Sympathy for the dry

When he comes home

She turns into a water lily

Her face rivals the new moon

Even he, with pulsing self-love, is dazzled enough

To take her dining when it’s properly late

Like vampires sustained on blood

They slip, effortlessly through willing night

Reminding her of when she was young

And her breasts lush like Mexican limes

Where boys like him would go beyond themselves

To touch her flowering in their earnest

Though it was a long time ago

She hears the haunting of her dew rinsed self

Reflected in men’s eyes and curved belt buckles

When she’d strip like a gleaming seal and dive in the deep end

They’d search with their flounder for her pearly center

Not realizing

She was already floating somewhere in frangipani

Light footed and naked

Of all sympathy for the dry

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Christine – an honoring

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You don’t know this

But if there is a warrior

That warrior is you

If anyone blazes the way and holds the torch for the light to get through

That woman is you

Because you feel the fear and do it anyway

You set fire to yourself and offer your ashes to the Phoenix

You are unstoppable even as they come at you with everything and more

You’re the wind in the willows, the avalanche, the fucking heartbeat of ten thousand voices

You are Boudicca

Riding your chariot through the Roman siege

You are the woman in ten-year old sweat pants making me laugh until I weeze

Who can smell an idea and rip the world in half with your passion

And when you think you’re just some old bird biding her days

We’re here to remind you of the shine you’ve bequeathed so many

Before you, those things weren’t the same

They were easily passed by, easily put aside

And you said, hell no, and picked them up and gave them value

You galvanized the lost and herded them into something strong

We exist as we do BECAUSE OF YOU

You mock yourself because it’s what you know, but if you could see

The places you touch with your dreams and how they leave us

Better than we were

You’d be finally proud of your legacy thus far

And damn if nothing will ever stop you

Because if it hasn’t by now, then nothing will

Even on your dark days remember, you lit the way girl, it was you

It was you we owe so much to

And you who conjured the dawn.

For Christine E. Ray on her last day at SD and the first day of the rest of her life. We love you woman.

Fear – Candice Louisa Daquin — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Fear for a child is very different to the adult and exactly the same the child inhabits another decade, in the past, another life before they knew they were who they become the child wets the bed because she misses her mother who is beautiful, ethereal, slender and absent the smell of her still lingers […]

via Fear – Candice Louisa Daquin — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

My frayed sleeve / collab w/ Jane Basil

1920Janebasilblog (Jane Paterson Basil) and thefeatheredsleep (Candice Louisa Daquin) collaborated on this beautiful poem of Jane’s called My Frayed Sleeve.

For two decades

(Time parlays reason)

your salt-paste lies piled up

(Resisting calls from outer world’s)

like pancakes on a cracked plate,

(Accumulating as sea birds watch unloaded catch)

while you hammered at my heart,

(The ring around my throat that is you)

delighting in the blood

(Sampling my intention to survive)

which seeped

(Sounds like silence reaching over years)

scarlet

(Capturing your purchase)

through my frayed sleeve

(As I push the hair from your face)

Even if you’d believed

(On a windy day when salt stung air)

I would leave,

(Did you plan then on your meal of me?)

you would not

(Carving trust into lean cuts)

have been kinder to me.

(Pass the condiments, tight wristed and stranger)

I scribed you into history

(With my pen I wrote your existence)

long before

(Predetermined and sharp like forks lost in pockets)

you ceased breathing.

(Holding our breath we exhaled and then)

Each shred of regret morphed into relief,

(Day gave way to scratched music playing in locked rooms)

so there’s nothing to grieve –

(I could not spoon you out of my mouth)

leaving only a thin breeze of pity.

(You stayed, a jam capturing season)

.©Jane Paterson Basil/Candice Louisa Daquin

Check out Jane’s amazing work on her blog: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/29649962

