On March 1st, 2017, I will be performing at the Kitchener Public Library at an event called “Building Community Through the Arts”, presented by Wilfrid Laurier University’s Women & Gender Studies’ department. There will be lots of great local artists and juicy community conversation regarding topics related to social justice. Please come out!
Event information can be found here.
I never write poetry anymore.
I don’t remember how to.
I remember red wine and clove cigarettes.
I remember singing Tom Waites at 4 AM.
I remember counting syllables like a greedy child counts coins for candy.
Words don’t come easily now.
There’s only the hum of the refrigerator for company.
I only sleep with escape artists.
I pretend that I am not awake whenever lovers quietly leave
so that I never have to say goodbye.
They pretend that they will see me again.
We pretend that red wine stains come out of white winter coats.
Nothing is final –
Except my unwelcome solitude.
My special talent is turning inside-out.
Let me show you my entrails.
This is my heart.
These are my veins.
These are the hungry ghosts that play between my organs.
I call them my emotions.
They don’t call me anything at all.
Is this your image? Please let me know so that I may credit you.
This work is licensed, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
They say love is a light:
To let it shine, let it shine, let it shine,
But the bulb in my kitchen has been burnt out for a week now,
And my apartment is sitting in half-darkness most of the time.
I spend my days writing poems that no one will read,
Waiting for a phone call that never happens,
Creating origami flowers from letters that never come.
I’m hungry for something other than potatoes and rice,
The ache inside me like a sinkhole –
Swallowing up people, places, and things
As if nouns could ever satisfy the longing.
This kind of sadness requires adjectives.
This work, “Under A Bushel” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea like me she had a dream to fly
Like Icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm.
– Joni Mitchell, “Amelia”
I never wanted them to find her body…
never wanted them to analyze her bones…
didn’t want them picking apart her remains and her story.
For me, she didn’t perish,
she simply flew away into infinity.
One womyn chasing her dreams,
Leaving vapor trails across an endless sky.
They say that the arms on her skeleton were larger than average.
Did they know it was because she dared to stretch like her imagination,
dared to lift the weight of the entire atmosphere
until her body became so mighty that when she soared through His blue,
G-d trembled like the body of her twin-engine Lockheed Electra?
What is it about humanity that it likes to pick away at mythology,
scratching at the wax on Icarus’ wings until there is nothing left?
I don’t want to think about one hundred radio transmissions
spoken into the dark
over the crashing of Pacific waves.
Can’t bear to think about the tiny crabs they say desiccated her flesh,
taking apart her ambition with hungry little bites.
I’d rather believe that she never landed on that island,
that every transmission was a false alarm.
Amelia, I don’t care what they say,
to me, you never died.
You are laughing from the cockpit
somewhere among the icy clouds.
Fly away into infinity,
one womyn chasing her dreams,
leaving vapor trails across an endless sky.
This work, “Vapor Trails” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
I’m a busy little Queen B these days, and over the next few weeks, there are some events taking place where you can find me, if you want to!
First off, Precious Blueberries, you can find me facilitating two workshops at the Birth and Beyond Conference in London, Ontario from October 20th-22nd. The first is entitled, “Conceiving Your Story: Telling Tales” and the second is “Birthing Your Story: Telling Tales”.
If you still haven’t gotten enough of me at the Birth and Beyond Conference, you can catch me hosting their Birth House event, where the birthy folk will be showcasing their amazing talents such as spoken word, dancing, singing, storytelling, and so much more!
What’s new, Pussycat? Whoa-oh-oh! You can find me at the Pussycat Lounge in Hamilton, Ontario, celebrating women/wimmim/womyn/womxn who love women/wimmin/womyn/womxn. No matter your gender identity, you are welcome to take in the music spun by DJ Michael Simla and the creative work of Debra Anderson and myself. It’s going to be purr-fect!
Trees, Bees, and Babies!
Peace and Blessings!
They say that when someone’s been stabbed
it’s safest to leave the knife blade in the wound.
The weapon acts as a plug to keep blood in the body,
and additional organ damage can be caused by pulling out the sharp edge.
In the movies, the hero pours whisky on his own pierced flesh,
grimacing as the alcohol stings his slash marks –
makeshift antibiotics for his barely-there medical care.
Hypovolemic shock never sets in before the bad guys are brought to justice.
I’ve been staggering around with a knife stuck inside my body.
Even though my muscles have stopped trying to force the foreign object out,
and my skin has grown over the place where the blade entered me,
I can never forget the feeling of being punctured.
There’s a tourniquet around my heart, Baby,
But I’m still bleeding out over you.
I pour bourbon down my throat but it doesn’t heal the nerve damage.
I think this time the bad guys just might win.
This work, “There’s A Country & Western Song in Here Somewhere” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The juicy sound of the cat barfing
raises the hairs on my neck before I even open my eyelids.
I check the sheets for menstrual blood stains as I make the bed
and then my piss splashes in the toilet bowl like a golden tsunami.
The sting of peppermint toothpaste attacks my senses
while I brush and spit the remains of a restless night into the sink.
There is nothing delicate about morning.
The scent of freshly ground coffee beans
competes with the fragrance of the freshly used litterbox,
and the milk has gone as sour as my love life.
Yesterday’s dishes are piled in the sink.
Yesterday’s ashtray is overflowing.
Yesterday’s used condom sits in the wastepaper basket,
and I’ve been wearing the same nightgown since Tuesday.
There is nothing more revealing than the bright light of morning.
In the steaming shower, soap bubbles trail between my legs,
while I lean my forehead against the cool tiles.
My muscles are like fists,
unclenching one by one,
And I think for a moment, of
golden bars of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the curtains…
…and I think of morning.
There’s nothing quite like the dawn of a new day.
image by King of Wallpapers.
This work, “Morning Song” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.