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,

My story on Wattpad

Hey guys,

Check out my story on Wattpad, just joined and having fun writing. Are you a member? Let me know what you think about this social media platform?

So far I am just experiencing with the writer in me and the stories, but I found there is actually a poetry section. Who knew?

I will be taking a summer break, be back in September.

Enjoy your summer.

Follow me on Instagram for my story and adventure in real life as I explore Greece.

 

Take care of your heart and soul. They are precious.

 

Much love,

Chrissy xx

Click on link below:

http://my.w.tt/UiNb/bwrt2pGhZE

In the Middle

Once I was at the end of the love song

crying for years because it was over

before it even began. We were caught

loving the wrong person. I immersed

from my drowning and swam to the

beginning of the line. I sailed across

your poems and floated on your words.

You sent them to me by mail, on out-

dated postcards, you wrote them on

the back of my hand with your

fingertips. I sent you magic and

illusions with one needle on your

arm. We lived in a movie and

recited Shakespeare naked in bed.

You were not even close to being

who I thought you were. I was

too much for you to handle back

then, wanting to do everything

and doing absolutely nothing

about it. I climbed Mont-Royal

in heels and you laughed at

my absurdities. I was spontaneous

and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.

I bent backwards on words

and the power of your hands.

Now I’m in the middle of something

that will change me forever.

I will never bet that girl again.

I have to be someone I thought

I would never be. Life throws you

these wicked curveballs

and I am catching them,

ready to be stuck here

hoping that it will not get

worse. All this hope

for songwriters and poets

but for a regular woman like me

it’s a waste of my time.

A poem about your back

I wrote the five letters of your name

in cursive writing with my fingertips.

I wrote the rest of the poem

in my head. It never comes to me

in the moment. It comes after

in riptides and synonymous with

coffee drinks. It arrives at my front

gate and whispers how you made

me feel cherished and adored.

I wrote in my head, on your back,

I love you, for showing me

your eyes, your thoughts, your touch

for having me

in your life. It is not even the

hours that matter, but what you

do with the ones that do, with the

silence and the words. Nothing

is something. When you ask me

what am I thinking? I am thinking

about how I do not want time

to cheat me, but it seems to

never stop banging with truth.

I felt your closeness

inside me.

And even laying together under

the sheets with no sun

brought the heat of Venus

into our hearts.

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The Accident

I can relive it every other day

of how I almost died in broken glass

but I am not dramatic like that

do not label me a hero

because the angels came to save

the three little girls

as they whispered in my ear

give her oxygen

lift the car

run to pick her up

I picked up her tiny body all blue

from under the tire

it’s weird how these images

never escape your mind.

 

 

Hey, you’re bleeding, the paramedic said.

 

I bent down and just then notice the ripped pants

and bleeding knee.

Oh, I shrugged.

 

I held her hand in the ambulance

so who really cares about some broken glass

in my knee

or in my heart

as Blondie’s premonition

eluded me.

It was not a regular day

as CTV news waited hours

for my account

 

 

I saw you on the news, strangers at Bath and Body Works

so now all anyone

has to say to me

the accident

and memories of how I hit a

glass wall at the Starbucks

hit me, and I cried waiting in line,

and that night all I did

was hit that Jack Honey

and hugged my pillows

as buckets of vomit

cleared my mind

of everything.

 

Life is a miracle though

for those three tiny girls

just entered kindergarten this year

 

November 12, 2013. You can google it

if you want to.

This is a true story.

Nothing to deconstruct her.

Satellites

I arrived late to the party

waited two and a half hours

for a man to never show up.

The music was lame so I made

my way over to the DJ. His name

was Dany and we hit it off.

I remembered him from

a rave in Old Montreal when

I danced all night with strangers.

People remember me more

and stop me for being outrageous

but I am not a DJ, I tell them.

I am a teacher. A nod of the head

and I am labelled.

You don’t look like a teacher.

 

You don’t look like a human. 

 

No one seems to get my humor.

Sometimes not even myself.

This is what being lonely means.

One line sentences that turn

into a poem or a seed

for tomorrow’s poem.

I was supposed to write about

satellites, but it seems

I cannot stop writing about

how you are never

where I am. I imagine

the satellites are never

pointed in our direction

and when they are,

I miss my connection.

 

The DJ told me he wrote a book

about the genealogy of his African

tribe and turns out he is

Michael Jordan’s cousin.

I confessed I wrote a few books

and dabble in poetry. I confessed

my sins to a DJ and maybe he

will write a poem about me as I am

writing about him.

 

You look like a poet. 

