Poetry Showcase inspired by Sexton and Plath: Christina Strigas


This one is the last one I write for her
I thought she was someone else
Her colors used to be golden 
Now they are gray with loads of black
It’s never a woman’s fault
Except sometimes it is

I thought she was innocent and dark
The truth is, she speaks too loudly on the phone
And does not like silence at all
She buries her head before death
Untangles her hair when there are no knots
Only she knows the lament of her heart

A child kissed too soon
Undressed under fall trees
Hidden weeds in locked garages
This is how the truth unravels
Under earth and unkept minds
It becomes untouchable
In the lines of poetic injustice. 


I came out of a Modern Literature class
with Dickens under my arms
folded page at the part of the story
that you don’t want to stop at

I kept walking down the street
imagining cellos playing in my mind
I went to my favorite second-hand bookstore
And there you were

I picked you up and took you home
snuggled you to sleep
hugged you on the bus
in the bathroom
in the living room
under the apple tree on Sunday afternoon
I placed you on the bookshelf for a while
but I knew you felt lonely
like a violin waiting for your turn in the song
I let you sit for a while
absorbed your words as they floated in my brain
the fog evaporated.
When I was 20, I picked you up again
took you with me to class
walked with you up Mont Royal Park
  	sat on the grass and consumed you once again
	I wrote some poems with my old typewriter
	but no one read them
	lovers did not know that time changed between seasons.

	When I turned 30 
I caressed you again
	neglected you
	you stayed next to me for years 
	when I moved again, I left you in a box 

	I don’t remember the age or the time
	but I remember reading you with a fresh eye
	like trumpets blew around my mind
	Ella singing in the back

	I keep reading your words
 but I am disappointed now
	I let the person in and let go of the poet
	I did the ultimate wicked act 
	I understood the poem and killed the poet.

	You broke my heart
More than a man could
	I did not think you had it in you.

(for Anne Sexton)


My heritage matters not
I was meant to have worms on my skin
my calling is death
I can accept every brute
as you lay there reading my poems in bed

you paid for my letters
my afternoon naps
I heard God many times
choked on men’s poems
sometimes my silence asked for all the words
you gave to others
when I think of the cemetery visits

the tears
of how people wanted to drink me
in a cup of tea

Pretend they know me
I have had my share of purity

I was proud of all the hidden
my vulnerability never stopped me

It took a man, my father, a woman, my mother
	to teach me how to not do
and when I had to kill all of them
yet none of them
the voices drowned for a season
but I cannot be anyone’s war

I brew my own tea
	start over
	tap the last poem
	flip the last page of my manuscript
I imagine for a brief rainy season 
how you would feel when you realize
all my darkness is inside you

or when you blow out my candle
as I no longer wait for your approval.


  This morning I made my sage tea, lit a candle, rubbed my crystals and watched the flame sway quickly. I knew it was her. She came to me a few times. Once she told me about vampires. I had already written my paranormal romance novel. She did not speak, but I felt her words. Girls like us, we’re beyond sensitive. We walk in the sea. We notice all the wildflowers in the cracks of the sidewalk. We touch trees and say good morning to birds. The photos on our phones are the same sunset in one-hundred different dates. We already know the truth, but let our blood get sucked, anyway. Girls like us break all the hearts of all the good men. We want dark hearts with bursts of light. We want the same lover in every lifetime. We want to believe in vampires. We want pain engulfed in a poem.

We want to keep writing poetry for the men and women who leave us so we have something to say.


You are epic
with words
you’re the royal queen of poetry
you’re Plath
there’s no one like you
your writing is Mozart

there will only be one of you
a rare colored tulip
no matter how we try to emulate the sounds
you’re the royal queen of poetry

to write what no woman had before
you did it
you made a poetry book 
every man envied

Your gentle heart
could not take so much pain
you wrote up until the end
you’re the royal queen of poetry

It’s no one’s business, really
being a famous poet like you

Everyone thinks they know you
your vulnerability
your sadness
your mental illnesses
When the secrets lie with you. 

Bio from Christina's website  http://christinastrigas.com/
Christina Strigas is trilingual, raised by Greek immigrants, and has written five poetry books. Love & Vodka, has been featured by CBC Books in, “Your Ultimate Canadian Poetry List: 68 Poetry Collections Recommended by you.”

drought: a poem by Christina Strigas (from her new book) 

A Poetry Showcase for Christina Strigas -new poetry & republished poetry

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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