What to Expect When You're Expecting to Be Published

Yeeaah. I don't know what other soon-to-be-published authors feel with mere weeks to go before their first book is published, but, right now...

Ohhhh myyyy Godddddd! My first book is coming out soon and people, like, real people, are gonna read it!! What if they do read it??!! Uggghhh! What is that rumbling in the pit of my belly??!! Wait. What if...oh no! What if nobody wants to read it??!! What if people don't read it?! Or, what if they read it and they think it's crap??!!

What is that rumble?

Ah, yes. The fluttering of so many butterflies. And I'm constantly whipping them into V-formation.

Neither my image - nor my butterflies.

Seriously, it cannot be that others are as cool as a cucumber in times like this. No way. There must be a heavy dose of adrenaline coursing through the veins on any given day - and twice on Sunday.

Now and then I think, "I did it. I really did it." It may be crap, but it's my crap. (Umm, that didn't come out the way I had it in mind.) Point is, we are constantly bombarded by life-affirming and ability-affirming quotes and memes and books and speakers and influencers and and and... We hear and read so much about moving forward against the odds; facing your fears; winning; taking a leap; go for it, etc., etc. Inevitably, though, after we reach our goal, or, if after much effort we fall short, as night follows day, some will find something to pick at. It comes with the territory.

This is not to say that as creators, and humans doing, we should not be open to getting frank feedback about our work. Very few get it right the first time around. So, we "tek telling" as the Jamaican expression goes, and work toward better. It is to say, rather, that the naysayers we have always with us. "It's what it's" - as a funny tweep wrote the other day. Lol!

Fear. The fear of not getting it right. The fear of people laughing at what we've created. The fear of what people will say. Fear in some shape or form is what keeps us from starting, doing, finishing. Know what? Do your dream because: (1) It is yours to do. No one else in the world can do your dream like you. (2) Some people will always have negative things to say. It's like it's in their DNA. Plus, they don't matter. (3) You will feel good, real good, after beating the fear and doing what you set out to do! I promise.

This book is rather personal - and telling. As one reviewer had said, by the end, readers will feel like they know me. Still not sure whether I'm ready for that reality. But, it is written.

They will know this book is about life and love and heartbreaks and that...that I dared to get back up. Every. Single. Time. And hope. They will know that, although it often feels like Love has kicked the crap out of me, I'm still here. (I feel a voice-over coming on: We the unbeatable, do the "impossible", and remain hopeful "in the face of aridity and disenchantment.") I've made the choice to embrace the good and be inspired by the joy of those close and not so close; to hope that, come what may, I will always choose to live fully in each moment.

Hope.

I hope in God to lift me and set me up upon a rock; to make my feet like hinds' feet; to make me mount up with wings as eagles; to restore to me the years the locusts have eaten... Hope is a good thing. Where I place it is even more important. Many don't mix their creative work with worship. I do. I am, after all, blessed and highly flavoured. Chocolat. To God be all the glory for His favour and His hand upon me and this writing journey and this new book. And the new website. (It's getting there.) His thoughts and actions toward me are terrible, awesome, wondrous, and beautiful. He is about to blow my expectations of success - millions of copies sold worldwide; published in several languages - and my dreams of positively touching lives, out of the water! #ExceedingAbundantly. He loves me, and if I knew nothing else, that would be enough. But, I also know this: He is holding my heart. 

Funny, at this point in the post, I don't feel as anxious as when I'd started. :-)

Here's the thing: If I'm not gonna dream big, then what, pray tell, is the point of dreaming at all? I dream big (and in colour) to the point where it sounds ridiculous - and scary! And, I put in the work, too, and continue to do so. I'm not just referring to the decades of putting pen or pencil to paper. I'm talking about the more recent writing, and editing, and working with the publisher who said they'd like to work with me. I'm talking about finding... no, making time to write. I have a full-time job which, occasionally, has me travelling. I've whipped out my phone and got to writing during my morning and evening commute on the GO Train; at lunch; at work (shhh); on vacation; on the plane en route to my vacation destination; on staycation; at the park by the Lake; in the bathroom (don't ask); in bed... I have even been awoken by a vivid thought and scribbled notes while half asleep, and, come morning, tried to decipher what the heck I had written on the post-it pad.  But still I write. #writeorsuffocate

I learned to reach out for help. I even know what it feels like to woman up and ask a complete stranger for their take on an excerpt. Why? I try to keep my focus on that which cannot be seen by the naked eye. I keep telling myself, it's going to be beautiful. And, I want to leave behind something bigger than myself; something relatable; something new.

