If you feel you need creative coaching, cursory consulting on a manuscript, want to work one on one on your writing craft, or all of the above, consider engaging my services. (I also provide poetry book-length manuscript consultations. Fees are negotiated individually and are not the same as the quoted fee below, which is for the Mentorship arrangement).
The writing mentorships are structured courses that provide energetic and substantive relative-to-now literary conversations between the mentor and mentees. Great emphasis will be placed on craft and form. The mentee should have expectations of fast-paced, rigorous writing and reflective, nurturing, and honest feedback from a skilled and admired contemporary poet and publisher.
Specific goals of the six-week course will be decided upon in conversation prior to agreements being made. It is encouraged that the mentee sets goals at the outset with guidance to produce visible, realistic results. Mentorships will be conducted through email, phone, and weekly consultations in person, if local to Acadiana, or via Skype link up to meet anyone across the miles.
The fee for the six-week course is $300 US currency, (non-refundable due to course limits, serious inquiries only), payable through PayPal. The spots are limited due to the very intimate work and close personal attention offered.
For more information, please email: email@example.com or call (337) 962-5886
The Hanging Woman
breathes desert into her throat
spear opens rib
the most egregious of transgressions
lungs vigilant flag
Heaven’s jaw shuts
borne upon the cross
we cannot willfully die
the women tear at their smocks
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
© 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.
Blue and rain-days long.
The leaking roof. Rats in the attic.
We are sodden, shuttered;
motionless in our apathy.
How do we become more than we are?
There is no palpable answer.
Only wind will tell us, in finality.
Now, we smoke cigarettes,
eat crumbs gathered
in the bottom of plastic bags,
scrape our palms for coins.
I have fallen in the trap of my eyes again.
It is winter and we fail in all our doings.
Dark mornings, we turn cold,
stepping onto the floor.
Naked into the bath.
Hot water to bring us from death.
Always evoked of our tears—mad
laughter as we rail at our leaders,
who only speak a barrage of sick
glory-obsessions. Bombs drop by ten o’clock.
We live radiated, aglow with grief.
We are on a war footing.
Every moment escalates.
I have taken your face out of memory.
I have replaced you
with a mushroom cloud, for solace.
©2016 Clare L. Martin
Herself as Landscape 1
Dusk. A line of tall pines.
Blue mist horizon.
Impression of a stark hill.
The feel of wanting
to merge two into one:
the viewer into the viewed.
She is soul-gatherer.
Where does she take him?
Or is he taking her? To the lake.
To the dark, wooded lake.
He presses his thumb
in the most sacred space.
Encircles her pleasure;
brings her to his merciful lips.
She cries out and loves him more.
Loves him to the brink of all desire.
She is shadow. She is glory all at once.
She is light embodied and then,
diminishes into glowing dusk again.
She controls the image.
She controls her body.
She places the image
at the font of the world
where holy is only seen
by unveiled eyes.
Bless them. Bless them.
©2016 Clare L. Martin
“Nameless City,” mixed media, Clare L. Martin, 2016