To Know A Poet is To Love ArtistCG

COLETTE aka ARTISTCG


Colette aka ArtistCG--- Poet Interview with The Golden Goddess


When did you know you were a poet?


I remember writing poetry as a teenager. I think it was probably crappy love junk. I remember doing drawings from the back view of a couple standing, holding hands, wearing Levi’s. haha I think the crappy poems accompanied these crappy drawings.

As far as when did I know? I would say perhaps in the past year. Some of my poetry has been published several years ago, but I don’t think I ever saw my poetry as being something truly worthy until recently. Now, I’m like Yeah, write on! I’m a poet and I know it! LOL


Who influences you as a poet?


Writers from before my time (living or not) who influence me and why:

• Charles Bukowski (raw truth)
• Pablo Neruda (metaphorically delicious love)
• Anais Nin (love knowing no boundaries)
• Colette (I think I’m tied to her somehow)
• Marguerite Duras (The Lover.)
• Maya Angelou (endured a harsh past and still appreciates the bird’s song)

Man...looking at that list, I wish I could arrange a face off with those peeps and have them compete for the top spot! There are singer/songwriters that I could add to that list too. I have a sense of nostalgia for the past, and I feel a connection to them when I read how they approached situations during their time. Times change, but certain things are a constant—like struggles, desires, and the emotions that are attached to both.


Writers who currently inspire me are:

• Claudia Moss (lively spirit who gives all her characters great voice!)
• Joyce Conley Williams (knows a woman’s hardships, and certainly knows her worth)
• Kumasi Mack (a modern day romantic, but he calls himself Abstract due to his flavorful metaphorical word choices)



How do you contribute to the love of poetry in the world?

I began posting my poetry online at theStarliteCafe.com in 2002. A man named Albert used to run it, and it was a pleasant place to share, get feedback, and bond with other poets. Since he has passed, various changes have occurred on the site, and there are a lot of glitches. I later started posting on WritersCafe.org. I’ve had some poetry published in India through the Taj Mahal Review, and various other small journals.



Almost Dead Poets Society    We are the Almost Dead Poets Society. If you are interested in poetry...whether you read it, write it, or enjoy listening to and watching spoken word performances then this group is for you.


About a year and a half ago, I formed the group the Almost Dead Poets Society. I had renovated my studio/living space to showcase my art, and I had a vision of this place I call the Avant Garde 2434 becoming a comfortable hangout for artists, musicians and writers to share their passion and inspire each other. I hosted the Sunday Nite Poetry Chill n Thrill for a year here, and took a few month hiatus recently. We will resume on Saint Patty’s Day with an Afternoon Delight potluck, and perhaps get back to our Sunday night routine from there on. I created a Facebook group for the Almost Dead Poets Society not long after our physical group formed, so that I could post the challenges, and we could also read the words we heard spoken. I have been delighted with its reach to those in other locales—including other countries.







Kumasi Mack, photo taken at the Avant Garde 2434
Poetry Chill & Thrill 2011





Joyce Williams, photo taken at the Avant Garde 2434
Poetry Chill & Thrill 2011


Last year, I created an art exhibit I titled Hung Out to Dry. I hung photographs I had taken of some of the poets from our group, and poetry from these poets and some from afar who participate in our online group. It was a one-day event that included several segments of spoken word. I’d love to take something like this on the road. Ahh one day! You know...Wishing Thinking of the Urban Mind! ;)






HUNG OUT TO DRY...Poets from the Almost Dead Poets Society



I have plans to put my poetry in print and eBook form soon. The means to self publish and reach an International audience is amazing thanks to online sites such as Blurb.com, and Apple iBooks. Besides having a few of my own collections I wish to publish, I want to compile a collection of poems from our Almost Dead Poets Society. Quite possibly, I will tackle that before my own, because I’m eager to share these amazing poets with the world!


Describe your writing process?

Free flow.