One of the reasons I'd wanted to publish this anthology at this time, is that I wanted to...make room, if you will, for the new phase of love in my life. And, the new phase of me, too - ready to be loved thickly in return. Pretty brave of me to come right out and say that, but, given that this book is a go, well, I must get used to the idea of allowing those words to leave my lips. Plus, as I've learned, love alone is not enough. Deciding to be with someone for the rest of your life takes, among other things, courage.

Another reason is: I wanted for my mom to behold this completed work. She has been one of my main cheerleaders, and it would give me joy and pleasure to see her reading my book. Tee hee. And, just so you know, all my birth family and close friends have been supportive. They rock! Muahh!

Yet another reason: For one, or two, or three people - a girl can hope - who will be able to say, "I can relate." Yeah. Relatabilty.

Today marks the 7th anniversary of my blog. I've said it in this space a few times before, Usain Bolt's performance on the track at the Beijing 2008 Olympics helped to light a fire within. On Sunday, August 23, he sprinted to victory in the 100m at the World Championships - again in Beijing. He wasn't in top form, physically, and there'd been much talk of a Bolt/Gatlin face-off. At the finish, he came through in 9.79s to his main rival's 9.80s. Someone made the point on Twitter that he is mentally strong. I agree. One needs to be able to silence the demons and the negative voices in one's head; rise above the fray, and persist to succeed. I smiled in agreement and admiration as Bolt articulated this bit in a recent Puma ad: "...when he says, "On your mark," and I take a deep breath, look down the lane and...it's time to go." Love that. Live that.

In the end, I did it for me. It was time to share this part of myself. As I've said in the intro to my book, I do not have a story. I am a story. I have a voice.

Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years speaks volumes. I truly hope that you will give a listen.


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

All of Life is Happening

Among other reasons, I decided to make my website (cyopro.com) a "real website", as my first book is about to be published. The author's bio for Fourteen To Fortyish does make reference to my website, and, well, I did not relish the thought of readers heading to a starter page on Yahoo!

So, this past June, I made the leap! I asked around and went with the strong recommendation from one of the IT guys at work. I bought a template from Template Monster. The Live Chat guy was very good. He knew his stuff, and he was patient. Over three hours later - I had to choose from hundreds! - I was all sorted out. We'd narrowed it down to a WordPress theme, given that the flagship feature is going to be about the book and, a close second, my blog. Yes, this blog. Plus, he'd also walked me through purchasing hosting services from Blue Host. They're pretty good, too.

Thanks to help from sis, @MizDurie, who refused to have me languishing in the throes of copy and paste, I learned there was a plug-in to transfer blog posts from Blogger to my new WordPress-themed website. The transfer took about five minutes. It might've taken less time, had I not stopped to read and take screen shots of the instruction pages. Y'know? For my files? (Like I'm asking.)

Let's move on.

So, that's where I am now. I've changed the title of the home page; done some font changes; added photos, and populated the home page with starter copy. I recently referred to the write up/rationale for cyopro in its genesis. The words I'd written in my notebook back in 2010 still hit home: "...a vibrant place of engagement where stories are told and experienced...where authors go..." Okay, that's enough of a sneak peak. :-) The plan is to tighten it up here and there. I believe it will speak to someone. Relatability, right?

It's all coming together. Some days it feels like baby steps, and on others, I look back and think I've taken a leap. Annette did appear! :-) The timing of all this is something else, too. It has been an extremely busy year - so far!  I expect that the pace will not slow down and that things will be better. I've changed jobs; left the country a couple times; sold and bought new homes; moved; unpacked. Correction: I'm unpacking... During all of that, I finished and submitted my manuscript; provided write-ups; worked on the cover, and did the first revision of the interior file. And now, I've taken to work on my website. Yes, it does feel like all of life is happening - at once! :-)

You remember that saying, right? "Isn't it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different." - C.S. Lewis

Yeah, it's kinda like that.



Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Cover Story

On a visit to Jamaica earlier this year, my parents and I went on a road trip, or, as we call them sometimes, a drive out. My dad loves to take us on those trips. They were a staple of our childhood, and are pretty much expected now when we visit Jamaica.