Afterlife

when it’s time

kneeling, bowed head

nothing uttered

all felt

describing life and its

merry dance of thieves and joys

pockets picked, cheeks pinched

the rosy after-glow of loss and gain

shaken out blankets beneath trees

mystery of indentations past and present

who lay watching nests built

careful and with slow deliberation

before I lived how could I

describe the outline of love

moving in rapid sync as

tired swimmer in from cold

just as you give up on believing

raking autumn leaves, someone smiles

and breaking across their holy face

a connection of electric worth

for the lonely are not lost

they wander in search of hope

throwing sticks for panting dogs

breaking through water, flying in indigo bloom

a new season turns her heal toward sun

this afterlife will feel a familiar place

of lost faces, angels made of earthly composite

reflecting in the eyes of smiling ancestors

we will feel tears on our cheeks

burnished leaves falling in their spiral

where all things are forever and

the call of owls brings night fall


like a smooth glaze of assurance

tapping windows with sleet

closing up house, warm and merry

we step into the beckoning echo

Blossom and Bone – an Advanced Review by Candice Louisa Daquin

Blossom and Bone / by Nicole Lyons
Reviewed by Candice Louisa Daquin

Blossom and Bone (Sudden Denouement Press, 2018) is Lyons’ third collection of poetry and even with the title Lyons has already said a myriad of things which is one of her signature qualities as an author, she can truly ‘say it’ often using very few words thus having a greater impact. By the juxtaposition of blossom (something soft, vulnerable, beautiful, fleeting, fragile) with bone (something more permanent, harder, stronger) as well as the concept of regrowth (bone continues to grow but can be broken, blossoms that die, can return) the title speaks to the endurance and transformation of this author and her understanding of those who experience similar emotions/experiences.
I dislike encapsulating the tenor of an author as most shift in their address to the author but Lyons has an incredible energy in her salutation; she gets to the point, with each and every poem. I would imagine it’s the difference between someone who beats around the bush and someone who is a straight shooter. That lends her work this hypnotic immediacy, you almost feel she is in the room with you, standing there, saying; “I am standing here screaming / I live, I live, I love.” It’s the way she gets to the point immediately, she doesn’t preamble or slowly ease you in, she’s not afraid in other words to just SAY IT and that’s definitely one of her strengths and the reason you will immediately pick out her work from others and know it.

Another quality, Lyons makes me laugh, as much as she makes me cry as much as she hurts she brings humor. The reason for this is her subjects are often hard, she doesn’t shy away from that, and perhaps as solace, she blends a really good balance of beautifully written poetry with the occasional curse word and I love the balance she uses intuitively because it wakes you up and reminds you of the gravity of the subject whilst allowing you to smile at her brazen unapologetic femininity and continue reading. “It never heard the way I hated myself / when dawn hit my window and sliced / its way through the mountains of maybe” (It Never Heard That)

Some poets are scared to write truth, they stick to affirmations, positive vibes, they don’t ‘go there’ and talk about the ugly underbelly of existence and the undeniable pain of existence. Whilst there is far more to Lyons work than sadness, she’s again unafraid to bear her soul and paint universal truths about how we really feel. I find that honesty compelling and addictive in that so often you sense a writer can only be putting their best foot forward, whilst a truly gut-wrenching author will go much, much further and tattoo those truths onto your skin. “This place that once / felt the fire of falling stars / is now cold in my fading light. / So I shall invite you in / and ask you to bring your wishes,” (Bring Your Wishes)

Most of us have mood swings, but how often can we capture that fleeting or mercurial shift in temperament? I for one have never achieved it, whilst Lyons work seems to naturally describe emotions many of us can relate to throughout our lives. And despite her proclaiming that; “I have always loved the cold / dark places where feelings go / to hide, as I have loved something / about the easy way my heart / shatters the second it rubs / up against something warm” (My Easy Heart) there is a genuine awareness that she needs to push past that tendency to hide and not admit how she is feeling and offer it up to the reader as realistically as possible. She does this far more than she may even realize she’s doing it, through sheer guts. But unlike other confessional poets, she doesn’t lament or labor the point, she’s very succinct and sharp in her use of words, she knows exactly how many she needs to make a point and doesn’t use a single unnecessary word, that in of itself is a rare ability as a writer.

I get a sense when I read Nicole Lyons that she inhabits a secret world. I know she is married with children but there’s an entire other universe to her writing, it is surely her very essence and all the history and scars that brought her to this point, and she opens the gates and lets us in, enough that we can hear her thoughts but not fathom all that creates them. This leaves a wonderful teasing, the mystery behind the author, the unknown mind, the commonalities we can relate to, and those things we shall never know. “but the ones who never loved me / have made their home inside my veins.” (Lifetime Lease) Again, it takes a master of words to know how to wield and parlay so deftly with your use of language that you can tempt the reader and draw them in, only to give them what you decide to offer, and absolutely no more. With confessional style poets, the temptation is to say too much, Lyons is a very unique voice in that she has absolute control over what is and is not revealed. It only leaves you wanting more which is surely the greatest lure an author can possess.

