Des souvenirs fantômes

story behind the photo

I saw this photo today, and it reminded me. One year ago.

You can look into the eyes of an old photo and almost not recognize the person staring back at you. Is it because that person was preoccupied, you weren’t yourself? Or time has a strange hypnotic way of distancing yourself from memories that may even be recent.

In my case a year ago I went abroad for the first time since I’d become sick. It was a test of sorts. I figured, if I could survive the travel, and the reminder that I had become first sick whilst traveling in 2017, I could become stronger, and endure more things, prove to myself I was on the road to recovery.

The other reason I went abroad was I was running away from the memories. Everywhere I looked, memories like unwanted confetti seemed to harness me to the horror of being sick, of all that it entailed. I often asked friends who were sick, did you suffer from PTSD or some type of horror post-illness? Did you keep returning to the memories without wanting to, as if they would not let you go? Des souvenirs fantômes.

When I was sick I recall being in hospital when SA had very bad weather, and a hurricane was predicted. I was alone in my room, the glass windows were shaking violently, and I was throwing up almost in time to the shuddering. I recall hoping the hurricane would hit my room and spirit me into the ether, it wasn’t an idle wish either, sometimes when things are very bad you really do wish for it to just stop.

Since those days, I have been reminded of health again. There are entire weeks I feel well and I never thought that would happen again. I was told by over 4 doctors I would be permanently sick, never recover, have to go on disability, never work again, and probably need a pace maker in my stomach. I would also never eat solids again and may need feeding by tube. Everywhere I looked, the prognosis was the same, dire, hopeless, terrifying.

If it wasn’t for a handful of my closest friends, I honestly know I would not be here today. I’m not strong enough. I can’t do it alone. Some can, and to them I say, you are incredible. But I am not that strong. I need people to justify carrying on. I need to know I matter. I need to have something aside myself to fight for. Without children, or family here in America it was hard. My family back home were pretty hands-off and my mom eventually decided it was a good time to call it quits altogether and leave my life. I’ve always been told, you are tested the most when you’re at your weakest and this is true, I would not have expected my mom to walk out of my life when I needed her the most, but that’s what she did and I had to learn to accept it.

The other day I had this horrible feeling something had happened to her, but I have no way to contact her or find out if she is okay. Many times I find myself breaking down and crying because I miss her, although I have to remind myself, why would I miss someone who could kick me when I was already down? The reason I believe is due to the abuse from my grandfather. When he abused first my mom and then myself, and my cousins, he ruined or tried to ruin all of us.

The saddest part is he did succeed in ruining my mom and I, because she grew to resent me because of the trauma she’d experienced and when I worked on We Will Not Be Silenced, I wrote a poem about the legacy of trauma and how it is generational and affects so much more than just one person. Unfortunately that poem was my mom’s reason for deciding to cut me out of her life. She had not been in my life very much since she left when I was six but I truly thought we would get closer as we got older and I did not anticipate her quitting talking to me.

If you have ever been sick you will know, you don’t have the energies to fight someone when you’re sick and so I didn’t really fight to keep her, I only told her, I don’t want this, I want you to stay, I love you, I didn’t mean anything bad by writing that poem, surely you know that. Surely you can forgive me. She did not forgive me. And now I know, she never will, because prior to that she had quit talking to me for seven years and she mentioned this time around, she’d never really forgiven me for that either, so it’s clear she will never speak to me again.

Sometimes I try really hard to think of what it was I ‘did’ seven years ago. I know she has a long list, some of the things are justified in terms of existing, I am not perfect, I probably am a disappointment, I am not always congruent or do my best, but … je ne suis pas une personne maléfique, an awful child to have had? No, and no matter what my ‘crimes,’ they are minor in comparison to so many people I know, and yet their parents would never think of walking out of their lives. I never did Heroin, I never stole, I never asked for money, I didn’t sleep with her husband, I did not skin and gut the cat or do Meth in her greenhouse.

It is quite something when a parent leaves you willingly and wants nothing to do with you. It is perhaps the most invalidating feeling I have ever had. On top of the illness it nearly destroyed me. I thought about dying for days. Je voulais mourir. I wanted to have never been born. I couldn’t write, and since she left, I have been fairly unable to write consistently because it took something from me and I suppose I let it.

