
Crone by Clare L. Martin

Poet and author, Diane Moore, reviews Seek the Holy Dark, available from Yellow Flag Press. Thank you, Diane, for your deep reading and generosity of heart.
Seek the Holy Dark is the 2017 selection of the Louisiana Series of Cajun and Creole Poetry by Yellow Flag Press.
Seek the Holy Dark is now available. Trade paperback, 66 pages, only $10. To order click here.
breathes desert into her throat
Golgotha-naked
rapacious sun
spear opens rib
the most egregious of transgressions
lust inside/out
lungs vigilant flag
serpentine intestine
nailed-out muscles
Heaven’s jaw shuts
borne upon the cross
we cannot willfully die
the women tear at their smocks
sun goes
to terminal moonrise
burnt to bone
new meanings of the body impaled;
all sensation thrust
from pleasured skin
blade to stone
stone to bone
bone to blood night
incarnated, excarnated.
© 2017 Clare L. Martin
Collected in Seek the Holy Dark by Clare L. Martin, forthcoming from Yellow Flag Press, 2017 Pre-orders are now available. $10.
“Gestation” by Clare L. Martin
(watercolor, color pencil, crayon, charcoal on paper, digitized, filtered).
“Embryonic Self*,” mixed media, by Clare L. Martin
A tree held in its branches
a womb that carried me.
My strong heart
beat brilliant red
through fluid translucence.
A thick cord
connected me to roots
of the tree
into the blood
of the earth.
Who knew I would experience
such sorrow, such joy
once born into the world?
*Dedicated to Bessie Senette.
Clare L. Martin ©2016
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.
Clare
I stand on the edge of a cliff. I believe with all of my being I can fly, (because it takes belief and not wings). I stand on my tiptoes and stretch. I raise my arms to the sky, draw in breath and ready to soar: one two three— I am not. I am not rising in the air. I try a different approach. I bend to the ground. Focus the muscles of my back and thighs, tighten my toes. I tighten my whole body to my body: a coil ready to spring. Up, and down again. The sky opens. Three crows form a triangle in a deep blue patch. Third attempt: I climb onto a rock. The rock is not flat and I teeter to balance. I desire to fly so desperately; to free myself from the burden of ground. The sorrow of my flightlessness turns to storm. Dark clouds gather in my torso. My arms crackle with lightning. The sky is smoldering black. Rock upon rock of disbelief weights me. I will never fly. I will never be apart from dead ground. Flags of smoke and flame; the brush and fallen trees ablaze— Frantic fire in my path = no escape. A crow, impossibly large, swoons above me then drops. On its magnificent black back, it takes me up, up and away.
Acadiana Wordlab product 2-1-14
© 2014 CLM
The room is the brightest blue. She unzips her dress, slips it off her shoulders, steps out and carefully places it on the bed. She positions the arms of the dress one up/one down. She imagines the empty dress spirited with life. (She imagines the room is not blue, but black with bare red bulbs in the ceiling fixture). The room fills with music: woeful drumming and softly struck piano keys—only the sharp notes. She picks up the dress and sways with it. She puts her hands into the sleeves and wishes for a body to fill the velvet bodice and flowing skirt. The light is dim but bright enough to see a thin layer of dust on the cluttered vanity, the scars in the sun-rotted curtains. Her miserable cat, Mr. Bellows, claws the bedpost. The telephone rings. She shakes off her dance and rushes to it. Hello? It is not who she had hoped it would be. There is weeping on the other end then a resonant dial tone.
©2014 CLM