I’d like to stop there, but then you’ll yearn for deeper explanation—right? I write when my mind is pushing it out of me. Pushing it from my mind to my fingers to any pen, paper, keyboard I can get into contact with. Often I have words—more importantly thoughts—running around in my mind, and sometimes I’ll get them down if I have paper and pen in reach. Sometimes, I don’t. And, sometimes they are lost or changed by the time they do meet the page. It’s more of a burden of thoughts...things that trouble me. Sometimes, it’s things that elate me. I just let it out. And, sometimes, maybe later, I’ll go back and tidy up the thoughts and words a bit and shape it into a more coherent poem. Sometimes.



Describe a time when language mesmerized you.

Honey, when hasn’t it? The womb? I don’t know...I think that my collective unconscious is tied to some former writers and artists, so it’s part of my DNA. I’ve been mesmerized since before my flesh encased my spirit.

ArtistCG's Poetry

Day of the Dead / Night of the Devil
A Poem by Colette
"a Halloween experience"


I fuck everything up / the pie
no brown sugar / for my brown sugar
no crust / wrong shell
hell
More time cleaning up / than clearing up
the energy
that pulled him here / that pushes him away

I want to impress / to decompress
to touch soft / love mellow
yellow / everywhere / to symbolize


Happiness


What is it?
No one ever knows 'til it's too late / so I wait
to no avail / jail / feels like what I'm in
because I did find out / what "it" is
but, I can't obtain it / fully

Slivers of my piece of the pie
not even satisfactory
though I try

I'm a ghost in this land of the unknowing
Even when I blurt it out / paint it / create it
demonstrate it
I'm unheard / unseen / nothing but awkwardness
showing

It would be easier if I could think
walk / talk
dream of a future / like them
but, I can't.

I'm spilled over / peeled off / sliced
chewed up / spit out
discarded like trash / recycled
too many times

I watch lesbians build families / scouts build fires
burn what's meant to stay semi-whole
signs everywhere looking for new hires

I'm strong as titanium / as weak as these old, falling leaves
No one knows what to do with me / And,
I don't know how to sit still / I'm not addicted to a pill
or alcohol / or, otherwise

It's the simple things that give me thrills

Perhaps I'm meant to remain alone in this life?
Feeding squirrels peanuts / walking an incognito cat on a leash
Because, I don't think I'm designed to merge
with these humans

completely.

© 2011 Colette

*********************

Our Scars
A Poem by Colette
"flashbacks, and how they cripple our future. *inspired by the film Black Snake Moan"


that black snake moans

those flashbacks

of the wars i’ve fought

with my father, brother, steroid pumped man in blue

all i’m keepin true


my truth


wanting to give it all to u

inside out, and back in then out

again

no air

choking throat


nothing but a hair left behind, and

those scars


i see the you you don’t see

you see the me of the former remnant of women past

and i am ready to strangle that fucking black snake

til it no longer moans, but screams, then fades

then relaxes

to the present


i say i want to massage your temples

until your misgotten memory turns liquid

so i can swallow

swallow that black snake

so it chokes no here and now no more


that black snake moans

and i cry

cancerous tears

tears of death moans playing in my cerebellum

body twitching both involuntarily and voluntarily

hell, i don’t even know the difference anymore


and somehow both of our necks begotten

like some African mythology springing forth new life

out of the dead crevices

we have to learn who to be thankful for


i’ll suffocate your fucking, moaning, black snake

i’ll help you breathe, but


what will you do for me?


what will you do for me?


© 2011 Colette

**********************

Abstract Artist
A Poem by Colette
"a dedication to Kumasi Mack--The Abstract Poet"


I call it motion / they call it abstract

I call it feelings / they say it looks like a heart attack

I say the colors are like the wind on a hot summer day

I say the gay rainbow flies / I say... Sailor, Hey!


Movie screenings / temporary tattoos

The work of an artist will do / What? / Only if they lived before you?