But as you know, if you have experienced great pain or sickness, you have to live through it or die – those are your only two choices. I chose to survive this time. I didn’t feel I had much to live for, I felt terribly lonely. Terribly afraid. But I also didn’t want something I thought was grossly unfair, to be the reason for my demise. I had fought too hard and for too long for that.

Fortunately I had finally found a doctor who correctly diagnosed me and it turned out all the other doctors were wrong, and what I had, was potentially curable. So now, a year later, or more, I am doing better. I have awful days when I feel like I am ridiculously sick and I cannot function, and that frightens me because I have only myself to depend on, but other times I feel relatively normal. I have yet to feel exactly as well as I did before all of this began, and I also know some of it is psychosomatic by this point, you throw up every day for a year, it’s hard to completely get rid of nausea or a hatred of eating. It’s a bit like having an eating disorder without the reason.

What all of this has taught me is; True friends are rare but they exist if you are lucky. Love is the only reason to carry on. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you is probably the truest thing ever said. Avoir pitié! Have mercy. Because those who don’t, well they may succeed in hurting others, really hurting them, but is that something to ever be proud of?

I lost a lot. Financially. Physically. Emotionally. But I gained a knowledge that if you can get through the worst of it, and see the other side, you can look back at yourself and realize, you made it. So I look at this photo. I realize when it was taken I did not feel well. I was sitting on a corner café wishing I could have an appetite and wishing I would want to eat a tarte and drink a coffee, but instead feeling that horrible pit of stomach sickness that seems to permeate some days. I remember it was a cold day and I thought that day of all the days I’d sat at that exact coffee shop in Europe in that exact street and watched people walk around, and how so much had changed and yet, how so much never changes.

It is weird to sit in the exact place you know you sat twenty years previously. To imagine what you felt and thought twenty years before. To see yourself now, older, wiser (?), to watch the world change, to see all the differences and all the similarities all at once. I remember a certain theatre around the corner was playing something I had wanted to see and I hadn’t had the money to be able to go. I remember my mom coming into town and taking me to a restaurant préféré and our eating until we were stuffed and me drinking wine even though I was underage. I remember feeling sad when I left that we always went our separate ways, and how I had learned at an early age to say goodbye, many, many times and to accept somehow, that division of parents, of homes, of countries, of identities.

I remember my mother was so beautiful, she always had so much grace, so slim and petite and always immaculately dressed and I would try so hard when I met her not to look like a farmers daughter with my messy hair and my one good shirt and one pair of jeans and usually some old scuffed boots. In myself now, I carry around the pictures of her, this unassailable, untouchable, much loved woman, whom I have always on one form or another, chased, wished for, sought. And my father, cycling city streets, messy like me, si beau despite it, able to turn on the charm in a way few could, and how he would zip in and out of slow taxis and cars and I would see him streaking down the road and I would walk for the metro and all the while, feel this divide, two pieces of the puzzle in opposite directions, myself in the middle.

People say, you never get over things, you should get over things, the way to get over things is to get on with things. But as busy as I can be, I never forget. I am always still that girl sitting on the corner, her coffee now cold, her fingers blue with Winter chill, wishing someone would be running towards me rather than going away from me. What we are is who we become, our identities formed by the varied experiences we have or do not have. What if my mother had really cherished me? Wanted me? Needed me? How different I would be now, there is no denying it. There is no whitewashing the shifts and influences that swirl about us, at any given moment, causing us to act out and act upon those influences, comme des cordes de marionnettes.

It is not to say we are not self-determining. I am after all, here and I am not there, I am after all alive despite it all and I am after all not destroyed by her loss. Sometimes you can think you will be and when you find yourself alive despite everything it reminds you, very little truly destroys us, it just shakes us to the core and we change, in myriad ways, taking our baggage and our hurt lockers with us, into new things, with new people, who may never understand why we are who we are, what we are.

