Ode to Bukowski


People think it is easy to sit all day and write,

but what do they know of working and not making any money?
They would think it absurd, an absurd comedy out of a play. Waiting for a book deal.

Waiting for a reply to a magazine.

Waiting for rejection letters.

Waiting for no one.
Years of this. No partner would accept this kind of relationship. I hate
myself. I hate those

so-called poets

who get book deals.
Why do I suck?

Why must I collect

rejection letters. My

poems tell no one’s

story but mine.
I am so poor, I am so

hungry. At least I have

my music

record player

books

typewriter.

I will be dead one day

and everyone
will finally know
I was a poet.
Not that I even care what

society thinks about me

thunderstorms ache.

trees cry

sidewalks shake.

 

I write poems to make a living

rejected

artist. A few times in my life,
I had great connections

with the homeless
the poets hated me.

but not as much

as I hated them.

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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.

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

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

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 ———————–

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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.

Live my life

I want to be me but you keep on repeating

how my world is not yours. I want to be  you

but you keep on explaining how hard

that could be, what with my wings

and my brains in the sky.

I want to be someone else

just for a day

these blues in me

keep singing.

I bust out once in awhile

and go to the hotel

and stare at the window

and wonder what happened to us.

It’s three o’clock in the morning

and you’re actually sleeping

through my existential crisis.

Again? yes, again and again

I knew you could never handle me.

Why do people who say

“I love you” want you to change

in ways that are not in your nature?

I say “I love you” and can define why.

I love the flaws and imperfections.

I see the world in an absurd way

in a theatre with the playwrights

who made it so. Ionesco weeps

with me too. We all discuss the marvels

of how hating someone

is still loving someone.

I don’t know how you came

to use sex and art as your bullets.

I caught them in my mouth and with my pen

and looked at you to see the love in your eyes

but it wasn’t there.

I still love you though.

I know I don’t deserve it.

I’m wicked now.

A human weeping willow tree,

churning poems for no money.

If only we could be rich

off of words.

If only you cared for me

more than what you claim.

Loving me is difficult I know.

I thought you would smash all the pictures

along my wall

but you only added your photo there

and now I stare at emptiness.

I embrace cupid

and this horrible frightening love.

 

Book Reiew of “Deciduous” by Higherhawk

Higherhawk has written a poetry book divided into three sections. Love, Grief and Life. Each part reveals a depth to his poems and emotions. There are mostly short poems full of longing and love. Each poem has a title so it is easy to refer back to the poems. “Open Sea” is one that stood out for me, “There is a stillness that falters out in the open sea. Something beyond the calm pulling at my soul, or is that your echo calling me home.”

The pull of the sea and love is compared in a wise analogy. In the poem, “The Veil,” the poet reveals a deep connection with a woman who has touched the poet’s soul with her love.

The illustrations by Lee Zimmerman are a wonderful accompaniment to this lovely poetry book. Some poems have illustrations to reflect the words, such as, “Slips Further: Pen and Ink”


Higherhawk writes romantically and reflects on nature often. He writes about desire and loving a woman as if it were an art. He describes it in detail in the poem, “Clay” where we see how much he adores and cherishes the woman or muse he describes.


Love is comforting in this book; to be loved and to love in return, like the greatest love story, two lovers in a tunnel of love in the middle of the forest or in each other’s arms. The forest is a constant theme within the book, running, walking or being alone among the trees. Equally, the sun and sunlight are also quite prominent in Higherhawk’s poems.

Deciduous’s second part of the book is Grief, and this section depicts the loss of a loved one in extraordinary detail and the heartbreak one carries around.

There are many great poems in this book that touch your heart. The fact that I got a signed copy makes this book extra special to me. I highly recommend this poetry book as a beautiful addition to your collection.
Check out Higherhawk’s Social Media sites below:

https://m.facebook.com/higherhawkpoet/

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16620240.Higherhawk

Twitter: @higherhawk

Book: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XRDKFW5