Category: literature promotion

‘Where Do the Words Go,’ a Poem by a Friend

Here’s another poem by Clelia Albano, author of “I Can’t Breathe.” (I’m putting her words in italics to distinguish them from mine.)

Where do the words go when they are detached from things, when a slip
of the tongue subverts the sprout of a thought.
Have they a separate existence
from ours?
Do they take a walk through the promenades of parallel worlds?

– I don’t want to get too deep –

My eyes sting, imagination is in standby.
Neither a good food nor relaxing music can help me.
Where are the words I repent I uttered, the words I eagerly whispered.
Where are the words of my dead,
the words of my mother, the words
I screamed, I spelled out loud as
a child, the ones I learned coupled with drawings of leaves, nuts,
strawberries, bottles, ships, cats
and dogs, frogs, trees, tables and chairs, mom and dad, roses and stars,
houses and cars…
Do I exist without words?

And now, for my analysis.

This is a poem about the regret we feel when we say things we shouldn’t have. In my analysis of a new poem by Jason Morton, I wrote of how words can help us break free and can heal us. But sometimes, of course, words hurt. No matter how hard we try, we cannot choose words too carefully.

Words fly out of our mouths like projectiles, hurting those whose ears hear them. Or, to use a more classically allusive simile, words are like all those evils that all-too-curious Pandora released from the jar (pithos). Once they’re gone, we can never retrieve our words. They’re lost to us.

“Where do the words go”? Clelia asks, “they are detached from things” that would keep them safe from hurting others, the pithos of our would-be closed mouths. It’s too late “when a slip of the tongue subverts the sprout of a thought,” the sprout being the unconscious, which Lacan said is structured like a language.

Do words have “a separate existence/from ours?” Are they in “parallel worlds?”…that is to say, are they so far removed from our world that they’ll be eternally inaccessible to us? She would so much like to retrieve all the words she wishes she never said.

Going “too deep” might involve discovering parts of her unconscious that frighten her. Her eyes “sting” from the regret she feels over seeing the pain in the eyes of others because of her words. Her “imagination is in standby” because she doesn’t want to imagine the pain she has caused those she cares about, with the words that flew out of her mouth too quickly.

No food or music can soothe the guilt she feels from the pain she unintentionally caused others, from those words “eagerly whispered.” There aren’t only her words, though, but also “the words of [her] dead” (long-lost family and friends) and from her mother, words that hurt her, too, and which may have provoked her own regretted words, “the words [she] screamed.”

Now, these lost words aren’t only harsh ones. Sometimes they’re of pleasant things, coupled with things like “leaves,/nuts, strawberries, bottles, ships, cats/and dogs, frogs, trees, tables and chairs, mom and dad, roses and stars,/houses and cars.” As a poet, she loves words, and when they fly out, she can feel that she’s lost them forever, too. Perhaps if she got them back, she imagines that she’d have the opportunity to revise them and make them even better.

As writers, do we “exist without words?”

As a blogger, I find it inconceivable that we can exist without them.

Another Poem by Jason Morton

Check out this new poem by my Facebook friend, Jason Morton:

Words they
Shatter
Like glass
Poets Of
the tan
World bring
Brass and
Pens and
Obscene
Dreams
I leave
You to
Inter
-pret just
what these
words mean
I write
I am
I’m there
I am
just a
pen that
Writes words
Of angst
In trans –
gressive
prose
And rhyme
Take what
you want
For when
I am
Old but
A child
At heart
Words heal
When the
World falls
Apart.

There’s the poem, and here’s my analysis of it.

“Words they/Shatter/Like glass” because they can be hurtful and abusive…but they can also shatter illusions and liberate us from the lies of the world. “Poets Of/the tan/World” sound like those in the Third World, with tanned skin, struggling to express themselves in a world of poverty, pain, and suffering, by using “Brass and/Pens and/Obscene Dreams.” The words blow out like the brass section of an orchestra, or like the obscene sound of flatulence, since the poor live in a fetid world of filth.

The jagged nature of this writing, short lines broken up into one or two words each, gives off that feeling of shattered words falling down the page, and a shattered meaning…shattered lives. The random capitalization reinforces this awkward sense of a lack of continuity–broken apart, estranged expression. We’re free to “Inter-pret” these words any way we like, these fragmented expressions.

