Best of the Net 2015 nom

My poem “Seek the Holy Dark” has been nominated for Best of the Net 2015 (Sundress Publications) for its appearance in the Blue Collection Five: Collaboration issue (December 2014).

A heartfelt thank you to Michelle Elvy, Sam Rasnake and Bill Yarrow for this recognition for a poem of which I am very proud. You can read the poem at the link below. “Seek the Holy Dark” is also the title of a manuscript that I hope will be a new collection of poems.

Seek the Holy Dark

“There is enough milk in my breasts for you, my glass infant.”


Last night’s dream was powerful and wonderful. I had a baby boy, an infant, with thick black hair. I was trying to get him to nurse for the first time, but he couldn’t latch onto my nipple. We thought we would have to get bottles and formula but my deceased mother came to me and said, “Try again.” I thought maybe I didn’t have milk in my breasts, but maybe I did. In the dream, I tried so many different positions to feed that baby. I even tried getting him to latch upside down. I woke up at that point and immediately sensed it was my creative life (the hungry infant) that I needed to feed, however possible. The dream was enlightening and not disturbing.

I am honoring my creative self by re-ordering, re-positioning myself to feed the hungry Writing Life that has been nearly starved over the past year and a half of mourning and Limbo.  My determination to nurture new creation is palpable. I may be too old for a baby but I will birth a second book.

The title of this post, “There is enough milk in my breasts for you, my glass infant,” is a line from a poem I am working on. Thank you for reading.



She slides her fingers
in mine
it is dark
we breathe
her head
on my shoulder
the previews
make us laugh
Hollywood knows
our funny bone
there is a smell
in our throats
like gasoline fire
a shock of light
a dark
that is with me
even now
my mouth petrifies—

©2015 Clare L. Martin

Written Saturday, July 25th, 2015 in the aftermath of the tragedy at the Grand 16 in my hometown of Lafayette, Louisiana



Moon rooted in wood.
Woman rooted in shadow.
Shadow drapes her nude figure.

The light is as he wants.

Her hands spread on her belly.
Her hands network to her spine.

She arches her back.
Belly to the moon
which wanes in the wood.

Every muscle aches
for the silent cue
to release supine.

Her thoughts unravel.

She gives one
to the maestro
with sable brushes.

He swipes her knee
with cadmium
in his excitement.

Close as breath. Close enough

to hear the tinny heartbeat
tick away in his chest.
Or is it a wheeze?

He mixes a cerulean eye.

A small hammer
beats behind her knee.
He permits her

to slump into pillows.
A brushstroke grows wild.
Something bubbles

in her tummy. The child
in a blood balloon.
The baby’s kick

is a fresh flute of cava.
He tells her to breathe,
hold out her palm.

He gives her a nectarine.

©2015 Clare L. Martin All Rights Reserved