Back Cover Blurb:
This cunning collection from Stacy is bold and reminiscent of women everywhere. Unafraid to out-step boundaries and stereotypes, she has written each line with a brilliant determination to have her voice heard. From the trials of motherhood to the modern-day tragedies of teenage angst, Stacy will take you on a journey through a childhood of esoteric beginnings into a blossoming young woman on the verge of finding her place in this world. She speaks of losing (and finding) love, family devotion, maternal instincts, women's issues, and personal demons in words so rich you'll feel as if you've fallen into the pages of her world. This is a collection of poetry that everyone (especially every woman) can relate to. Miss Mar speaks of life and transgressions with such a brave, confessional voice that you'll feel you've accidentally overheard someone else's private conversation. As brutal as it is beautiful, you'll remember the words and life lessons of this piece of work long after the last page is turned.
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Gods of Chance
This is the June of 3am,
The time of night when Summer
Lifts the skirt of her thighs,
A discreet dance of ‘rings around the moon,’
I watch atop my balcony the boats
As they make love to the laps of cerulean waves
And dream myself a constellation atop the water.
I imagine each woman is a piece of me,
Right down to my paint-stained poets hands,
When at night Monet whispers into my ears
The sins of each sunflower, the seedling, the lie.
How I try to mimic his short thrusts and strong strokes
Beneath the naked spark of a moon beam.
Sometimes when I paint, and paste, and rearrange
The magnetic parts of me, truth slaps me
Like a raw circuit of copper wire,
And I manage to believe I’m not married,
Have never bore the noose cords of romance,
Dry as a dead rose petal, it’s browned thorn menacing.
I fall into the abyss of starving-artist reverie,
Pretending there’s no new lover in my bed,
Bathing my sheets the gasoline-stink of sex.
I listen to folk songs and try on the single life
Like a pair of old jogging shoes, lying empty
All these years, but awaiting another mornings run.
And I remember the Norse campus in my head,
The woman sentiment of empty pockets and dreams
Cracking the center of my core like antique China tea-cups,
How life found me living amongst empty yogurt cartons
And the bland taste of tuna fish straight from the can,
Amongst words upon lines upon notebooks of bleeding prose,
Useless without an agent, or so they preached it vehemently.
Back then I believed dreams were things you folded
And stuffed into your pockets, quotes from dead Presidents,
Classic vignettes of famous poets,
Haiku of the immoral Victorian feminists,
They were whims atop a bruise-stricken thumb nail
A penny-well toss to the Gods of fate and chance.
There’s a part of me
That is crazy about myself.
I adjourn the poetry reading,
With a sparkle in my eye,
I am my own star,
My own banner of repose.
Tonight I am also omnipresent,
My belly full of moon glow,
I fade behind the shadow
Of a park bench,
I am the concave of singularity,
I am the ‘o’ of my own noose,
If I dare not write, I strangle.
And the words,
I draw them out like a web,
Like a bizarre Bermuda Triangle.
Don’t venture into my book,
Lest you never find your way back.
I am slap-stick happy, I am me.
Tonight my heart smiles,
My blood boils to a simmer,
And all those men, all those faces,
They ogle my shoulder-straps,
Their stares stroke the malignancy
Of my narcissism, my smile spends itself.
I watch the sky, the stars are men,
A girl as flighty as me
Can never look at just one.
Somewhere in the male species
There is a secret society,
Heartbreaks and love benign,
Like orangutan’s, they gather.
One day you will read this,
With doubt in your eyes,
The corners of your mouth
Drawn out in shame.
The canary of your soul
Will falter in it’s ability to sing.
You’ll ask me what my words mean,
And I will tell you,
‘Darling, my poems,
They are gifts to myself.’
The Good Girl Exhibit
Summer is abloom,
And we make our way
Through the steady stream
Of side-walk passers-by,
to the small mom and pop,
A rail-road station of
Where the young cashier girl
Bids her mothers wishes.
Old men carry in their canes,
Coffee extra black, ma’am,
And she taps the sugar bowl empty,
I observe, my eyes dancing among
The shelves of jarred jelly and
The lemon-spray scent of
Wood rotting, steady drip-drop,
Ceiling leaking like a faucet,
A dust-bunny brine of surplus treasure.
And my grandmother,
Never young in her rubber sandals,
Bobby-pins swimming the net
Of gray on black,
I watch her hands, wrinkled but steady,
Examine a can of beans,
Twenty-five cents, you can’t beat that,
And I swat at a lone knat,
His legs kneading a path through my arm hair.
I remember the days of my girlhood,
how my hands would finger
the magazine display shelves
Against the roaming eyeball
Of my fathers’ inhibitions,
Like a microscopic memory,
I’d carry the captions and headlines
Home with me: ten days to new you,
How to drive men crazy in bed,
New fall fashions, blond-lady in a red mini.
Hidden between my breasts,
Two flat areolas of immaturity,
And the thrifty feel of my wool sweater,
I’d slide those secrets of sophistication
Into my closet, two shelves below my shirts,
Three boxes back where the words gathered,
Because virgin Christian girls
Weren’t supposed to wear tight blue jeans,
Writing poetry under maple trees,
About backseats and football game bleachers.
We were never supposed to know
The six steps of a sizzling romance,
Twenty rules to a healthy sex life,
And of the one-night stands in Spain.
A Counterfeit Madonna
“Woman ... is the divine object, violated, endlessly sacrificed yet always reborn, whose only joy, achieved through a subtle interplay of images, lies in contemplation of herself.” Pauline Reage
Time spins itself into five o’clock,
Though it’s still dark outside,
And the moon hides her egged iridescence,
My calendar claims the morning.
I sit myself atop a kitchen chair,
My mind a mosaic of memories.
My pen is angry, it will not write for me,
And I search desperately for a thesaurus.
I nurse a cup of coffee, a friend found
In the bottom of a winter mug, my meager solace
For the blank page that keeps me awake.
Tonight my eyes refuse to close.
Like a Cyclops I meander through the words,
I paste my Madonna smile there near the top
Where the edges of my paper crumble
And a few verbs are left wandering.
Michael Angelo would have christened me on paper,
A classic portrait of pastels and shadowed depth,
My fake face immortalized on canvas,
Wrinkled around the edges but not afraid to smile.