I find it hard to explain just how she does this. I imagine it is her ability to self-edit and write as one would speak, with control over the impact that has on the reader. She is clearly aware of her readership, her words are speaking to us, they are definitely not words put underneath a bed and hidden away, they are not shyly proffered, they are bold, unafraid, certain words; “but each time I twist / I come up empty-handed, / and wiping your light / from the corners of my mouth. “ (Wiping Your Light) Something about Lyons endings leaves me breathless, it seems she has just abruptly finished half-way through, you have questions, and yet it’s the perfect closure. I think of Film Noir and how what is not said, and goes unfinished, often leaves the greater impact. In that sense, Lyons work echoes the apparently sparse but really specific dialogue you may think of in classic movies, and it’s that edgy level of suspense and almost quick-tongued drama that I find so compelling, think Barbara Stanwick as a poet.

I mentioned once to Lyon that until I’d read her work I hadn’t been a fan of shorter poetry, the first book I read of Lyons was HUSH which blew me away, for its fierceness and femininity and unapologizing riot of emotion and control, it was like taking a drug and entering another universe, no wonder her books become Amazon Best Sellers she has that draw, it’s the magnetism only truly memorable writers with true craft possess, which is that wonder you find so rarely. “You with the goddess heart / and that cemetery soul, / of course, you are a dragon now.” (Mostly Dead Ones) Not everyone can pull it off, writing with brief intensity the way she does, in some ways she’s capable of creating symbols with her words, slogans, sayings, they’re more than poems, they’re things to live by, to follow, to adhere to, to consider when you can’t sleep at night. They are at the same time blunt and gorgeous, which I find an oxymoron that I cannot readily explain.

In I Won’t Always Be Me, Lyons writes; “I won’t always speak kindly. / Sometimes I will spit, / and I will scream, / and the venom from my tongue / will poison the oceans of love” She possesses an immediacy of intoxicate boldness and it is this I believe is the core reason she has such a following because it’s at once incredibly feminine but also quite unlike what you think of when you consider what is traditionally feminine. She is a writer of the now. She is a woman of the now. Her pulse can be heard in every syllable. In Chicken Dinner Lyons captures the muted grief of childhood so precisely it made the hair on my neck stand up; “next to an alcoholic / control freak who called me stepdaughter / and walked upon me to seal it / like the gummy flap of an envelope / stuffed with unloved letters, / and a mother who wore exhaustion / hidden inside her navy pumps.” There is a kindling rage in her words, a don’t-you-dare-turn-away quality to the exorcism of her truths, she stares into places others skip over, she disgorges the dirt like an excavator of pain, and presents it as you would a film, blinking in front of you, refusing to let you ignore it.

We can point to many poets who are courageous and brave to share their suffering with us, bring some wisdom and truth to a sometimes artificial stage but the voice behind the words doesn’t always stay long afterward, it doesn’t infuse us with a disquieting sense of wanting to reveal the spite beneath our veneer, the cruelty humans are capable of, the quixotic humor of childhood that is both tragic and hilarious, Lyons balances that picture in our heads perfectly. “I taste shame when I look / upon this table of cheaters / and whores, no better than me. / But I am the sheep / that wears the dirtiest cloak.” (Twisted Sins)

In Robbing Air Lyons describes dissatisfaction uncannily; “You are deep hues and an ugly reminder / of small towns and smaller minds, / stroked once and cut twice / from a life, we are all running from.” For so many, there will be a nodding even if their experience differed (small town/big city/male/female) she has a universal whisper, a place at the table, where she provides us with knowledge we have turned away from, perhaps thinking ourselves ‘over it’ and at the same time, reenacting our scars. There are gut-punching reminders of this in poems like I Told Him No, which simply take your breath away in their visceral confession and horror. What I adore is how no matter how badly damaged, the female survivor, her voice is never extinguished, if anything after such evil, she comes back stronger, and that is as redemptive and real as it gets.

