Friday, February 20, 2015


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?