Brigid (silent) Poetry Slam, year 12

Sink

Sink,
like the last breath of consciousness
before death,
before birth,
Sink,
like stone in the wooden bucket
dips for renewal,
dips for healing
in Brigid’s well.

~Pamela V Jones ©2017

This is my 8th year contributing to the Silent Poetry Festival  which has been going on since 2006, and has become a wonderful, international event, with people posting poems in honor of Brigid on their blogs, Facebook, Twitters, Tumblrs, and other such devices.

Details here.

SQUEE!! My art is on the cover, and poetry inside!

Ghostlight, The Magazine of Terror
List Price: $10.00

 

Add to Cart

About the author:
The Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers (GLAHW) is an organization of like-minded writers, artists and enthusiasts based in the Great Lakes Region, but with fingers that extend around the world. It is a collective and compendiums of writers, artists, and fans exploring the genre of horror, science fiction, fantasy, and true crime.

Ghostlight, The Magazine of Terror

Authored by Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers

The Fall Edition of the bi-annual digest presented by the Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers (GLAHW). Horror and dark fiction and poetry by Laroo Jack, Edward Ahern, John Grey, and others, with artwork by Paul Paul Lubaczewski and Pamela V Jones.

Publication Date: Dec 01 2016
ISBN/EAN13: 1539616282 / 9781539616283
Page Count: 56
Binding Type: US Trade Paper
Trim Size: 8.5″ x 11″
Language: English
Color: Black and White with Bleed
Related Categories: Fiction / Horror / General

Medusa Poetry Slam

Seeking Medusa
(poetry slam version)

I want to see monstrous Medusa.

I want to see her as Gorgon.

I want to see her full-lipped and full-hipped.

I want to see her,
I want to see Her!

I search for her.
Images, renderings, and statues abound,
What I see is Barbie™ Medusa,
I see how the patriarchy sees.

Even a goddess,
in order to be seen!
to be worshipped!
to have place on the altar!
Must look Just So.
Body of Hollywood beauty,
Fair of face,
where only the hair can be writhing,
Reminiscent of orgasmic tussle to succumbing.

I want to see Medusa of olde!

I want her face large!
unbecoming!
Twisted in rage!

I want full mouth keening with despair,
as distorted eyes pop her stony gaze.

I want Medusa,
in all her monstrous glory.
I want Medusa as is.

When I do glimpse her monstrous –
Gorgon face contorted,
full of power
and blazing eyes –
Her bloody head hangs from Perseus’ hand.

Message received.

I want to see Medusa!
Repulsed and repulsive!
Raw power of monster
In modern day.

I honour unsightly Medusa!

Not Disney™ Medusa,

Not Medusa thru the male gaze.

I want to see Medusa!
In all her monstrosity…

So I may be seen in all of mine.

~Boneweaver/Pamela V Jones ©2016

Brigid (silent) Poetry Slam, year 11

Brigid of Endless Waters

Kneeling at Her well
With unflinching eyes
I see reflection of my sharpened parts.

I wish for rounded edges
to my tongue,
a softening of the word-blows
I know myself
to land on others’ ears.
I seek healing of long held,
long protected lesions.

I note the slivered pieces,
guarded by thorny bits
wrapped ‘round wounded spaces.
Some thorns point inward,
the wounding freshened by me.

I dip my cup and drink,
dip and drink.
Water smoothing
and quenching,
still feeding the thorns,
more growth.

I dip and drink one long drink,
allowing the water
to sate and soothe,
to polish and nurture all,
even the rough thirsty places.

I dip my cup and carry some home.

~Pamela V Jones Feb 2016

 

This is my 7th year contributing to the Silent Poetry Festival  which has been going on since2006, and has become a wonderful, international event, with people posting poems in honor of Brigid on their blogs, Facebook, Twitters, Tumblrs, and other such devices.

Details here.

*twinkles* ssssss

The Journey

“One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognised as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.”

Mary Oliver