I remember, I was in school  learning how to write words for the first time and thinking to myself , “Finally. I can write poetry again!”  I don’t remember what I wrote , but I do remember playing with a tub of sand when the Principal and some grown ups came into the classroom to talk to my teacher.  They  whispered about me and pointed –  “That’s the little girl who wrote the poetry I showed you…” I remember wondering why they thought that was special . Surely they could write poetry themselves? …lol  Later on in years, I admit , I used poetry to basically be a lazy student.  I knew that all I had to do was fire one at an English teacher and boom – an”A” .  It only backfired on me once when I wrote my book report on a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream in grade 9  (16 years old). The teacher gave me an F for plagiarizing and there was no convincing her otherwise.  I took it as a compliment – but I still never took writing poetry seriously.  I ‘d never met another poet.  I somehow got the impression that all poets were dead.  I live in a place where it is just not part of mainstream culture (no – rap just is not quite the same thing). But now that I have become an Artist – it’s as if something in me woke up.  I  spend the day manipulating paint on canvas or working on a huge steel sculpture and find that my body  runs out of energy far sooner than my inspired imagination.  So those times when I’m exhausted  (like now) – I can still create. I can take ideas and energy and sculpt them in the mind of the listener and play emotions like a musician plays an instrument. I often choose sensual music to listen too and I find that much of my poetry borders on the erotic.  Not erotic in that lustful, disgusting pornographic way that North Americans seem to love so much – I mean erotic in the sense that  life is an erotic experience – sunshine warmed  skin – breathing – observing light – the intoxicating scent of my husband – titillating taste buds with delicious tid bits – snuggles and hugs with children and pets – belly laughs – looking deep  into another’s eyes  for an eternity,  kind of erotica. I suppose as an Artist I have become a seeker of Beauty.  It is everywhere and I’m in bliss.  This is the state of mind in which I can create my works, whether that be poetry or art.  I hope you enjoy my travail, my journey…

BTW: please forgive the grammar – we poets just don’t give a damn

Poem : Sphynx, by Mardi

Painting :  (a favourite artist ) Michael Parkes

.

..

…

Miss

tress

Tigress

sitting here

upon my breast

muscles coiled

and   tail

a

switching

 

barely perceptual

 

whisker twitching

 

rising and falling

 

under your

 

great

 

weight

 

my

 

breathing

 

powers against

 

the Queen of Fate

 

Your focused gaze

 

upon me rests

 

as the earth

 

beneath

 

my back

 

is blessed

 

from your

 

rumbling

 

purring

 

sandstone

 

chest

 

 

.

I

blink

eyes widen

as open maw

 

Y A W N S

 

as an extended paw

s   t   r   e   t   c   h   e   s

out one single claw

to gently

prick

my

L

i

p

 

A

scarlet

drop of

 

.

 

life’s

dew

extruded

from my

puckered

pout

a

reminder

of  what

price is

due

a

tear

a

cry

a

muffled

shout

for a

child

 

that has been slew

 

spinning on

 

the round-about

 

whilst

I

trembled

meek and mewed

jesses loosened >>>>

head unveiled >>>>>>>>>>>

horizons calling  setting sail >>>>>>>>>

 

singing boldly  telling tales >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

pearl and truth  encrusted trails >>>>>>>>>>>>

 

painted portals >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 

of imagined lands >>>>>>>>>>>

wild winds caress >>>>>>>

like imagined hands >

fevered kisses >>

blissed-out

sleeps

in

 

kundalini

 

wrinkled

 

sheets

 

…

 

..

.           .            .

.           .           .

.            .

.