Lyons work won’t lull you to sleep at night or fill you with peace, it’ll actually do the opposite and that’s no bad thing; “When I told you that / I had been broken / before; it wasn’t / a fucking challenge.” (Misunderstood) Women’s voices are stronger than ever, but we still have a long way to go, the only way to achieve a lasting voice of equality is to force through the barrier both of ourselves and our histories. Lyons voice is especially potent, she literally takes no prisoners, she won’t back down, she can be caustic, in-your-face and aggressive and those aren’t negatives, because she’s pushing back, against the cacophony of violence and oppression committed against herself and women en mass, who inherit the grief of their forbearers. She does so in such a poignant way I feel she has a lot in common with African American authors like Toni Morrison for their uncanny handling of the extreme ugliness of life and what people are capable of, with an undiminished candor and survival instinct. “I have never felt a smooth landing / beneath my feet, nor have I ever / been lucky enough to tuck one under / my wing and breathe great gusts / of relief as if I had been saved.” (Under My Wing)

Nicole Lyons is already an undeniable force, and I predict she will only grow in strength and those who appreciate her increase. In her words, she evokes a woman whom many of us can relate to in one form or another, a woman who we can share parts of, who doesn’t shun us or other women. Surely this is why we read certain types of poetry where the author can reveal to us our own feelings in their reflections and from this, evoke responses we didn’t think we needed to have (but did). Surely such poetry has a lasting place in our lives and for those who have experienced mental illness or abuse, there is an especial value in Lyons willingness to reach out and share her own; “You call me crazy / because I feel everything, / but I feel sorry for you / because you don’t.” (Of Maniacs and Manics) As a voice for those who cannot put words to what they endure, Lyons stands out with compassion and insight and best of all, an awareness you need not be diminished by any label.

To say of another writer, they are almost uncannily clever, may sound overdone or insincere, but it’s absolutely my final word on Nicole Lyons. “Don’t tell them how I lived / between the darkness and the light, / just tell them I lived with poetry / tucked beneath my skin.” (It’s Only Poetry) It’s always those who can state it succinctly with the foresight few of us possess that hold us in their thrall. Nicole Lyons has long enthralled me, both as a lover of poetry, and because I find her achingly necessary in this world, and she never lets me down, she only frustrates me because so often I don’t know how the hell she does it so well. This is an exquisite collection of writings from an indescribably talented woman; the best you can do is buy everything she’s written and turn your phone off.

“She is but once in a lifetime / and far too many times before. / She is something that just happens, / and she is everything worth waiting for.” (Luna’s Daughter)

Visit Nicole at THE LITHIUM CHRONICLES and look for Blossom and Bone on Sept 9th.


Previous book I Am-World-Uncertainties-Disguised-Girl

Facebook Page www.facebook.com/TheLithiumChronicles.

Find more of Candice and her stunning work on The Feathered Sleep and on Indie Blu(e)

Her gorgeous book of poetry, Pinch The Lock is available for purchase here

Ode to absentia

I have written enough about you to fill a slim volume

or maybe two ships

set sail for one of the countries you visit

sending me letters in the day, with marks and fingerprints from all around the world

they would smell

like you, even as that was impossible

and I prepared, as nobody ever can

for the day I would lose you

why not, you ask, appreciate the now, when you are here on earth?

I have, though, we have never spent our lives together or even entwined

I have been saying goodbye all these years

yet it will not be sufficient, it could never be enough

you are more of me, than myself

and I feel you inside even though you are not here now, and gone in the future

loving you has felt like continual loss and little gain

yet I do, more than anything else, for you are that kite, unmoored itself and got away

the thought that comes creeping up as you laugh, as if I had a twin, and yes, she was the one who grew in courage, living full in ways I knew only from books

you have the lifeline of twenty palms and though you could not be a mother, you have always inspired me, like the character from a favorite story

reaching near and never touching, someone marvelous and unable to approach

I live sometimes with my eyes seeing through yours

the waves of your life nearing but never reaching, shore

at some point there will be a day when you are not simply absent and not around the corner

but further then, impossible to mend, hands of time, spent longing

it may be my song to want and not receive, the beauty that is you, and your life as it cleaves

further away, until from a great distance I cannot distinquish, squinting until my eyes hurt and run

I would if I could, but I never have, and I won’t

it is the theatre of our lives to play out

my role is that of thirsty

yours to make ordinary seem

extrodinary

you are the giver of dreams

I shall always wish

for one more day where I see

your figure coming closer through the dusk

perhaps to stay a while, even if we do not touch

I long, in layers, not to lose, what I have, not.