I always wore hats. It wasn’t because I hate my forehead although I do. It was because my grandmother said; “chapeaux donnent de la couleur à votre visage.” And I have a very wan, pale, longish face. So hats helped to give me a pinch to the cheeks I badly needed. My mom with her dark eyes and her dark hair never needed such accoutrements she was a natural beauty, with a finer brain than I will ever possess. When I told her I wanted to start writing she told me I was making a mistake because I didn’t have what it took and she was right about that and so many others things but maybe for the wrong reasons. And even so, we do what we do because we have to do it, and it is sometimes better to have done than to have only thought about and never stepped out and said; I’m going to do this anyway.

Since and still – I do it anyway. I feel the fear and do it anyway. Sometimes I fail. Often I do not succeed. I wonder sometimes if I am still at that corner, watching the varied timelines of myself, my mother, my father, my entire famille d’origine, walking these streets, living then, and now, up and down, sideways and inside, climbing the stairs of history, where once a good French restaurant existed and the young and beautiful went, and my mother told me stories of whom she saw there and what they did and we would all belly laugh and those days were good, because we were not apart.

One day I will receive a phone call from someone and they will tell me I will never see my mother rounding the corner again. She is limber still and walks like a teenager, light bodied, with hips that are not stiff. I wonder if I will walk like her at her age. I wonder if I will have anyone left who shares my blood or cares what happens to me when I am her age. I find myself obsessing over those moments, lost and gained, the blouse she wore with green and red, the puff sleeves and how I try to imitate and never quite … succeed. I have run after my mother since I was a little girl, calling her home just as I wished her well in her flight. I both wanted her happiness even if it meant not with me, and I longed for her to need me, to love me, to want me, this thirst that caused me to chase and feel shame for so many years, anyone who might replace or repeat, the pattern.

I don’t chase anyone anymore. I still wear hats. I still think of the dance classes and leaving them all sweaty and hot, how the city could be empty in those days, and you could walk into a little magasin de pain and stuff your face with hot dough. How I didn’t care about anything then, except this pretty belief all would work out and life would be beautiful. How naïve perhaps, but what happy memories, how lightweight they were compared to the darkness. I remember really believing I could dance for a living, I remember really believing I would find someone who would love me forever. I remember joking that I was not very good at doing things half-way and I was far too intense for just a short affaire d’été.

My love for my mother will always be with me. I am still somewhere in time sitting at the café, proving to myself I can recover from an illness, meet the love of my life, eat bread without a care in the world, return to a time when everything was unspoiled. I am still there watching the theatre close down and become a block of flats. I am still sitting there watching my old school friends walk their kids down the cobbled roads, telling them stories of when mommy and daddy were young. I am still a 16 year old running down the street in the night, the sound of music in my ears, trailing feather scarves between my best friend and I. All the time in the world ahead.

When do you say you are ‘better?’ or you are ‘recovered?’ when there are still days of lurching at sea? When do you stop giving thanks? How did you walk away when I was drowning and think I was deserving of that kind of betrayal? When does healing and recovery mean you have to get on with the rest of your life? Which means, getting up from the table, dusting off your coat, applying lip balm, pulling your hat to the side, shaking off your weariness and setting off into the distance.

Neither of us live in that city any longer, we are both tourists to the past. When you visit, you stay in the best hotels and shield yourself from the arms of the past in keeping preoccupied. When I come home, I walk with my arms open, down all the roads that carried all our blood and all our tears. I want to remember. I want never to forget, it’s my history, it’s who I am even as I wish I were not. There is beauty even in pain. Even in the remembering of you loving me briefly, of pleasing you once, of your deep laugh and the way we’d grin in collusion. Don’t you know those are the greatest moments I have? Why would I give them up? For an abatement of pain? I’d rather feel pain than be staring into nothing. il me détruit. C’est moi.

Mama. What are you doing today? Do you remember us laughing as we walked arm in arm back from the restaurant, high on life? And nothing between us? Do you remember when I brought you flowers every time I would visit, even as a little girl? Irises were your favorite. We liked to watch them come through at first thaw. Do you ever wonder what I’m doing? Where I am? Do you ever think you see out of the corner of your eye, a girl sitting alone at a café table, drinking chocolat chaud, dunking pain de massepain? I feel she would still, despite herself, get up and go to you if you ever called, if you ever waved your hand in her direction?