“I write/I am” sounds a bit like “I think, therefore I am.” Poets, artists, and the poor exist, even if the world doesn’t wish to acknowledge them. “I,” the unknown poet, “am/just a/pen that/Writes words,” that is, one sees the writing, but doesn’t know the writer. Only the end product is what’s valued, like a fetishized commodity; but the producer of the poetry remains invisible.

“Words/Of angst/In trans-/gressive/prose/And rhyme” are the “Obscene Dreams” noted above. The dreams of the poor and suffering are ‘obscene’ and ‘transgressive’ to those in power, who would rather keep the writers of those words silent and unread.

“I am/Old but/A child/At heart,” that is, we’re all as vulnerable as children when we’re old, and we all have the sweetness of a child inside us, in spite of our suffering. The therapeutic power of “Words heal,” and this is why we must keep using them “When the/World falls/apart,” like that shattered glass of abusive words. There are those in power who would have us be silent, but we mustn’t. We must keep speaking; we must keep writing our poetry.

Note the pun on “Words” and “World.” Both shatter, both fall apart…but both can heal, if words are used to help us instead of breaking us apart. For when the lies are shattered, we the poor speakers of poetry can be put back together again.

My Horror Short Story, “Berserk,” Published in the Horror Anthology, “A is for Aliens”

My science fiction/horror short story, “Berserk,” has been included in this anthology of horror fiction, A is for Aliens, the first of twenty-six alphabetized anthologies, A to Z of Horror, published by Red Cape Publishing. I originally meant my story idea, called Berserkers, to be more or less a zombie story; but I’ve changed my mind, so this short story is meant to give the reader a taste of what it will be about. It’s now going to be sort of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but with the influence of Bion‘s notions of beta elements, the beta screen, and bizarre objects. (Read here for more information about these concepts.)

Anyway, “Berserk” is about aliens that come to the earth in the form of tiny dots of light. When they enter you, they take control if you accept them. But if you reject them, they end up driving you mad, causing you to hallucinate when you try to project them outward; eventually, your projecting of them causes your body to be torn into pieces, each with its own independent consciousness, until you finally die. Those who accept the tiny, glowing aliens spread them to other people, who will either accept or reject them.

Other talented authors in this anthology include Mark Anthony Smith, Theresa Jacobs, PJ Blakely-Novis, Daren Callow, Dona Fox, Megan Neumann, Nancy Kilpatrick, Jeremy Megargee, Astrid Addama, and Lesley Drane. (The author/editor wasn’t able to add all of the authors in the author list; for some reason, he’s had this problem with a few anthologies. So my name isn’t included, at the moment, on the Amazon page. My story can be found, however, on page 151.) All of their stories, as the title of the anthology indicates, are about aliens coming to Earth and terrorizing humans in one form or another.

Go out and get your copy of the Kindle Edition. The pre-order price is $1.35, and it will be auto-delivered to your Kindle on March 13, 2020. I want to thank author and editor Peter (PJ Blakely-Novis) for accepting my story. You rock! 🙂

My Horror Short Story, “Itchy,” Published in the Horror Anthology, “Infestation”

My horror short story, “Itchy,” has been included in the Terror Tract horror anthology, Infestation. The story is about tiny, almost microscopic aliens on a meteorite that lands on an open field near the home of the protagonist, who gets too close to it and gets the aliens all over his body, making him itch in the worst way. He keeps scratching and scratching, cutting wounds into his body, and…well, you figure out for yourself where the story is heading.

The other fifteen talented writers in the anthology are Kelly Evans, Josh Davis, Scott M. Goriscak, James Pyles, Norbert Góra, Rob Smales, Andy Rausch, Alistair Rey, Eddie J. Morales, Mark Cassell, R.C. Rumple, Blaze Ward, Jason O’Toole, Dusty Davis, and Cynthia A. Knoble.

As the title of the anthology indicates, all the stories are about getting infected with some kind of deadly disease, and the horrifying results of this happening to the victims. Go get your copy of the Kindle Edition; the pre-order price is $5.24, and it will be auto-delivered to your Kindle on March 21st, 2020. I hope you enjoy my story, as well as all the others.