Pistachios / Mangos

Yellow / Pink / Orange / Purple

You know I dream in Technicolor

You know when you dream of me there is little color / no obstacles

a barrier / reef

and we’re back to a reality in a colored land


Give me your hand

African myths / a gazing globe of peacock feathers / watermelon lingerie

said to cure what ails you / and help you sleep


Deep


They call us lewd / I call them funny

They call her nude / I call her lovely


They call me / I don’t call back

Today might be the last day / I’ll have a Big Mac attack


I’m down with the hoops / not with the studs

A painting that doesn’t encourage growth is simply mud


I call it the Ripple Effect / they call it football

Sometimes

He falls / He says, “We can’t fly” / I say, “Gimme your hand”


You might call it metamorphosis / I say

the caterpillar can’t eat if the butterfly don’t know where to land


We call our language metaphors / a fictional version of facts

He calls me Moonshine / I call him Abstract

***********************

ArtistCG is also an awe-inspiring PHOTOGRAPHER!!!
http://www.blurb.com/my/book/detail/1028261



Images of people in their bedrooms to demonstrate that regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, or cultural backgrounds...we are all similar.


Living A Golden Life,
TheGoldenGoddess

Kissing Revisited....

It's an intriguing topic...so I'm back to redress it, determine what keeps it on my mind. I know there won't be enough time to mine its gold before my fingers recede from this keyboard and my body seeks my pink sheets, but at least I'll have given it the best of me for now.

Attended a beloved friend's memorial and the kitchen was filled with friends and family. Food lined the counter. Everything from my raw kale salad to my sistafriend Jaslyn's delicious bean pie and veggies and a tasty assortment of chips and dips. There were sips of wine. And there were couples amongst the singles.

A twosome caught my eye. They were precious, one possessing a lovely smile, the other a rakish grin. Delightful. I took them in, as inconspicuously as I could, but I ambushed myself when I whipped out my camera and flat asked them if they would kiss for me. (AN IDEA TO REVISIT LATER!)

They wavered. Momentarily. As if to make certain they understood my request. I assured them they had. Then what happened next was akin to watching the treat through a video camera's lens. In slow motion, like a stream purling towards the ocean, they flowed together, one moving yet waiting, the other coming, already close-eyed, both merging as though for the first time, pooling into one skin. I was transformed, observing almost outside of time, the kitchen and the merriment drifting away, nothing left but the observer and The Kiss.

I felt their chemistry behind my camera's lens. Heated romance tempered on the fire of familiarity. Did she actually soften, receive her lover through the fabric of her dress? They shared the same breath,a communal heartbeat. Had they been a movie I'd have wed repeat. They kissed so long I got rooted in the moment, wondering: Would I know The Kiss this lifetime?

Not just a brushing of lips, theirs was a meeting of souls:a moving of the earth, fire in limbs, a toppling out of time, an undeniably, undisputed stupefaction.

Once, a treasured friend said a kiss is a gateway to fireworks, and, without it, you nurse a wet match. Just yesterday one of my sisters confided a kiss detonated just so, minus you knowing it'll have a Richter-scale effect, is worth running out to meet a nebulous tomorrow.

On her B-Day DVD, Beyonce sings about loving kissing her husband. The emotion in her voice invites me to be with her words and her seductive video image on a beach practically masturbating in the shadowy water. Exquisite. If I knew how to post the video here, I would. But since I don't, and my contacts are sticking to the balls of my irises, I am about to shut down for the morning. And maybe I shall work on posting it later!

Here are three POEMS that gently scrap the mixing bowl of my kiss-sweetened thoughts! Enjoy and please feel free to comment. To share this journey makes all the difference in the world!


BESOS MUAH KISS--KISS SMOOCH



THE KISS
We kiss
Before we ever meet
Our ravenous glances incomplete
Awaiting baptism
In the other’s virtual caress.
Your sweet, honey-dew lips
Promise
Cataclysmic explosions along my Southern shore.
There’ll be ‘No turnin’ back’ no more.
Thrills rumble my insides;
Blinding me
Consigning me
Unhinging me
Soaking me,
While you visually tongue me. O, the way you divine me
Turn me out of myself
My G spot shouting.
Dangerous glints stud our eyes
Starting an instant ache, a delirious dancing
Melting my defenses, leveling my walls, liquefying my knees---
All I thought I knew of desire deceived.

You taste
Me with a steamy, mocha gaze
Licking me right there and there.
A mango flicking explores my skin conjuring sensations deep within.
Dazed, I am still, shell shocked~
A stranger, you erotically push your way into my day~
Causing my pencil heels to reel
Our kisses raining cinnamon showers
Sweetening my inner rivers
Your audacity
Leaving me to hunt wave-tossed, fragments of myself.

