A new poem on Coffee House Writers makes reference to someplace I’m missing dearly right now: Aotearoa (New Zealand).
The Arahura River is a living, breathing thing with a soul unto itself.
It is also subject to some heartbreaking history of the colonial Gold Rush era. The Ngāi Tahu or Kāi Tahu iwi made a treaty with the British Crown that allowed resource mining, while still retaining iwi ownership and rights to the Arahura. These rights were ignored.
I’m lucky enough to have seen the majesty of the Arahura. It is very recent that amends began to be made. Please take a moment to visit Arahura Dreaming to learn more about the Arahura Pa and what you can do to support the iwi that make the country of Aotearoa (New Zealand) so great. If you visit, please do so with the utmost respect and treat Arahura with the same innate rights as any other human being would have.
It’s just the poem – it’s now live on Coffee House Writers. A limited release hardback with fancy photography, less fancy paperback, and hardback versions of a poetry collection called “l’Identité Politique” will be made available for pre-order starting on Black Friday. These three projects may have a soft release earlier with some super secret links, so keep an eye out on Twitter and Instagram as the proofs come in.
For those that are curious about the title:
If you are struggling with your holiday shopping list, remember that Indie Books and Art are great gifts. I’m going to start dedicating space to featured artists and authors more. Previously I didn’t have a grasp of how interviews could be misconstrued as more than just conveying information.
If you would like to have your book or art featured with a snippet about it, you, and a link to your website, please send me a DM on Twitter, Instagram, and/or email.
That’s it 🙂 That’s the whole thing.
Here’s a current draft cover for the softcover:
More details to come (and an explanation as to why A Hundred Different Skies is being released *very differently*)
Oh, and we’re going to be moving, but I think I may have mentioned that at one point? Anyways.
Content warning: may be triggering to those that are experiencing emotional or traumatic struggles. Reader discretion is advised.
She started smoking again Feeling bones by finger curls And the nauseating hunger For someone to understand The hard lumps under skin And the satisfaction of a visible scapula Under the crushing, suffocating, smothering Weight of ten pounds Against the pull of Earth’s gravitational force When the greatest ally against one condition Becomes the pain of another Hoping that at the end of this cigarette She will find the cremated remains Of her claim to have it all under control
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This poem first appeared on Curenseaafter being written in 2007. I have made a few minor edits.
I chose this poem based on many thoughts coming up for me over my lifetime while living in the United States. I grew up in Virginia and found it strange that I could live next to a Holocaust survivor and then move to a town with an active KKK chapter other kids at the elementary school nonchalantly talked to me about their parents being members of. My parents explained what that meant when I asked. Same with the Neo-nazi rallies in Yorktown, Virginia – you know, that place where we apparently “won the Revolutionary War”. What’s so revolutionary about it anymore now that you allow those kinds of rallies there? But Virginia did. My parents felt powerless against it because the courts ruled in their favor on the grounds of Freedom Of Speech and Freedom Of Assembly and that was used to argue for social tolerance of intolerance. Now, here we are, being asked to tolerate violence against each other as that too becomes normalized.
A Lesson Never Learned
It came up through the floorboards, Zyklon B reaching forward through time Ripping at our throats, Forming itself around our nostrils condensing into blue ice, after being trapped in the cold of existence. This depressive state of humanity Seeming only to slumber in its death Released the gas upon itself, Using the world as its chamber Many can claim their innocence -besides- Innocence through ignorance is the best kind While dictators commence genocidal rampages Using ill-earned power to rape a people destroy their very creation of a God, And yet, for those who are suffering:
The strongest woman I (n)ever met sat crying at the grand opening of the Holocaust Museum She surveyed the surrounding young people Generations too young to remember or know what She Survived Walking through in awe of their own misunderstandings She looked back without a single failed memory Her arm exposed so everyone could see: the vining rose tattoo that grew out of the numbers that changed her life forever
Thank you for reading this poem today. The comments section is reserved for your thoughts. Moderating is only for preventing spam/trolls – I approve as quickly as possible and approval is only needed once to post without moderation on this website.