I was once told I love too much. I thought it was the nicest thing I’d ever been told.

Todays hat is burgundy. I gave up cigarettes and red wine many years ago. Sometimes I can taste her perfume, the one she wore when I was a child, as if it had briefly inhabited a moment, and then, just as quickly, retreated.

 

SMITTEN authors share their favorite poems in SMITTEN / Susi Bocks

susie bocks clementineAlthough there were so many great poems in SMITTEN to choose from, “Please like girls” by Clementine, took me back to the early years of discovering my sexuality. Each time I met girls who got my attention, there was this feeling of mystery surrounding our interactions, and it was hard to talk openly about desires.

Same-sex attraction just wasn’t spoken about in those years. This poem highlighted the trepidation and angst I experienced during the teenage years but also my interest in the same sex which remained unspoken until I became a woman.

Remembering those feelings that I dared not speak about is a powerful reminder how important SMITTEN is to the next generation. I’m so glad to be a part of the energy of this sex-positive culture. #LOVEISLOVE

We were very honored to have Susi’s poem in SMITTEN she’s an extremely talented writer. Susi Bocks writes a wonderful blog of her own on WordPress called I Write Her and also is Associate Editor and Barista Author at Fictional Café

Susi’s work can be purchased via Amazon you can also catch her thoughts on Twitter 

To read more SMITTEN poets purchase a copy in time for the holidays and share this incredible project with someone you love. SMITTEN is available via Barnes & Noble, Amazon and Ingram for any independent bookstore. Consider supporting SMITTEN each purchase COUNTS and lifts up the visibility of 120 incredibly talented poets and artists who created this beautiful collection of poetry and art. 

Poets of SMITTEN Interview Series: Hoda Essa

Hoda Abdulqadir Essa is a New Orleans native with roots hailing from East Africa. Hoda is a maker, writer, lover, shapeshifter and soul traveler, searching for heaven or hoping to construct it with her own bare hands.

How does being a poet inform your views on expressing emotions through writing? 

As a poet, I’m consistently working from a place that many people call “emotional intelligence” – in other words, I am dreaming out loud when I open my mouth or put pen to paper. So, for me, being a poet comes with a subtle responsibility to always tell the truth. Poetry is not a soundbite nor is it a news-clip. To me, poetry is the rhythm that lives in each person individually. It’s important to express that and writing is a powerful medium to do so.

When you found out SMITTEN was about women who loved women, without the emphasis on erotica that is usually the case – could you immediately think of ways to express that love through writing? 

Absolutely! My friend and I talk about bringing intimacy to life and to me that is what art is. No one has ever written ballads about an intellectual conversation they’ve had but we pause to capture the gentleness of a lover’s brush against your own skin – to me writing is a way at grasping moments that we ultimately have no language for. The erotic, especially, can be more greatly understood as we wrestle with it on the page.

What does it mean to you to be part of something like SMITTEN and have your work alongside other women who love women? 

To me, this is a declaration of the time’s we are in. Standing together in creativity unity is the most empowered place for many women, myself included. It means to me that I have graduated into a time space reality that is being carved out by the very people writing and experiencing love for and from a woman.

Why is love a worthier subject than erotica to write on? 

To me they’re intermingled. You have to love a moment to be inspired enough to write about it. Erotic writing is being so in love with an intimate moment that you want to recreate it for others. The two are closely related as far as I am concerned.

Have you ever been SMITTEN and if so, do you feel it’s possible to summarize those feelings in poetry? 

I am smitten and often. As often as possible. And I love this word as the title for the anthology (kudos to you all) because that word encompasses how wistful it is allowing oneself to be overtaken by simply being fond of another. I’ve tried my entire life to bottle this feeling and give it to the world so yes! It is absolutely possible to summarize these feels in poetry, until we can market the sensation of course!

Your poem in SMITTEN was excellent, why did you choose this particular poem and what did you hope it would convey to readers?

