Poetry

No Rhyme Or Reason

When I was a baby blog (let’s face it, I’m still a baby blog) with a measly four or five posts under my belt, two women took notice, scooped me up, and showed me what this blogging thing was all about. They gave me confidence and sisterhood. The dynamic duo I speak of is none other than the incredible mother/daughter writing team, Inion N. Mathair.

Inion N. Mathair is Irish Gaelic for daughter and mother, and is their pseudonym. Together they’ve written two fiction novels, a short story compilation, and now a poetry book is available for purchase, No Rhyme Or Reason.

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The Stranger

TAMARA’S IN THE HOUSE!!!

I couldn’t be more thrilled to have the intensely-creative writer/poet, Tamara Woods, over to play today. I just got her book of poetry, The Shaping Of An “Angry” Black Woman, and am blown away by its complexity. I think you, dear readers-o-mine, will approve of the subject she’s chosen to share with you here, AND the best part is revealed through video because she freakin’ rocks like that! Without further ado, here’s a little taste of Tamara.

 

When I was growing up, I tried to picture who my perfect man would be. Talk, dark and handsome? A culinary wizard who also paints and likes to watch football? A cross between Jordan Knight, Christian Slater (circa Pump Up the Volume mixed with a bit of Heathers) and Johnny Depp (circa Benny and Joon)?

As I grew older, I realized I’m attracted to the misfit toys. This extends to friendships as well as lovers. I want the ones who are a little left of center. Not necessarily fixer uppers, because I don’t think they’re broken. I think they’re different, which makes them special. If I wanted normal, I’d turn on my dryer and have a seat. (This is going to a weird place. Let’s bring it on back.)

I’m also drawn to mystery. The unknown. If he’s got a brain like a puzzle, then I’m going to try to figure him out. What is his motivation? My current boyfriend, or as I like to call him, The Mathemagician is a man of few words. But when he speaks, I’m either laughing or learning-a heady combination for me. Going into year four, I’m still wondering where he comes up with this stuff. Utterly fascinating.

Back in my foot loose and slutty freed days, my roving eye would unerringly find that stranger across the crowded bar who wasn’t talking to anyone. He’s the one I’m going to sidle up to and give the sexy eye.–Though I’m not really good at being sexy, so it would more likely me doing a parody of the sexy eye, which looks like I’m having a twitchy fit. I rely on humor to bring the boys to the yard. They have to get their own milkshakes. I’m not Betty fucking Crocker.–

Anyway, what was I saying?

Oh yes, mystery. Intrigue. The guy who is smoldering in a corner, not really speaking. He clearly has something on his mind. And I want that something to be me.

Here’s a poem about meeting that perfect stranger.

Tamara Woods was raised (fairly happily) in West Virginia, where she began writing poetry at the age of 12. Her first poetry collection is available at http://amzn.to/1kti3r0.  She has previous experience as a newspaper journalist, an event organizer, volunteer with AmeriCorps and VISTA, in addition to work with people with disabilities. She has used her writing background to capture emotions and moments in time for anthologies such as Empirical Magazine, her blog PenPaperPad and writing articles as a full-time freelance writer. She is a hillbilly hermit in Honolulu living with her Mathemagician.

You can stalk her in a non-creepy totally internet way here:

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Wild Woman Waking

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Today I have the sublime pleasure of being a part of a blog book tour for Morgan Dragonwillow’s new poetry book, Wild Woman Waking. I’ve read this book from cover to cover and can attest to its absolute deliciousness. Not only are her poems tiny, intricately laid stories that take you somewhere far away, but each one is also accompanied by Tui Snider’s stunning photography.

I am also spotlighted on Morgan’s blog today, where she said some lovely things about me. (check’s in the mail, Morgan)

I had the opportunity to ask both of them some questions: (more…)

Lexicon of Lust

This poem is in honor of August McLaughlin’s The Beauty of a Woman BlogFest III: #GirlBoner edition. If you haven’t read the bloggers who participated, you need to. Just hit that link in August’s name. I didn’t know about it in time to contribute, but it did inspire this poem. Lexicon Of Lust was sitting in drafts all lonely. Today I set it free. (more…)

A Striptease For You

strippers photo: strippers strippers-3.jpg

I’m in a bit of a rut. You see, the writer part of me wants needs to create things that the blogger part of me doesn’t. Writing is a way of exorcising demons. A cathartic cleansing. An artistic pest control for the brain. Typically, I mold my toxins into little analogies that take on lives of their own, a.k.a. my fiction stories. The problem? I haven’t been writing any new stuff lately. I’ve been busy with the novel and, oh, I don’t know…blogging.

The blog for me is a playground. A very necessary one. I want to keep it that way. I’m honest as shit, self-deprecating, silly, sometimes naughty (okay, a lot naughty),  sarcastic… but I also conveniently hop around the heavy stuff. And that’s okay. I have to look too many of my real-life readers in the eye. That’s a vulnerability I’m not comfortable with. But when I don’t write the heavy shit out, I get stuck.

Beth stuck =  a  f*cked up Beth

I scour other blogs whose innards are displayed for all to see, and I admire the shit outta them. Their bravery astounds me. But I don’t work that way. I’ve tried. Doesn’t mean I won’t try again. But I have to feel it. If I’m going to give you the Full Monty, it had better matter.

Part of what makes my fiction so complex and dynamic (and yes, twisted at times) is that it’s the conduit for everything I’m not able to express any other way.

It’s the metaphorical me. Stripped. Bleeding my soul onto the pages.

Naked.

My blog may be a tease, but I bare it all in my stories.

I like poetry for this purpose. I can be naked, yet shrouded in mist and mirrors. Inference and innuendo. Here is one where I am fully exposed. Can you see me?

Dwellings
Murky basements, web covered nooks hide
forbidden yearnings, mummified.
Music wakes them, songs siren.
They crawl and beg to be
heard again. Breathless
trepidation,
I unfurl.
Set me
free.

You probably can’t. Not totally. But that was the goal.

I’ve got to get the novel put to bed. So you can read it. And so I can move on.

I need to get back to writing. Characters await.

Is writing cathartic for you? Do you write “naked”? How do you see your blog? Do you dance around certain subjects? Your comments MATTER.

**Related Post: I’d like to thank My Inner Chick for her post on blogging without boundaries, which led me to deconstruct and evaluate the struggle I was having, and ultimately help me understand how I write.