Poets

Poets want everything

that you can’t buy

so please don’t be a beautiful fool

full of that deep ache

you label

either love or anxiety

confused with what your brain

tells your heart.

poets should inspire

hurt, reveal, cover up

use foundation on rhymes

but we tend to float

between lives

and we know it takes skill

shallow waters

and observation of the highest calibre.

use a gun on my thoughts

destroy the need to get in my mind

and settle for my body.

fill it up with your elbows, knees

beard, shoulders, lips

any part that the sun kisses.

sigh a bit over my drum beats

red carpet humanity

don’t be ashamed of who we are

be proud

be brilliant

in this poetic grace

only the few like us

survive.

when I left you the last time

we met

I tried hard to not look back.

don’t  you find poets

look back way too often

in real life in  pretend?

some questions are better

left unanswered.

there is a riot

in our minds

and hugs and kisses

to all of you

who love how words

kiss us and kill us

in unison.

 

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=poets+the+tragically+hip

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…

Chapbook

Hello my dear readers & writers,

I am severing ties with my publishers and hence have to sell my chapbook old school. You can dm me on social media

Facebook, Twitter or Instagram

and I will sign & mail you a copy of my limited edition chapbook.

I appreciate your support for poetry and my work. I never thought I would ever publish my work. I thought my notebooks would just pile up in my closet like old neglected clothes.

This chapbook would not have been possible without your belief in me. I doubt my ability every day and this is my writing process before you.

This chapbook is raw and unedited, a preview of my poetry book. These poems will not be in my poetry book.

Thank you again.

 Chrissy

Name

 

“The minute you publish your own name you lose freedom.” -Ted Hughes.

 

What we find in a name

is the mystery of a person.

Five letters or ten,

syllables,

you play over and over

to a mantra or a tune of a song

you have never heard.

 

Is it the one you imagined?

 

I give my letters for free,

but you hide yours under

sand castles that break.

I should have changed it,

walked among the normal

and let the secrets lie in

alphabetical order.

 

I meant to

 

but my father died and

everything changed.

Legacy and names

became as relevant

as building inspectors

handing you notices

of an evaluation of a lifetime.

Write, read and produce words

like a factory produces t-shirts

that hold in the warmth

of your soul. Made in China.

Made in Canada. Erupted

recession in California dreamers

wanting to hug all those trees

of

recycled hearts.

 

Poets with fake names

and broken stems

flowered bookmarks

library cards

take your name

and stare at it a while.

Remember when you counted

the letters in your name

 

eight plus seven equals fifteen 

 

adding them up

and making up numbers?

Was that just me?

Memorizing claps.

Rewriting history

with lies.

Names reveal too much

and that alone is the essence

of writing.

 

 

Tears and Confetti

I stopped thinking about how you would

react to something I do years ago. The red

cardinal bird reminds me all the time

of the brown color of your eyes. Death descends

and takes away hope. It takes away

all the achievements you have missed

while sleeping. If only I could

combine my tears with confetti

to celebrate your death and my life

in one afternoon. I could sit

with your ghost and tell you

about all the stories you missed.

Besides myself, first thing I would

tell you is thank you for protecting

my son from being hit by a car,

from his injuries, I know it was you.

(and so does he)

Thank you for watching over us

and wiping my tears when I drive.

I know it was you. Thank you

for reminding me of what is

important even when I cannot

hear your voice, it still echoes

inside me. Thank you for the

realization that being your

daughter made me proud as well

and when people came to

tell me what you have done

for them over the years

I saw you in another light

that brightened up my world.

All these facets, I miss.

All these journeys we never took.

That time you stopped the car

on the way to New York City,

took picture of the fall trees

in the middle of the highway,

Mom shouting we would get killed

your arms around my back

smiling at the camera.

I know it was you.

 

Angels and Devils of Eden

We created a garden out of poets

placed letters to sprout words and sentences.

Each poet wrote with fervour and conviction

one said he saw angels in his sleep,

another claimed to be a devil in torment,

a woman came by and said she rhymes her poems.

Most mocked the poet who kept to himself

and claimed to escape his prison

to create a sanctuary.

They felt his talent threatened the crop

they wanted him out, exiled

but no matter how hard they tried

to kill his psyche

he always sprouted a new poem

that left them envious for his fall.

Plot and scheme. Point fingers at him.

Until their sheet of lies became

truth. They convinced themselves

of their deceit. But the poet found

a fresh crop of poets in a hidden garden

where they  planted words

and treated them as jewels.

The others possessed one object

that the poet could never hold. It was hidden

under their crops, it gave them fuel

it whispered secrets, it fed them poison

to continue their decent into killing a soul

with no water. The poet knew where the

snake lived, but he never gave it

ammunition nor guns. He fought his own

demons instead.

The battle never ends with angels and devils

of Eden.

The poet keeps on writing.

 

Band-aid and Bruises

It is a dream you are selling

to the neediest girl,

about fancy rides in cars

admiring every part of her body

pretending she is the only woman

on earth that matters

besides your wife

and numerous lovers.

All these band-aids and bruises

you cover up your roles

like a thespian.

Tell me have you discarded morality

as much as you profess?

Have you discovered the ego

is the only thing worth stroking?

Have you forsaken even god

to kiss the devil?

I am too old for fancy cars

and precious poets

who claim to

love me from afar.

When I was eight

I covered up my bruises

with band-aids

they healed.

Now they are invisible.

Who can see the cuts now?

Truly not you,

with your line-up of women

at the door

and your presumption

that I like anyone you have ever met before.

I am not even close

to anything you think I am.

I have not been married three times,

I do not have children from different men

I loved.

I do not have a mental illness,

I do not care for the car you drive

or the clothes you wear,

I do not care about the money

and what I have in my life

I cherish

I hold dear.

And what I’ve lost

I hold even closer.

Your tricks do not work with me

so stop trying.

 

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.

 

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.