I chose this poem because I was inspired by a woman who took my breath away. She was beautiful, inspiring, deliciously sad in all the right places and talking to her moved me. We never formally met but my hope in writing “WOMAN” was to zoom in on how explosive this connection was without any physical intimacy. I am not even sure if I felt romantic ideations towards this person up until this day – I just knew that I wanted her inner-flame to be safe. I wrote this poem to honor her fire; to protect it.

SMITTEN is available by ordering it in your Barnes & Noble, purchasing it online at Barnes & Noble or Amazon or asking your independent bookstore to order it via Ingram. SMITTEN is available on Kindle and in print form.

For updates on SMITTEN visit the Facebook SMITTEN page.

This is a huge project of 120 female authors – an anthology that is testimony to the power of love and connection between women. Support SMITTEN by purchasing a copy for someone who supports LGBTQ equality, women or poetry.

 

 

SMITTEN

For the sake of SMITTEN, a project I believe in more than anything I have ever done before, I have asked close friends to take over my social media rather than close it down, so that SMITTEN can continue to flourish and succeed.

In my absence, due to my severe eye-sight-issues, my friends will be running the SMITTEN Facebook page and all SMITTEN related materials. Our goal is to ensure SMITTEN is successful in all ways. Sales are one way of legitimizing a project and ensuring its authors are HEARD.

Obviously LGBTQ projects are harder to sell than others, but it is my hope SMITTEN can continue its success through the rousing support of all those who believe in LGBTQ equality and the rights a woman has to love another woman. Please consider supporting SMITTEN – each sale helps raise visibility and gives SMITTEN authors another opportunity to share their unique and beautiful voices.

SMITTEN news and updates can be found here

SMITTEN is for sale at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. If you support local bookstores please ask them to stock SMITTEN using Ingram. If you cannot afford a Kindle copy or hard copy please ask your local library to get a copy of SMITTEN via Ingram. It doesn’t take much and it means everything to the 120 authors and poets of SMITTEN. Indie publishing doesn’t flourish without our support as a community!

Poets of SMITTEN Interviews: Erin King

Erin King lives in southeastern Pennsylvania. Interests include creating fiber art, jewelry making, and the outdoors.  She lives with her partner of eight years.

What made you interested in submitting for SMITTEN?

It was a incident of timing, really.  Like once a decade I’ll go on a poetry writing binge.  There’s this feeling that something is under my skin, that something needs to be expressed.  That’s when I write.  This coincided nicely with SMITTEN, and it’s such an amazing project.  I feel so fortunate to be included.
Since SMITTEN’s launch what’s your response been from others?
  Feedback has all been positive.  One of my male friends said my work was hot.  I’m not one to say hooray about the male gaze on lesbian objects but I didn’t mind; that’s what I was going for in these two poems.  
When writing were you thinking about the political implications of your work?
  When writing these I wasn’t thinking politically or even socially.  I was a woman lusting after another woman.  It was definitely a micro level thing.  No lofty aspirations here.
Why do you find it important to express yourself through poetry? How does it differ from other mediums? 
When I’m working on designing a piece of jewelry or layering an art journal page, things come a lot more naturally.  It flows more.  Poetry is more deliberate.  My ultimate goal is to introduce poetry to visual media like painting and art. 
Do you think there are many steroetypes of LGBTQ people and if so, do you think as a writer you can dispel them? 
I think there’s a lot of biphobia coming from all sides.  We’re fickle, we can’t pick a side, blah blah blah.  It’s all bullshit.  I’m not sure if I can dispel them, though I am happy to say I’ve been with my Margaret for nine years.
How did you get into writing and what do you get from writing? 
   I started writing when I was 12.  It was pure escapism, a reprieve from an abusive environment.  I would come home from school every day and write.  When my parents started barging into my room, I’d sit with my back against the door, physically creating a boundary when there were none.    It’s not so different when I’m 47.  It’s escapism in a different sense.  It’s sublimation, a channeling of energy.  
Consider purchasing a copy of SMITTEN and supporting this collection of 120 poets who are helping to increase visibility for women who love women. By your support we can do more projects like this and help bring awareness to neglected groups of people who need to be heard.
SMITTEN is for sale on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and you can order SMITTEN as a hard copy or Kindle or if you are unable to support in this way, consider contacting your local library and requesting they carry SMITTEN by letting them know SMITTEN is available through INGRAM.

