Being Greek

Being Greek means learning how to be clever

before you.

Learning about language and ancestry as a bedtime story.

Living in modern times

with an ancient soul,

in the Corinthian earth,

ghosts

talk

talk

talk

about me.

I make up my own rules

eat words while you sleep

awake before the birds

hunting poems out of my skull

bones

under my olive skin,

kissing my trinity girls.

#5minutewrite

for My soulsistas @jwprebich @lexmeehan

#streamofconsciousness #noediting #amwriting #christinastrigas #poeticsighs #poetsofig #wordporn #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #poetryisnotdead #poetryisart #canadianpoetry

tag you’re It

from my Instagram

Release Day of A BOOK OF CHRISSYISMS

I’m 50 today and what better way to celebrate than releasing my book…

 

ebook CHRISSYISMS (1)

A Book of Chrissyisms portrays Christina Strigas’s inner perspectives; explaining her viral quotes, popular poems, and an evolving outlook on life. Based off of reader commentary, journal entries, social media, and life, Christina depicts what it all means: being a writer, a mother, a friend, a confidant, a mentor, an editor, a teacher, and a member of society.

Part confessional and part quirk, A Book of Chrissyisms includes essays and a variety of creative writing—a fun, idiosyncratic page-turner which readers and writers can learn from, enjoy, and best of all, relate to.

Christina Strigas started working on this book for fun. She amassed some of her quotes and tweets that were popular on social media, especially on Twitter and Instagram.

It is a non-fiction 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

This book is a labor of love. In this coffee table book, I write poems, quotes, short essays, and give you my perceptions on various subjects, from public phone calls to narcissists.

M popular quotes that went viral on Twitter are all included in this book. I try to explain in a philosophical and psychological way what has helped me in her path. Creativity and blocking off people who harm you are one of the paths to self-healing. From my own experience and life, as a poet, writer, woman, and mother, I open up my eyes to the multi-dimensional mind inside all of us.

If you love poetry, quotes, and essays, this is a fun easy read for you to delve into and read over and over again, to pass along to a friend and to keep on your coffee table.

 

Thank you for being here and supporting my work. I appreciate it very much.

Much love,

Chrissy

 

Click on the link to check it out:

 

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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.

Misunderstanding

I have to take off my bracelets to love you

but I keep my ring

to remind me of all the misunderstandings

in modern love and romance. First

one is the texting,

then the replies

then the emojis

the silence.

Then the waiting around

to be misunderstood while

waiting in grocery lines

and examining faces

lines, reactions.

Smiling at strangers

in real life, on the internet,

in the cafe line.

I am sick of it all.

I would rather lie

down and masturbate.

I want to be sad

over all the times

you never made love to me.

This hole in my heart

is what keeps me going.

I need it

to write.

I love my randomness

and your demands.

I live for the music

the dream

the petals.

No one can control me either,

trust me,

but I always come back

I never leave

I’m not the type

to leave the walls up for long

and what I love about you

is that you

are exactly like me

and yet

not like me at all.

Dichotomy of love

of sex,

it’s eros.

I love you for never giving up

on all the misunderstandings

just driving on and on

and even when you are angry

you tell me

and again I fall in love

with you.

 

 

Reasons

Some people love you

for all the right reasons

but you still go searching

for the wrong ones. The ones

that keep you up or

make you want to smoke up

all day. I never hide behind

a persona or a brand,

I am what I am

sometimes ditzy

sometimes brilliant

but always me. I woke up

in a Woody Allen movie

you can guess the title

but you know it’s dysfunctional

and petty yet narcissistic. I

liked talking to you

because you never interrupt

and this is such a quality

that I adore. I don’t have

scorn, I just love you

so I put up these walls

to protect myself

from how much I care.

I will never tell you,

of course, or maybe

if I’m drunk and Purple

Rain’s solo is on and you

turn to me and with your

eyes you tell me

how you never meant

to cause me any sorrow.

I know. I am smarter

than you think. I carry

you like e.e cummings poem

nowadays it’s modern:

in my phone, in my pocket,

but in another era

it was in my heart

and you,

you are invisible to everyone

but me. You are like

a magician

popping into my life

like the pills

I swallow.

I loved you and lost

you like

a true poet

and you can’t get

any closer to

art than a few hours

alone in a locked room.

Favim.com-florian-nicolle-art-beautiful-soul-emotion-573684

7 songs

I was reading Truly Madly Guilty

in my t-shirt and underwear

under the blankets

away from the -25 Montreal cold.

When seven songs arrived

at my doorstop

that killed me in a slow

musical dance.

Each one had a story to tell

like a poem

each voice had locks and keys

to a mysterious track

in Old Montreal, the one I would

stare at every day for seven years

while I worked at that bar.

