THE NEXT BIG THING

Fellow Press 53 poet, Wendy Willis, tagged me for The Next Big Thing series. Thank you, Wendy!  Wendy’s splendid collection, Blood Sisters of the Republic, was published in 2012 by Press 53.

Wendy blogs at http://wendywillisdotme.wordpress.com/ and you can read her self-interview for The Next Big Thing here. 

HERE WE GO!

What is the working title of the book?

My debut poetry collection, which was published October 2012 by Press 53, is titled EATING THE HEART FIRST.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

We are meaning seekers. For me, all language of a poem should work to embody meaning.  I wrote the poem, “Eating the Heart First” several years ago and when I wrote it, my personal response to the metaphor was that it is the way I approach poetry, when reading or writing it—my aim is to go to the heart first. Many, many years ago I envisioned that if I ever did publish a book of poetry (which has been an enduring hope) that I would use that title.

What genre does your book fall under?

EATING THE HEART FIRST is a book of poetry. 

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

This is a very challenging question as there are not characters per se in the book, but there are variations of voice that would definitely need a strong female lead to perform the poems. I would say that Marion Cotillard comes to mind as an actress who could embody the grief and longing, eroticism and dark beauty conveyed in the work.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Mysterious, often dark, and always vivid poetic worlds arise in the lyrical language of Clare L. Martin, who stands firm as a powerful, emerging feminine poetic voice crying out for grace and beauty and love in the midst of death and more death and eerie dreaming against a backdrop of stunningly-imagined scenes of her beloved Louisiana and myriad realities we share beyond the haunted wetlands.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

The poems in EATING THE HEART FIRST were written over an eight year period, but I did not begin shaping a manuscript until 2007, when my father died. Working on it, I did not keep track of how many drafts were produced. I just kept adding and subtracting poems and shaping, shaping, shaping. The manuscript went through many incarnations and even a different title. I know the actual manuscript was a work-in-progress for at least five years.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I wrote poetry sporadically since high school and through college, but did not have a dedicated practice until I made a conscious decision to live The Writing Life in 2004 when my son, Adam, died.  I made the commitment to do something excellent, and as my best skill is writing poetry I dedicated myself to it. The book is the evidence of eight years of poem-making and striving for excellence in my art.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I would say that it is a very womanly book, sensual and powerful, yet very, very vulnerable.  My work has been for some time, “in pursuit of the image” and I am very proud of the sometimes exquisite imagery I have achieved in this book.  I believe the i(mage) is the (mag)ic of a poem which transports the reader into the “heart” of the poem.   

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

EATING THE HEART FIRST was published October 2012 by Press 53.

Clare L. Martin’s debut collection of poetry, Eating the Heart First, was published fall 2012 by Press 53 as a Tom Lombardo Selection. Martin’s poetry has appeared in Avatar Review, Blue Fifth Review, Melusine, Poets and Artists and Louisiana Literature, among others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Dzanc Books’ Best of the Web, for Best New Poets and Sundress Publication’s Best of the Net. Her poems have been included in the anthologies The Red Room: Writings from Press 1, Best of Farmhouse Magazine Vol. 1, Beyond Katrina, and the 2011 Press 53 Spotlight. She is a lifelong resident of Louisiana, a graduate of University of Louisiana at Lafayette, a member of the Festival of Words Cultural Arts Collective and a Teaching Artist through the Acadiana Center for the Arts. Martin founded and directs the Voices Seasonal Reading Series in Lafayette, LA, which features new and established Louisiana and regional writers.

I tag the women below for The Next Big Thing series, because their books are or will be!

Watch for their interviews at their sites on Wednesday, February 6th

Katie Manning

Margaret Gibson Simon

Hedy Habra

Broken Jesus



I have been working on Eating the Heart First for eight years plus a lifetime. Now that it is out, the work has shifted from primarily writing and revising, to promoting, public reading, networking, etc and my creativity has suffered. But mine eyes have seen the glory and it is Broken Jesus.  Broken Jesus is the vision I have for something new and intriguing– a personal and creative breakthrough, an exploration of myth and mystery, life and death, self and other.

Broken Jesus is the working title of my second poetry manuscript. I have roughly thirty poems already written and filed together.  (This will definitely shift and change as I write new poems and exclude others.) My focus is becoming clearer about what the title means to me, and I am attuned to the vision as visionaries are.

I sense there will be a current of spirituality and imagery that references Catholicism, having been brought up Catholic, but not exclusively and not as endorsement, as I have left the church. I sense there is much that will arise as I delve into this work. I am in the very early stages of this effort and I am excited. This morning I wrote fervently for a couple of hours and the work produced was of a better quality and more lucid than anything I have written in the past two months. I updated the page, The Work, on this site with links to a few poems that may appear in Broken Jesus.

Of course my effort to spread the word about Eating the Heart First is high on my Action List for 2013, but ‘to write is primary’ and this writing beckons me.