Growing up I didn’t have a SMITTEN

black lesbianGrowing up in Europe I didn’t have anything like SMITTEN. My ‘sources’ were hard to find and often took me to oblique and obscure bookstores that had tiny ‘feminism/Lesbian’ (as they were once twinned) sections. Within those sections I found little I could personally relate to. I read Radcliffe Hall’s The Well Of Loneliness, now considered the ‘Bible’ of lesbianism and whether right or wrong, it did set a stage for me, and I loved the style and emotions therein, but over all her book is also very sad, it talks of lesbians as ‘inverts’ who are women trapped inside men’s bodies wishing to live the life men live and love women like men do. That was not my feeling. I was a woman happy to be a woman who wanted to love another woman who was most definitely a woman. (It should be noted many lesbians prefer to identify on the masculine end of the scale and yet identify as masculine women and this is a legit form of love too).

Even now, many years hence, there are divides within the LGBTQ and even lesbian/bi worlds. For some, you are just not considered a lesbian unless you subscribe to some of the dress-code/tough-act code and you are objectified for wanting to take on some of the accoutrement considered ‘heterosexual’ by queers. Likewise, you may be typecast as ‘femme’ (or butch) even in today’s society, as much as anything because since legislation has legalized gay marriage and made it easier in some countries for LGBTQ it has been assumed LGBTQ doesn’t need the same resources and so, there are less lesbian clubs/places to meet than ever before, and more is conducted online which as we all know, can be very hit and miss.

I personally knew of four lesbians who were date-raped when they met their ‘lesbian’ date in real life, after meeting online. In all cases, it was a set-up and there were men involved who took advantage of those women and punished them for being lesbians and not attracted to men. You may think that sounds extreme but having worked at two rape crisis centers I can assure you, it’s as common place now as it was in the seventies. The idea that LGBTQ and lesbians don’t need a ‘safe place’ to meet other like minded people, is too optimistic, it assumes it is now ‘safe’ to be a lesbian, but as any lesbian will tell you, we still fear holding a woman’s hand walking down certain streets. That hasn’t and won’t go away.

Let us not forget, in the vast majority of the world it is still illegal, frowned upon, punished or made impossible to be a lesbian and LGBTQ only pertains to a small percentage of this world in terms of population. If you are an African lesbian, good luck, you risk your life admitting that. So our Western ideas do not apply to the majority of lesbians out there.

Little really good literature is lesbian or LGBTQ, indicative of the stereotyping of LGBTQ literature when it is published and the small minority size of each group. You really have to hunt to find excellent, really well written lesbian literature or poetry. It was my dream to put together a group of authors who embodied love between women and showed the variety and depth of that love. SMITTEN accomplished this with over 120 poets and artists contributing some striking, stirring poems, drawings and thoughts of love and attachment.

SMITTEN was created for those people though I am certain we do not reach nearly enough. But it was my dream that even if we reached a few, even if we reached a girl like myself who went in search of ‘real’ lesbian love in a book store, they could find it. Maybe we haven’t done enough but with every act we hope to raise the consciousness of all people not just LGBTQ. People who may assume because gays have the right to vote and marry  and are represented on TV in some countries that they are absolutely free of persecution. This is not the case and while there are many other such minorities who are objectified, ridiculed, stereotyped and minimized, it was my mission to highlight lesbians and women who love women because I am one.

SMITTEN may not have existed when I was really young and had no gay friends, no cohorts who were LGBTQ and no school friends who were even sympathetic or understanding of LGBTQ. I myself didn’t really know enough. I sought refuge in gay bars when old enough but often times found those as judging and uncomfortable as being the only straight. The stereotypes, expectations, reductions and cliches of being a lesbian were as backward among lesbians as among heterosexuals! We had no role-models, nobody to refer to and only a palpable sense of shame emanating from society en mass. Nobody in their right mind wanted their daughter to grow up to be a lesbian, wasn’t that just something that happened like a birth defect or because a mother didn’t do her job right? That was the thinking back then and back then wasn’t ‘that’ long ago!