 

Not sure what to make of any

of the poetry readings

I have all the intention

of attending. Not sure

I could ever be what

anyone expects.

I disappoint myself

the most.

 

You look upset.

 

 

 

 

Constellations

I unwrapped the foil to let the salmon

breathe. I unlocked my heart to

let my words unfurl.

I was told I am a good girl

who attracts all the bad boys

so stop that nonsense. Stop

wanting all the ones who

want more than you. Stupid

to stare at the constellations

and see your eyes everywhere,

it is dumb to hope that you

would burst through my front

door and ask me, “What’s for

dinner?” It is immature of me

to be full of surprises for you

when you hate surprises

and give me dirty looks at parties

if I surprise you with my

flirtations. It is so naive

of me to want to stop time

and stare at the stars instead

of your eyes. You might as well

forget all my poems that are

about sex and lust or my books

that mean nothing when

I am six feet under. I wake up

from my meditation and want

you badly. Who was that singer?

Who was that writer? Where are you?

Are you flying? Driving? Drinking?

Where am I? Am I sleeping?

Teaching? Advising? Lecturing?

At some hotel in some strange room

with myself?

Are you close by

worrying about the traffic jam?

the time between time

when you think of me?

Then I am gone, forgotten.

Until the next poem,

or drive

to an outing

I am not at.

 

 

 

Coming up for Air

You dragged me to the show at Corona Theatre

telling me, wait, just wait

and I waited, but nothing happened. I made

up a lot of poems in my head,

of how much I hated their sound in 1997

and it could have been so much of a better

year if you never bought me those tickets.

 

Please do  not remind me of Andre

who gifted me Ratt tickets and ditched

me so I ran to the mosh pit with my brother

and flannel shirts weren’t in style yet.

 

the boys like you, he laughed, buying me another

round of beer at sixteen.

 

The energy reminded me of how

I loved every ounce of your being.

When you approached me, when

you didn’t. When you sat next to me,

when you didn’t. When you fell for me,

when you didn’t. The music aroused me

as you knew it would, but Nina Simone

kept playing in the background of your

old apartment building on the corner of

Jeanne-Mance, right near the hotel

where I lost my virginity at.

You rolled your

eyes at me, like I was just another girl.

 

you’re the one, you said, you have to 

be the mother of my children. 

 

I suppose those are the reasons

you got down on one knee

imagining this is what I wanted.

 

I took the subway to my American Lit

class, it was starting in twenty minutes.

Fuck, I was late again.

 

The professor invited me over.

God, how complicated

everything seemed.

I should write a thesis.

I should give him a blowjob.

I should become a writer.

I should teach.

I should eat his enchilada

it was Mexican night

for the grad students.

 

No, I’m an undergrad. 

 

All the while, there were no cell phones,

no text messaging.

Just me and the grad students

and Mexican night.

So I sat on this bed

and had an interesting conversation

with the professor’s son.

He was eleven.

I slipped out the backdoor.

 

Ain’t got no smokes, I sang to myself.

 

I come up for air once in a while,

most of the time

I write in my head.

 

 

 

Camouflage

Would anyone care to join me

in flicking a few pebbles in the direction

of teachers who are fond of asking the question:

“What is the poet trying to say?”

-Billy Colins, from his poem The Effort

 

I walked down Mont-Royal after looking

twenty minutes for parking. Just another

walk in the mountains on a Sunday afternoon.

Just another coffee afterwards to Vito

who makes the best goddamn coffee in Montreal.

Fuck Olympus cafe,

Vito

is the main deal.

And my friend Peter wanted to open a cafe

with him.

I chopped my head off to be in a photo

behind some row housing with blue hues,

cool doors that I stare at

like designer shoes.

 

I camouflage my eyes

with dark makeup,

but for two days

I did not wear any.

 

I do not think you know

the power of the words

you never say. I do not

think you know the power

of your hands that never

touch me.

 

I am looking for a vintage typewriter

with a heavy history. Sending emails

to strangers about the condition

of the keys, the way the typewriter

breathes as if it could reach through

the screen and tell me

 

I will save you.

 

 

When are your poems going to be about me?

he asks.

 

I am holding on tight to Billy Collins’

poetry book.

Decided to read that instead of Instagram poets,

decided to read poetry

instead of quotes,

decided to never save myself

from drowning

in my own words.

 

Say what you want about me,

you can never know how

poetry

loves

all

of

me

more than humans

can ever.

(or you).

 

Raymond Carver said that he writes poems

because he has no time

for writing books.

 

I feel the same way.

 

Camouflage my life with

a never ending poem

about all the words

locked up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.