Creativity, poetry, poets, Self Identity

What Stimulates Your Creativity?

This morning We Wanted to Be Writers newsletter popped up first on my reading list. My eyes landed on a headline highlighting a poetry collection by Clare Martin.

For me, few morning rituals are better than a great cup of coffee while perusing a thought provoking poem or article.

Ten poems filled the page.  I ended up reading all of the poems twice, some four times. 

Luis Alberto Urrea, author of Queen of America, says (her poetry is) “dark and lovely and full of a deep organic pulse. Like the landscape of her beloved Louisiana, her work is alive with mystery. You could swim in this hot water, but there are things down inside its darkness that might pull you away forever. It is an exquisite drowning.”

I couldn’t get two of her poems out of my head. Images swirled until I observed the scenes in the poem unfold.

Woman sitting on the edge of the
Woman sitting on the edge of the


She walks into the sea, out of the sea, into the sea, swinging her arms. Casting the net, her hanging breasts are like soundless bells. She crouches on an outcropping of rocks holding the line. If the nets are empty, her children will feed on night—fill their mouths with clouds, devour stars. She shovels star lit pebbles with a bare foot. She faces the moon, pulling hard. She pulls to her chest, pulls with her back, her thighs, and the muscles of her neck. Her face stiffens with anger. She breathes and desperation breaks. The haul is large, glittering. Spiked fins slap her calves. She bleeds—

Children gather for the slaughter.

First published in Lily Literary Review

Male purple
Male purple


We marry into grief
and the poems pile

up against our ribs.
Secrets hold to us

and we hold to them.
We are bound to endings

as the culmination
of light binds us.

Darkness: a berry,
blood on the tongue—

It has been a long time
since we have written poetry.

Why do we wait?
Fault-lines split the earth.

The ink of the crow
marks the cloud—

Shall we not muse
upon its bantering wings?

Clare Martin’s debut collection of poetry, Eating the Heart First, was published fall 2012 by Press 53 as a Tom Lombardo Selection. These poems are from the collection. 

Several things can help stimulate creativity: walks in nature, a bubble bath, music, looking at a photo, or just being quiet. So what gets your creative side glowing?

poetry, Strong Women

Chyrstos Poetry

Fugitive Colors by Chrystos
Fugitive Colors by Chrystos

My waking hours have been filled with poetry and tissues this last week.

The cold germs found their way past the daily vitamin C I take and turned me into a sneezing, coughing, dry mouthed mess. Thank goodness for the poetry.

Last week, two poets presented an opportunity which I took because I love poetry and I dabble (very lightly) in composing poems myself.

The first poet needed beta readers for an upcoming chapbook, so I read seventy plus pages of melodious words and did some critiquing (as a reader, not a poet).

The second poet, Michelle Wing, an AROHO sister, poet, and Facebook friend (who’s own poetry collection “Body on the Wall” will come out in Spring 2014) posted an interesting game on FB. Anyone who ‘liked’ a poem that she posted would be assigned a poet. In turn, the ‘liker’ would choose a poem by that poet and post it on their FB page.

Michelle assigned me to read poems by Chyrstos, a Menominee rights activist for Turtle Mountain Band of Chipewa, Norma Jean Croy, and Leonard Peltier. Her poems are in numerous anthologies and she has five poetry books published. Many of her poems speak about the living traditions of her people, the edgy rhythms of urban life, and violence.  

These two poems resonated:

The Man Who Couldn’t Live Without Me

I’m sitting at the bus stop holding a pillowcase of dirty laundry

when he informs me passionately,

Baby, you’re my only

real reason for being,

If you love that other bastard

I’ll kill him

Baby I need you

Sunshine ain’t nothing

if you aren’t mine

Laughing I thought he made about

as much sense

as any woman who has said such stuff to me

Pretty efficient to obsess about a complete stranger

since the truth

arrives much faster and less painfully

When her bus comes-she leaves you

No ego loss there

As my J Church rolled up I said,

Bye, bye my one true love

Laughed with myself and every lover

I’d promised to kiss forever

cause I know now the only person I can’t

live without

is me

Not Vanishing

In the scars of my knees you can see
children torn from their families
bludgeoned into government schools
You can see through the pins in my bones
that we are prisoners of a long war
My knee is so badly wounded no one will look at it
The pus of the past oozes from every pore
This infection has gone on for at least 300 years
Our sacred beliefs have been made into pencils
names of cities gas stations
My knee is wounded so badly that I limp constantly
Anger is my crutch I hold myself upright with it
My knee is wounded
How I Am Still Walking

If you love poems that interweave personal stories with edgy narrative, social justice themes, and poems exploring the Native American experience, check out Chyrstos poetry.