We merge
Past invisible signs of No Return,
Lips
Parting
Tongue
Darting,
Mmmmmm Yeaaaaaaah
You taste like I knew you would
A mouthful of butterscotch sunshine
A shot of moonshine
Aged wine
So electrically divine….

© Claudia Moss 2/1/2010

*******************************************************************************

The Kissing Booth

Behind this makeshift stand
2010 KISSES
Pout on sensual command:
Soft kisses
Tongue kisses
French kisses
Hot kisses
Wet kisses
Forehead kisses
Belly kisses
Clit kisses
You can have it just right at The Kissing Booth every night…
Licked kisses
Dismissive kisses
Slow kisses
Drive-by kisses
Empty kisses
Nasty kisses
Femme kisses
Fuck-you kisses
Only for you, we’ve got prevailing sales at The Kissing Booth…

Dom kisses
Fragile kisses
Nipple kisses
Masculine kisses
I-hate-you kisses
Stay-away kisses
Come-closer kisses
Let’s-play kisses
Interracial kisses
We’ve got whatever kisses your taste buds can fathom at The Kissing Booth…
Gimme-som’ kisses
Not–on--your--life kisses
Not—in—this—lifetime kisses
Earlobe kisses
Pricey kisses
You-know-you-want-it kisses
She-can-get-it-forever kisses
Maybe-next-lifetime kisses
One-night-stand kisses
Sweeter-than-sex kisses
I-love-you kisses
If we missed it, we back-order your kisses and lay-them-away fresh here in The Kissing Booth…
Note:
A PENNY-A- PUCKER AND NO SUCKERS, PLEASE.

© Claudia Moss 2/1/2010


*******************************************************************************


My Kissin’ Experiment
You willin’ to be my experiment?
Gotta silence a vent
Inside this predicament
‘Cause she said my lips weren’t intended
To lick and be licked like peppermint.
No, don’t defend it.
It’s your entitlement
To end it
Before our lips begin this commencement.
Goin’ to kiss you ‘til you can’t stand it
Make you pray a new commandment
With kisses so soft I’ll dent
Your contentment
Of how she used to demand it
O, forget about containment
My kisses trickle, slither, slurp, slide with abandonment
From the back of your thighs to the hollow in your belly button up to your judgment
I’ll blow a breeze so bewitching---you’ll breach your sense of devilment.
Do you get it?
Or are you yet rife with the prophetic?
Uum Muuuaah! Besos, mi mujer! I’m harmless; you’re pathetic.
There’s nothing you can do yet
So I’ma finish gulping you and gorge on the gold at the end of your rainbow. Got it?
© TheSiren 2/1/2010

Sensuality...

I am a sensual creature. I make no apologies for this truth, as I am not in the business of refuting the Divine's handiwork, which made me this way, including it in my DNA. In truth, I warmly accept the multiplicity of this personality, this tour de force, this art that I find to be...ME.



Sensuality floods me when I dance. And it doesn't matter, perchance, if the music, the beat, is fast or slow. I just let go. Fall back. Am subsumed in a cocoon of intoxicating waves, of vibes alive with liquid fire so searing...it incinerates me, and I am as tropical as these orange letters, as vibrant as tangerine leggings, as fluid as a russet sunset above Hawaiian waters.



The words that flow from my pen or gloss my lips drip in sensuality, I've noticed, even if what I write or speak isn't particularly sensual in subject. You see, I accept it's simply the way I move in the world. My feet seek, naturally, sensual shoes, be they plastic with clear heels or penciled toes or pink bows. I'm real. Strip me of these shoes and, if I'm feeling draped in moonlight and ermine, I rise to my toes and fathomed stilettos are the way I go, swaying to runway reels in my locs. Now, some may allow this sensuality could possibly be replaced with terms that earn the connotation of conceit or narcissism. To that, I grin, allowing others their verbal frivolity, since I adore tossing words up and running under them to feel their eloquence on my skin, my tongue, my sensibilities, much like, on a scorching day, children engaged in watery play under Centennial Park sprinklers.