A Circle Completes

In early December of 2000, Miriam died unexpectedly and tragically. Miriam had epilepsy and asphyxiated in her sleep due to a seizure. Miriam’s death affected me greatly, but more importantly, her life affected me greatly. She was a true love, a great and magnanimous friend, and a light in the life of everyone who knew her. I am very grateful for all of the lessons she taught me—the most important was: “To have a friend you must be a friend.”

Rest in peace, my dearest.

Saturday night at the Midwinter Poetry Night event in New Iberia, Mrs. Gara, Miriam’s mother, gave me a copy of the Spring 1989 issue of The Southwestern Review, which is the literary journal of the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, the university from which I received my B.A in English. This issue contains the very first poems of mine that were ever published, “The Nightmare” and “Raven.” Mrs. Gara also gave me a framed poem of her own making which was written after we shared a conversation about poetry. Mrs. Gara felt compelled and inspired to read her own poem at the Open Mic at the event. She was received enthusiastically and it made me very happy.

A circle completes.

For many years, the yearning was there for me to write but I was not disciplined or attuned to the voice as deeply as I am now. There is a story there. There is a story there. Much of my creative writing was in the form of letters that I would send to friends. Miriam was the person I wrote to most frequently. I do not have these letters. I wish I did. Miriam teased me that she had filed these letters away and would bring them out to blackmail me or show my children. It was a joke, really, but knowing Miriam she would have done so for a laugh. Miriam always pushed me to write creatively and to develop as a writer. She was a beacon for me in life, and continues to light my path since her passing.

Miriam was a bridesmaid at my wedding in 1989. The next day she moved to New Orleans. She loved the city. She lived there until her death. Miriam was a friend who knew my husband and me very well. She knew my husband before I did and they carried on like great friends throughout our time together. Dean and I spent so many wonderful weekends at her apartment in the French Quarter. She made the city her own and loved to welcome friends to her apartment so that they could enjoy the city as well.

Good times. Good times.

I am very grateful that Miriam got to know my daughter. Miriam loved children but didn’t want her own. She loved her nieces and nephews and her friends’ children. She treated my girl like a niece and friend of her own. My girl loved her, although she does not have very many memories now, because she was so young when Miriam died.

Miriam loved the arts and had a Master’s Degree in Arts Administration. At the time of her death, she was working for the New Orleans Arts Council and living as she dreamed. She was one of the most caring, open, determined, self-reliant, fun and funny friends I ever had. She always encouraged my writing and I am indebted to her for believing in me and my talent. I know she is with me. I know she is with me. Thank you, Miriam, for everything.

The Nightmare

Sun burns
its last crimson
flash, over broken
angles of this room.
Spits patterns
through wounded curtains,
spells my name
in a language
I cannot speak.

How can I push back
this rush of dream,
growing like grasses
under water?
Or let linger
the moving shadow
of rib-bone
and brown skull
that fills this
hollow space?

Raven

A cry crackles
from the raven’s
hook of mouth.
Its raspy babble falls
from hollow boughs
dry as forgotten bone.

Hooked nail, feather and flesh.

Ravens pose
in rusty leaves, crisp
strips of buckling leather,
and thicken the sky
with black, blue rhythms
of glossed wing.

First published in The Southwestern Review, Spring 1989

Prayer

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

I want to enter the cathedral and be alone. I need that quiet, the scent of burning candles and the enigmatic light through stained glass windows cast on cold marble. I need to light a candle for myself, for my soul. I need to be close to the dead.

I would like to sit alone in the cathedral for an hour perhaps and be in that quiet, but now the churches are locked, and maybe there are cameras for man to see what God does—

You do not know me. You know what my body does, how it moves about in physical space. You know some of my thoughts as I have spoken them. But you do not know me.

I don’t know you. You move about. You say things. I imagine you as you knead soft dough for a loaf of bread, or as you sweep dust and cellophane from cigarette packs into strands of light. A drop of water marks time in the small kitchen sink. You walk around naked, waiting for the tea to steep, crisscrossing open windows.

I imagine these acts but they are not necessarily how the life of another transpires. Maybe you lie in the dark and all things that are meant to be do not become. I am comfortable in the dark. I welcome the dark and all it contains. I am comfortable thinking about death. I am comfortable with you.

It is easy for me to make this life work. There are only a few things I let myself do or think. If I were to open myself to the possibilities life would overwhelm me. Eat, sleep, wake, bathe, dress, relate to the world— eat, sleep, wake, bathe, dress, deny the world.

I enter the cathedral and the organist is practicing. He is privy to my prayer. I let it slip from my mouth. If you knew me, you would know my prayer. If you knew me you would know what I wish for and what I despise. This prayer is for unlocked doors. This prayer is for lingering incense and a long, exhausting cry.

This prayer is for my own perpetual silence.