss and turn
sleep in cars
roll down the window
in -35 Montreal cold
and feel something
anything
but this
emptiness
the cold within
meets the out
and blends in perfect
dark roast
one cream
one sugar
One love.

Same sky

I must have learned something last night

perhaps you thought I knew

you always think I know what you will say

and usually I do, but yesterday

you said that perhaps I gave up

a long time ago. The car needs

a wheel alignment like my love.

Straighten me out with kisses

along my back. Imagine an ocean

then dive straight to my bottom

plunge deep,

I will still be there breathing

kissing the stingrays

glowing like clownfish do

dreaming, erasing, writing,

in that state of distraction.

Yet, during the snowstorm

I looked up at the Montreal sky

and thought this is what we share

the same sky

and then I heard it

the chirping in -10

I stopped of course, and searched

each naked branch of ice

as soon as I saw the cardinal

he flew.

He just wants me to know

he’s still watching

and other notes

from the grave

I can read.

Cemeteries too deep in snow

he misses my visits

so he comes

to me.

You’re lucky my mom

says.

How so?

He forgot me.

Never, you know you’re souls are one

from kids

so stop that shit,

just look for it

really look

and then I explain to her

how she once explained to me.

All under the same sky

but

completely

different lives.

Ticket Train

Look up and watch the fall sky.
I keep on waiting
for the perfect day
to burn the notes
but they remain intact
an abstract Pollock painting
locked up
in some burgundy chest
bought at Winners.
No one holds the lock and key
as tightly as you do.
Even if you knew me then
against the high school wall
or now
as I wait in the sky
or in the future
writing you in my life
none of it would matter
except half-hour dates
and minutes to destiny
as love affairs
come and go
like snowstorms
leaving me under
to feel the freezing water
waiting to melt
at his warming touch
and thaw out
under his skin.

Murders in Montreal
rapists in hiding
driving on Sherbrooke Street
looking for tattoo parlours
to imprint your soul
upon my skin
as if it could even
be done.
None of it is real.

What a lively imagination
you have
just listen and maybe
you will hear the birds too
in -20 degrees
Tiffany did, she told
me so this morning.
I lit a candle for her
for her cat-scan
for her life.
I keep on praying for others
who will ever pray for me?
I know the dead do.
The only ones I can rely on.