I want to give a big thank you to Becky Narron for accepting my story. Hugs and kisses to her! 🙂

Boots

Rich
people
step on us;

they
promise
no more wars,

yet
shower
bombs on the brown.

Oil,
sucked
out of the ground,

gluts
vampires,
whose victims

dry,
thirst,
give up the ghost.

Kings
trample
on the killed.

Gold,
wrested
from the earth,

glows,
shining
over the shadows.

Lords,
stomping
on the peasants;

haves,
squishing
boots on slaves.

Cash,
raising
from below

those
crushing
ants in the dirt.

A
voice,
one day, will rise

up
from
the wretched soil,

a
cry
for everyone,

‘No
boots
on the ground!’

My Horror Short Story, ‘Bone Cabin,’ In the November Issue of ‘Terror Tract’

I’m thrilled to announce that I have another horror short story of mine to be published in next month’s issue of Terror Tract. The name of my story is “Bone Cabin.” I don’t want to go into any detail as to what the story is about, but let’s just say that when it comes to any place you stay for a vacation, be sure that you won’t be too cramped in…

Other talented writers included in this November 2019 issue are Theresa Scott-Matthews, Cody W. Higgins, John Palisano, Scott Deegan, Howard Carlyle, Dusty Davis, Edmund Stone, David B. Harrington, Andy Rausch, David Niall Wilson, Timothy A. Wiseman, Ryan Woods, Charles Lynne, and Thomas S. Gunther.

Here’s a pre-order link.

So, go out and get a copy of these scary stories. I want to give a great big thank you to Becky Narron for including my story this month. Hugs and kisses to you! 🙂

‘Insidious,’ a Poem by a Friend

A poet friend of mine, Cass Wilson, who also goes by the name Immortal Magpie, wrote this poem about the insidious effects of narcissistic abuse:

Insidiously
You weave your web of lies
Gossamer strands of falsification
Strive to imprison me once more
A myriad of ignoble eyes
Project rose coloured echoes of the past
Evoking flashbacks of tenebrosity and pain

On enlightened wings I rise
Free from the odious taint of your deceit
Familiar to your fallacious words
Impervious to the callous beast
that resides behind the mask

This poem is essentially about her ex-husband’s attempts at hoovering her back into a relationship with him. He’s like a spider, weaving his “web of lies/Gossamer strands of falsification.” I love the musical assonance of these lines, as I do the lyricism and music of the whole poem.

Comparing her narcissistic ex to a spider reminds one of the hubris of Arachne, who boasted that her weaving was better than that of Athena. Just as Athena turned Arachne into a spider for her presumption, Cass’s ex is but a spider in her eyes, one she knows will never weave anything of love for her, no matter how he tries to make her think he will. She won’t ever be imprisoned in those webs again.

“A myriad of ignoble eyes” suggests the ever-watching, invasive eyes of Argus, eyes of judgement we get from narcissists who have few kind words to say to us, but many critical and cruel ones. Still, those eyes “Project rose coloured echoes of the past,” in an attempt to suck her back into the doomed relationship by misrepresenting it as having once been beautiful. She won’t be fooled, though.

“Evoking flashbacks of tenebrosity and pain,” those eyes only trigger painful memories for her, emotional flashbacks that she wants to put behind her forever. Thus ends the first verse, one evoking the pain of the past relationship that she is in danger of being sucked back into. Then comes the second, final, and empowering verse, which looks out into the future.

She flies with “enlightened wings,” knowledge of his true, cruel nature, a knowledge that sets her “Free from the odious taint of [his] deceit.” She is “Impervious to the callous beast/that resides behind the mask” of his narcissistic False Self. That “callous beast” is the lack of love and empathy that he tries to hide behind his fake show of love.

This poem is a delightfully lyrical expression of the pain we can feel in a relationship of narcissistic abuse, as well as the hope of one day putting it all behind ourselves. If you, Dear Reader, have any stories to tell of similar experiences, whether in verse or prose, please let me know in the comments, and I’ll reblog what you write here in a future post. Peace and love! 🙂

‘I Was a Kid,’ a Poem by a Friend

Here is a kind of prose poem that a Facebook friend of mine, Gerda Hovius, wrote several days ago, to express the pain she felt from having an emotionally abusive father. Actually, I think the poem is in verse (note the mid-sentence capitalization that occurs from time to time), but it was presented to me in paragraph form, and I’m presenting it below in the same form for two reasons: first, I don’t know for sure where she wants the lines broken (e.g., for the sake of enjambment), and this damn blog won’t (to my knowledge) allow me to separate lines within the same blocks to make verses, so we’ll have to make do with what’s below.