Instead of posing a question to a mirror, I asked the Universe, one sweltering summer night: "What is the epitome of sensuality in the myriad stretches of your galaxies?" The response drifted as soft as sapphires in my earlobes and about my neck, and I could not defy its gentle reply while the silent stars stared. "Woman." I blinked, I think, in the inky eve, and wondered if it erred. Yet the repeat of the nocturnal treat came again, so eternally sweet to my soul. "Woman. I would know, for I made her so. Consider the effervescence of her smile when beguiled. With one look, she annotates your deepest core, gives you back to yourself if you walk with her along the shore of trust. Her strength, her agility, and her generosity scatter the dust in your heart, even kiss away the cobwebs if, from your life, you've banished everyday art. A woman's loving nature is not easily effaced, although she will erase what persists on battering her inner space. The world's painters have pined to capture her face, the power of her mind, the paradise in the slope of her belly, the electric blue expanse of her soul, the guitar in her silhouette, the passion of her lips, her hips, the nurturing grace in her embrace, and the depths of her desire to create on an easel of erotic intent if intrigued. So, go and swim in the sea of sensuality. It is your birthright. From it, never flee like a gazelle in flight, my Queen of the Night."


So if you care to dance, Amor, I will unveil my smile, and we can light the midnight skies while awaiting sunrise. Entiendes?


TheGoldenGoddess
Monday, February 22, 2010

Photographed Words

The color purple regals me with serendipity, and I become one with all that I see, a SistahGyrl Walt Whitman, eyeing and being eyed under the evening skies. If I sit statuesque, not batting a lash, the bluebirds may dash across the soft ground to find the the organic peanuts The Duck Man tossed amongst the greenery. In silent contemplation, I recall his one-sided sermon and stern command for me to zip my lip, just listen to him rip what saith the Lord. And when I could not oblige, even with Knee-Baby Sis in my ear, on my celly, advising me to adhere, I invisibly disappear, then send him off with my voice unwilling to ban itself into an imposed silence...

I love the feel of a camera, the sleekness of a pen. With them, I photograph my thoughts in Stone Mountain wind and hide in friendly shade to frame my thoughts. And color my dreams with gratitude.

I am usually brimming with elation to be alive and free to walk and wander, think and ponder. On my clock and not one that tick tocks my days away engaged in someone else's lists of things. Free, I greet pups and trees and stop to stare at what others might think meaningless, inane and decidedly banal.

My church pews are stone walls no higher than my thighs, so I bring my little brown cushion and get comfy to worship in stillness. Listen to the wind. Appreciate a chorus of quacks quacked near the bevy of rods bobbing off the stone bridge in the distance. I am a fisherwoman. My rod is this camera, this pen. My words reel you in. Where we abide for a moment in which we are magically one.

Pink blooms adorn my locs and smear my smile. I have always nursed a penchant for the color. Elusive, it plays peek-a-boo with your skewered attention, appearing and disappearing to reappear in luscious places, in sweet crevices, between lime leaves and warm golden columns.

I imagine I can see forever through the silent sentry of the trees. Across water deeper than mythological rivers in my mind that remind me of Hughes-deep rivers, I come down with tunnel vision, see my love, see her see me, and I wade out into cerulean glass, waving, blowing kisses, thankful she recognizes me.

Together, we walk into a tomorrow in which you are free enough to be you, and me be me, free just like the small bird that sings loud though I know he's small and sweet back off in night woods on Stone Mountain. At times, I remember fear and tell him to be quiet lest something larger hears and comes to call, silencing his melodies faster than my footfalls tap a path to my car in a deserted parking lot.

A sisterfriend can be found amongst the sunset

Leaning on her bike
Her brown eyes ablaze with

talk of mothers and triumph

and welcome mats they toss

before they crowd the house

with the smell of walled

fish grease

On the paths of Stone Mountain, I am at home, comfortably ensconsed on stony pews looking across water rippled with Goddess breath. In the sunshine, amongst the shadows, away from the walking, riding, running, skateboarding throngs, I wrap myself in gratitude. Divinity caresses me, undresses my heart, demanding I part with worries and cares.