Month: December 2013
A. M. Soteria
Bio/Poetic Statement: I am a poet/writer/editor. I was born and educated in the northeastern states, but ran away to California some 7 years ago. I now live in the Santa Cruz Mountains with my girlfriend and our two dogs. I am an active member of Kelsey Street Press in Berkeley. I fill a variety of roles for the press—from bookkeeper to promoter to production editor.
In his H.D. Book, Robert Duncan describes the poetic process he observes in H.D.: “as the artist works to achieve form, he finds himself the creature of the form he thought at first to achieve.” For me, that quote is apt, and serves as a homing beacon. I am sensitive to form, but I find form to be organic, dynamic, and always on the verge of transformation. To continue to be attuned to it, I must submit to being altered by it. For that reason, my poetics won’t sit still.
On Being An Angel
“Be wary.” Your fears I read like braille, goose bump code on a body I knew long before I first reached yours. Even the endless may have a beginning, a split second we will never understand. Where then would you hide?
Where are the black crows tonight, the broken glass, the omens? I blink once to clear my eyes.
Thermoluminescence dating, the determination of the time elapsed since a material last saw the sun; how I know I love you, the moonlight bather who will not pose as savior in my battle scene or his own.
(though I had the dream again last night, the house was burning brightly, the dinner party uninterrupted as the butler fanned the flames. I was the only one who ran out and you held me back as I stood naked on the warehouse roof, from a salted sea breeze beckoning me to fly).
He said there would be something else, some whiskey-breathed revelation. I like him like this, when he doesn’t say a word and I can fall into the soft-lipped void, and I fall proudly in the new fragility he has helped me craft to help me break.
The 2:58 am clawing of a telephone like a strangers back, like complacency when the double speaks to herself and I, the total I, the unsure shape shifter. My inner lives crave completion: my searching a transfixation; my avoidance, divination. I know why the telephone does not ring.
I will borrow his utensils. The teeth, the feet, the words collected like medallions. They will be dirtied by my touch but I shall cleanse them with the same.
(was I ever in your words? Was I a ghost, a spool of yarn unraveled, a baby’s skull?)
I am not frightened of the things you say but the things that shrivel before they reach your tongue, how they coexist.