Friday, February 20, 2015

PLAISIR

Christine Fojas

Voice must flow like lava from the volcano's lip. Hips must sway. The grey must hide in shaded hair. Bare skin given like a gift, after waxing like a maxed out moon. An afternoon of pain for a night of love.

Aroma of flowers and home cooked meals. Heels in the air, toes painted red. The bed is waiting, warm.

After a lifetime of obedience, here is the promise of sin.

---
An exercise in form

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Poet: an identity crisis

I am not as good at this as I wish I could be. And I've never quite mustered enough courage to actually call myself a writer or a poet, even though I desperately, hopelessly want to be. Why not? Why the f--- not?

How about I promise to try? It's not courage I lack, it's momentum. It's motivation. To try and submit poems to literary magazines, to update my poetry blogs (here and notional mess) with thoughts and exercises and musings and to write regularly and repeat the cycle. To work at being a poet and writer. So I earn that name.

What am I waiting for?

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

some links I've come back to or stumbled onto this month:


A poetry book called Situations by Laura Carter

"Some Feel Rain" by Joanna Klink

A blog of literary commentary called Pomp and Intertext

Chanterelle's Notebook, a poetry e-zine

A TEDtalk on architecture

Playable games

End of April: Notes

Many of the poems I've written this month lacked the typical cohesive nature of the tradition that I grew under. They are like open-ended questions, like one-half of a parenthesis. Or more like random notations on a sheet of music, which, when played, produces mostly noise rather than song. The reasons behind this--aside from that they were easier to write--is that I wrote them in the spirit of alea or chance. I needed to be shaken loose from the narrow circle of my own thoughts. I consider those poems collaged because they grew from other people's work, from random words and phrases culled from current readings. They are collaborations, in a way. Not all of them are successful, however. And I find myself still circling the same old images and themes sometimes. (So the work is never done.)

I've also liked playing with form in general, from truncated haikus to that weird Filipino poem. I've done some long ones this month, and I've written short lines, and longer ones. When I read them over, I am happy to be so inconsistent. I always feel like I'm repeating myself, so the unexpected, the novel, and the random are all welcome here. But there are still patterns. I find myself writing a lot of internal or slant rhymes, more out of instinct that strict deliberation. There are a lot of maps, a lot of songs, and poems about stories. I've also been drawn to anaphora.

As always, doing this everyday means my life seeps into the poetry. My dark days, my daily worries, the questions and topics that are my current obsessions or preoccupations--they are all present in my poems. Will I do this again? Maybe next year. I am wrung out now, and also, craving prose.

A Fan's Ode

by Christine Fojas

Want is warm.
Everywhere you go
fire follows.

Just a dream:
a mic in your hand,
eyes watching

and applause.
You smile and the world
screams back. Like

conductors
for the orchestra,
the music

rises high.
Tide-maker, o moon.
Magnetic.

Yet do you
long for solitude
and silence?

Open air
anonymity?
Eyes watching,

eyes judging.
How do you keep on
being you?

Hold yourself
whole lest it shatter
in the mirrors

of others
who want and want and
want? A dream

can turn dark,
a crowd to a mob.
Or you wake

to the day
nobody looks twice.
Even gods

see twilight
falling as their names
fade away.

When that day
arrives, think of me
who loves you

helplessly.
Hopelessly. I am
still clapping,

still screaming,
dreaming your dream and
refusing

to wake up
to the world.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

The Scavenger's Pages

by Christine Fojas

language is a naive ritual
of erasure. it annihilates
the path, for a dark hope,
or else plays in shadow. we
are given givens. kung
mamarapatin.

the book in your hands
are compiled pages
from repeated pairs.
but some of us deviate
from maps. I make my own choices,

sifting through
boxes of praxis
for free sources
and found things:
scavenger's prerogative.

amidst lost texts and lines
of prayer are the seeds
of transgression, or else borne
of the embers of wonder
which must be fanned back
to life.

leave rooms for trespass,
holes, holy silence.
what dances between
the lines?

Monday, April 28, 2014

A Fool's Mystery

by Christine Fojas

There is music in silence.

Who you are
is a question of
who I was
unearthing all along.

I tried to learn trash value
and alternate logic,
to stand upside down.
Re-vision is a chance
to take a deeper breath

to be safe in risk.
Pick the rules for breaching
and create alive mythologies

made of love

for all endeavors
foolish and again the fool
fashions the opposite
spirit, attends
the office of things
that happen before
and things that will happen again.

Hammering the question
into the old backwards tale,
an exercise in myth-making,
a dream unfolding,
a mystery just drawing a breath--