I want to smoke now

kill my lungs

but it has been two

and a half years

I have not killed myself

that way. I could drink instead

and throw up my pain.

Your hand is somehow

in my heart and on my skin

and your territory

is not even near mine

yet magically you

appear at my doorstop

with seven songs

of heartache.

You light me up

and I believe again.

 

Sunday Musings

I woke up to write

before the coffee, the sunrise

it was words that fancied my skin

to forget my dream the moment my eyes opened.

What is it that makes you want a woman like me?

Your list is long

and everything you say

makes me reevaluate my life as if it were a spreadsheet.

I know you only want to use your knees to spread my legs

my arms

across yours. It is what I want.  I really do admire

how you are so quick to the point.

You do not miss a song, I know I hate to text

and read way too much. I am quiet and methodic

concentrate on the typewriter as if it loved me back.

How could we be here?

People dying from cancer, heart attacks,

and I’m aching for you. It is not a myth,

or a legend, it is how my heart wants

to be pressed up close next to yours

with no fabric between.

I am not anyone special, trust me.

If you lived with me, you would see

so best to elevate my status by

being silent of all my defaults

eliminate my errors

by not telling you anything

more. I will keep it for my poems

my books, my next life.

This is what writers do,

we beat ourselves up with words.

The difference between us

is distance

yet all the words

you refuse to share with me

I know them already.

 

 

 

 

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard

 

Hello everyone,

If you’ve read any of my books, I would appreciate a review on Goodreads and Amazon. Click on the link above to see what I’m reading and my reviews.  I have tried for the past few days to add the Goodreads widget to my blog, but I feel so lost in cyberspace, not even youtube tutorials help, so I suppose it’s not meant to be. However, I feel that Goodreads is such a useful social media site for writers and readers to share their works and opinions on books.

I am always honest in my reviews and don’t believe in fake praise.

I have received some invitations to review some poetry books from authors I know, and I am going to be posting some of them up on my blog soon.  If anyone is interested I will consider reviewing some poetry books if you want to email me at christinastrigasauthor@gmail.com

To review novels, you can email me and we can discuss.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

All my best,

Chrissy

 

November sun

I waited in line

to buy a frying pan

two notebooks

four journals

and organic chips.

I go places but get distracted

with all the things I don’t need.

You would think all the women

behind me

were having their nineteeth

nervous breakdown. No, this

is how the world looks at eleven

o’clock in the morning at Homesense.

The unhappy line

although I was pretty focused

for five minutes. I did what I

had to do. It feels as if a

Parallel Universe, yes the Mandela

effect, is here. Global warming

is at hand. Trump is President

and everything is possible

in A-M-E-r-i-ca

even reality hosts

can rule the world.

My worries are meaningless

my anxiety slapped me again

on highway thirteen.

Apple store is a drug that lures

you in and eats your soul.

Yet this November sun

has a way of warming me up

like the thought of you does.

You are in my poem now

you are in my phone,

even when I close it

you still exist.

I learned to detach again

to not give everything I got

in sixty seconds. I will sit

back and stop reflecting.

I promise to enjoy the

rays you

send my way.

I promise to be honest.

I try to understand

why years later

you still want me.

Coffee Shop poems

I imagine myself

dying of some

disease. A morbid thought,

I know. I tell my children,

one day I will be dust.

I think I can fly. They nod

their heads and laugh.

I stare at the birds hoping one day

I will reincarnate into one and migrate,

take flight. I want to leave this city

in the heavy winter and fly south. Meet

the other nomads and talk about

our body heat. I want to see him

naked, knocking him down

with his knack for knowledge

about my imperfections. I want

him to look past the words and

battery chargers, the truth, the

half-made up lies, the quick

good-byes. It is all a bunch of

fucking crap. I smile, falling into

his trap. I am the best actress you

have seen off-screen. The theater

is in my mind. The mirror is off

the wall in between the hooks

and family portraits you barely find. I want

every poem to be the worst one.

I wish the next one,

to shake his world, make him

think about why he leaves me

every day, why I expect every man

to be him. I want him to continue

hating everything he loved

about me. The way he saw the sea

through me, the crashing waves,

the all night raves. The days

pass slow, he wrote me in a letter,

you make think I have forgotten

all the masks you wore, but

I went to Venice too, I saw how you

were everywhere, in the art you can explore,

the pleated skirts, the Murano glass

in spurts. I have not thought about you,

I will not think about you, no matter

how many times you want me to.

I want to be you and you want to be

me. When I write a poem that

makes me physically sick, the kind

of poem you would share with no one

the kind, that even

your lover couldn’t handle.

The coffee shop is too crowded.