i have this really cool friend named craig calhoun, and his short story is up against another in a writing competition.
it’s been an exhausting few weeks of voting for craig (you can vote once an hour), creating memes, and generally promoting him and his story online. he’s made it through two previous rounds to get to the finals and i’d hate to see him lose now.
i’m doubtful that anyone really reads my blog, but to the void i ask:
the contest ends TONITE at 11:59pm. we already lost a precious hour of voting today, so if you don’t mind, it would really help craig out if you could visit the site, vote for him, then vote until midnight or share with your friends if you like.
thanks in advance, void!
they explode in the sky,
an orange haze burns
horizon for weeks.
i cross one leg over the
other, one shadows the other
on purpose when walking.
they saw it coming.
ahead of him we stop, watch
melting metal rain upon the fields.
twenty nine years from now
in your photo the colours will blend,
effortless, the horizon will slope.
he will not be
in the distance my silhouette shifts its
weight to one leg, collapses an arm.
you cross a field, find the prints
of my boots in the snow.
the whiteness envelops the land.
our red sky inverts, fades into
night, one star explodes
at a time.
organizing my office can be
the best part of the day.
i hide bits of glamour
behind the sheets of
& the decoupage.
i find where i can fit you in
and let yourself expose
you. i breathe and i
pretend i don’t
i breathe and i
pretend i’m not
nostalgic for the year before.
since my boyfriend started this thing where he flies across the country for a week at a time for work, i’ve started this thing where i’m scared of my own shadow. not sure why. of course i’ve lived on my own before, and that was in a sketchy area in an apartment with big windows on the ground floor.
now the furnace comes on in the still quiet of the evening and i jump in my own skin. i try to focus on netflix or the courses i’m taking for work or books or pepsi or the sound of my own feet on the squeaky, century-old floors. i try to not see silhouettes of strangers in my backyard through the reflections of light in the double panes of glass.
i thought i’d be lonely or bored; i’m not. the last thing i thought was that i’d become scared to be raped or murdered in the place i love most, my own home.
i admit i’ve neglected this writing blog for most of 2013. i spent the majority of the year working on my most recent chapbook, the grass is a yard now, again.
but now that the book is done i’m looking forward to posting more poems/writing here in 2014, mostly stuff i don’t plan on publishing.
i think i also have two poems that will appear in the next (10th) issue of ottawater, ottawa’s online poetry anthology. there will be a reading at the carleton tavern on january 24th at 7pm. at which i will not be reading.
i’ll post again when the new issue is online, or whatever.
thank you for reading/following despite my inactivity… & happy new year.!
i am stoked to be able to announce that i have a new chapbook released this week! the grass is a yard now, again has been published by Apt. 9 Press and will be launched this friday at 7pm. more details about the event can be found on the Apt. 9 website, but i do know it will be at Raw Sugar (on somerset just west of bronson) and that it will be spectacular. i’ll be reading from the book at the launch, along with Spencer Gordon and Rhonda Douglas who are both also launching new books. anything Apt. 9 does is pretty much amazing, so it’s definitely an exciting opportunity to have this chapbook published.
more on the chapbook, from the Apt 9 Press site:
“the grass is a yard now, again considers the relations between certainty and uncertainty, between the expected and the unexpected, and between different reasons why narratives are constructed. jesslyn delia smith, as she has done across a series of chapbooks in the last five years, writes poems about the mundane and the everyday that locate the moments where we slip and grow. These poems are unassuming, and thoroughly disarming.”
that i might have lingered, if not
at your feet then in memory,
if not on the skin of your lips then
in history, but seldom your shell
was where i understood
you. you saw me
the saddest i
now i think “this is stupid”, and stop writing, and go camping, again and again it’s the same.