Consequently I spent more of my youth trying to get by without examining my lesbian identity and enjoying what it could be like to love another woman. I look at photos of very young lesbians now and I envy them their freedom but I am not so naive to assume they are entirely free, as a minute after the photo is taken, they could be beaten up by a mob who didn’t like what they saw. It still happens.

SMITTEN defies the hate, bigotry and misunderstanding of lesbianism. SMITTEN isn’t about women fucking other women for porn. SMITTEN isn’t about stereotypical lesbians created by heterosexual men. SMITTEN isn’t angry and hateful as some feminist backlash can be. SMITTEN is about this: Love IS LOVE.

Please support SMITTEN by gifting it to an LGBTQ person you care about, or buying it for yourself irrespective of your gender and sexual orientation, because love IS love and it transcends everything. If you like poetry, or you support LGBTQ inclusion and visibility then your support of SMITTEN can person by person, change everything. And if you cannot do that, perhaps think of requesting SMITTEN from your local library or purchasing the less expensive Kindle version (although it should be said the print version of SMITTEN is sumptuous!). YOUR support helps little girls growing up today, grow up to have a VERY different outlook in life, one without as much fear and isolation.

SMITTEN is available in print at

SMITTEN is available in KINDLE at

SMITTEN’s authors interviews, poetry readings and photo archive can be found here

With thanks to Indie Blu(e) for taking a chance and publishing this incredible project.

The song of her

white and black mountain
Photo by Nikhlesh Tyagi on Pexels.com

My fantasy was placed in a velvet box,  buried at garden end where the ivy grew heavy

those were the days gone now, or perhaps forgotten, where fantasy was all you had

walking into bars, confronting realities better spared

shadows in corners, leaning, lurching, enveloping, retreating

you did not exist, we did not exist

our images were not part of the collective, the minority, the clique or the open space

wide and tumbling with questions, a loneliness at the core, the petals red

filaments of each others minds like fire flies without dark to make of it light

had you existed then, I would have traveled continents, just to know

feel your long black hair trace my need to be, closer than possible

only books, only songs, only walks on moors with other people’s dogs in tow

I imagined meeting you, what you would say, how we would get to know each other

and somehow shape the magic to follow

but it was only ever like the rain, predictive in falling but without control

impotent magicians we, beseeching the moon her unearthy feminine

pieces of me, pieces of you, strewn in directions not able to connect

I stayed young in getting old and before you know it, you’re no longer there

hunched over youth, abundant in dream, filled with need

chewing the heads off time, gnawing the bones of ancestors who disapprovingly gaze

instead you have learned to bottle your desire that the world create girls who love

from marigolds and pieces of ourselves cast to the wind

put it somewhere you won’t be ridiculed, join the line of other pursuits, a job, a direction, all taking me away from fantasy becoming true

the lines on my face, the fall of my skin, these things that shock and horrify

only remind me of what I once was, bright teeth, shy smile, large heart, empty pockets

how I longed for you to take my mittened hand in yours and

drag me out of myself, let me know you don’t have to fit in with the crowd

to feel love

in petrograph, in Kodak camera moments, in the unmade bed in the corner of my desire

I wanted you before you could put words to desire

I was born alone in my 1 or 2 percent of the world

a girl who loves other girls

yet it wasn’t plural, it feels when I touch it

circular

as everything I did and everything I lost

returns to this moment and winds around my wrist

showing my scars, developing an image in chemicals

of two girls even if they had to wait

after the storm and before the calm

did I mention I would stay here forever if I had to?

It is my wish we could rewind time and begin again when both of us

were new and shining

but such things are not always possible, and fantasy is rarely permitted her turn

in you I find proof of life

miracles, however tired exist in your eyes

they have fine lines like you are ever squinting against the sun

I find myself tracing the shape of you

over and over

until my fingers are numb with joy

maybe born too late, but oh we were born

in this aching world of few and far between

I listened closely and you gave up your song