as someone who is a writer and an artist, but not really a “working artist” i guess (under capitalist terms, but i do have to live under capitalism, however unfortunate), and therefore questioning myself more than i’d like to, i’ve decided to let myself just create however feels best for now. and i’ll figure out how to survive capitalism on the side, whether my writing and art can help me do that financially, or just emotionally. i’ve been thinking a lot about rejections, too. how stifling and exhausting it can feel to get another “sorry, it’s just not for us” email, how hard it is to even figure out how to get my art into the world. i had more connections and opportunities than i realized in college, and my first year and half post-grad have been… hell. i feel like i’ve just remembered over the past three-ish months that i do in fact have talent and skill, and i do actually like to create.

so, my weekly updates will be whatever i want them to be. poems, new and old, that i can publish myself if i want, instead of waiting and waiting. fiction and non-fiction pieces i’m working on and want to share, inspiration i’m utilizing in my writing processes – the first therapist i ever stuck with helped me realize last year that i do the best in my own work when i’ve read/watched/listened to something that inspired me. new art pieces i have going, maybe new ideas i have for a series or collection, or updates to previous pieces/collections. my art and writing feel fluid to me in a lot of ways.

so, to start us off and see February off, here is the newest poem i’ve written. i wrote this poem based off of one of my great-grandpa’s poems. i didn’t know he wrote poetry until i read his memoir a few months ago, a couple of months after he died. this poem will be included in my forthcoming chapbook Comes in Threes, and may wind up slightly different in its final version. it’s the final part of the chapbook that needs to be finalized before it’s printed and officially distributed on March 9th.

reverie

on my back, the sun is cold.
i stride through the empty
and snow covered park,

only the sound of my feet
kicking up powder,
my hands punching
down on ice, breaking
a rare silence.

with the bark of a dog, i leap back
twenty years, maybe 200 miles.

on kid me’s face, the sun is warm.
my body lays in the front yard of a house
known too little. snow angels, sledding, laughing,

the markings of a family known too little.
gone, the big yards and big house
too soon. only the snow in the wind
and an angel remain from
the remembrance of some kid within.

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