The poem was originally written in Dutch, but she translated it as you can see below. In it, she expresses her childhood traumas as I recommended to in this post; and as I suggested here–where I called out to all bloggers to share their experiences of narcissistic and emotional abuse–I want to encourage others to share their pain in words, so I can reblog them here. Here’s the poem:

“I was a kid, A happy child, a child that wanted to be loved. There was no space, there was no time, I wasn’t allowed to cry or be myself. I was not allowed to think what I thought or express that hard or soft. Nothing about me was good enough, Only if I did something he asked me. Then I got a little appreciation, A little attention a little time. I thought it was up to me That everyone saw me as a bother, Whenever I said how I felt or said something, there was always a comment on me. Who I had to be and what I had to be, it takes a lifetime to cure this. I now know better who I am and that I know myself a bit. I was always allowed to be there even though I didn’t feel that way, I was still small. And now if something happens or I get tired, the black clouds cover my sky again. Then I feel again that lonely child who did not belong and was not loved. Yet I know that I just had bad luck, that my father went through it himself. Yet that does not make the sadness go away it is perhaps a little easier to bear if I can access it, as I say now. I still feel hatred when I feel bad and someone is standing in front of me. I am mad at all the injustice here. It is my life it is my destiny, I can give my love my heart is not rotten. I understand that people don’t get it when I’m in the middle of it again. That makes it painful because I feel even more distant from everyone else. And indeed I feel very bad because I am not what is expected of me. But in the end what they do is not relevant, I would like to contact even if it is not possible. Don’t blame me for being an instigator if you don’t understand. It only hurts more.”

I think we can all relate to how, “if something happens or I get tired, the black clouds cover my sky again. Then I feel again that lonely child who did not belong and was not loved.” Elsewhere, “I still feel hatred when I feel bad and someone is standing in front of me,” like that inner critic facing us with his frowns. Still, we know there is good in us in spite of how awful we feel: “I can give my love my heart is not rotten.” The trauma of emotional abuse won’t make our feelings rot away–we’ll survive.

I’ve written before about the problem of feeling “even more distant from everyone else.” As for our abusers, remember that “in the end what they do is not relevant”; they do not deserve the consideration our endless rumination gives them. We shouldn’t be blamed “for being an instigator,” for we have to right to give expression to our pain. If we don’t express it…”It only hurts more.”

Please, Dear Readers, put your pain into words. If you’d like me to post your words here, I’ll be glad to, for we all have to help each other. We all need others to validate us. You can put your thoughts in the comments section, and I’ll quote them in a future post. Peace! 🙂

My Short Story, ‘Violation,’ in the Horror Anthology, ‘Dig Two Graves, Vol. II’

Dig Two Graves: An Anthology Vol. II–Kindle edition by Death’s Head Press is now published! I have an erotic horror short story, ‘Violation,’ included in it. It’s about a group of young men who gang rape and murder a woman in the woods (or so they think), then realize they’ve gotten themselves into something supernatural and surreal, and a revenge ensues to make I Spit On Your Grave seem mild in comparison. That’s all I’m telling for now; you’ll have to read for yourself to find out how they get what’s coming to them.

Other great stories included in the anthology were written by Wesley Southard, Cameron Trost, Gerri R. Gray, Gary Power, Delphine Quinn, M. Ennenbach, Jack Bantry, Charlotte Platt, Cameron Kirk, Susan E. Abramski, Mark Lumby, Lucas Milliron, David L. Tamarin, Lori Tiron-Pandit, Pete Mesling, G. Allen Wilbanks, Thomas Vaughn, Sergio “ente per ente” Palumbo, Duane Bradley, David Owain Hughes, and Betty Rocksteady.

I want to show my appreciation to Death’s Head Press for including my story in their new anthology! If you love horror fiction, Dear Reader, I hope you’ll go out and get your hands on this collection of scary stories!