This road trip took us to Manchester. I had made a special request for roast yam and saltfish. I knew exactly where we were headed - Melrose Hill. Or, as it is often called, Yam Hill. Actually, I think Melrose Hill is the name of the original road (the old road) where the vendors used to sell. It has been a long time since, but the vendors relocated to their current location on that section of the Winston Jones Highway after the highway was cut.

And, you know, this post isn't even about Yam Hill. Lol! See, before we stopped there on our way from Clarendon, we went all the way up the road to Mandeville. We conducted our business and quickly headed back toward Clarendon.

It was just after we  passed the mud lake on Winston Jones Highway, that I saw a really beautiful sight. I thought it would make a really lovely picture. I immediately shoved my phone to the front of my dad's car - a gesture he's grown quite accustomed to - and snapped away from the back. He didn't question the gesture, he simply obliged. My mom, as usual, leaned a little to the left in her front passenger seat so I could get proper photos. (Just so you know, drive on the left in Jamaica, and the majority of vehicles are right hand drive.)

About five photos later, I figured I'd got what I wanted. At least two or three of them could be used. They didn't do the natural scenery justice - unphotographable beauty is a thing - but they would bring me pleasure on reviewing.

Fast forward a few weeks later. My publisher asked me to provide write-ups - along with book cover artwork - for the upcoming poetry book, Fourteen To Fortyish. I did. I submitted my best rendition of one of the images, complete with overlaying text and all. I knew we would have a bit of back n forth, but I still wanted to have a very good springboard.

Well, during those exchanges, I reached out to family to hear how the cover spoke to them. I even learned the term "dichromatic" from one of my sis, Lat, an artist. The final rendition shows a dramatic and fitting transition that captures the essence of the journey. I'm very pleased with the cover now.

I've shared a section of the cover on other SM platforms - Twitter and Instagam. Here, though, in my little space in cyberspace, I'm sharing the full cover. It's a good time to tell you, dear reader, that I am also working on making my website, cyopro.com, into a real website. :-) These blog posts will be moving over to my "home in cyberspace" - if you will. Or, even if you don't, actually. :-) Those baby steps? Yeeahh. #LeapAndAnnetteWillAppear. :-) I've learned so much in the past several days about what is required to make this happen. I bought a WordPress theme template, and switched hosting services. Gonna be bonding with the new site over the next little while. Please bear with me. It is a work in progress - a work in progress that has to be finished before my book gets published in September 2015. No pressure!

(((Drum Roll)))

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Happy Dance In My Head

On the last day of April - which was a fantastic month, by the way - I was travelling home on the GO Train. I was seated in one of the upper level cars, in one of those rows that face another. On rush hour trains, the upper cars are designated Quiet Zone areas - short and quiet conversations are okay; passengers may plug in to their personal devices, as long as they don't disturb others, etc. 

It was a little after 4:30...okay, it was 4:36. I had checked, just as the thought crossed my mind to ask a favour of the woman seated across from me. She had been reading The Cruellest Month - a rather thick novel. I figured if she is a reader, then she could be relied upon to give valuable feedback on a totally new piece. Before I gave myself a chance to talk myself out of it (that sounds funny), I spoke up. I had read in Blake Snyder's Save The Cat that it's a good idea to ask someone at, say, a coffee shop, to look at you work or draft or idea. I totally get that. I imagine you'd likely get great feedback from a total stranger with no hangups about hurting the feelings of someone they'll probably never lay eyes on again. And, if they do, they'll probably change coffee shops. Or, you could change coffee shops. Okay! It's not about coffee shops.

So, as I was saying, before I interrupted myself, I spoke up. 

Me: Excuse me. I've never done this before. I'm writing an introduction to my anthology of poems. Would you mind reading it and letting me know what you think? 

She: Yes, of course. 

I handed her my phone. She bookmarked her page, then looked me in the eye, "I'd be happy to read it."

Me: Thank you!

I was positively beaming! I did my happy dance in my head! Heh heh.

When she was finished, she leaned toward me and I followed cue and leaned toward her. We were, after all, in the Quiet Zone. 

She: It's very real. It's very personal, and it's moving. It should go well with the poems as that's what they're about. It needs a bit of editing, but it's really good. 

Me: Thanks so much. Could you tell me where needs editing? 

She: That part where you talk about the relationship? His pillow? Is it a real person or someone you're imagining? The reader needs to be clear on that. Hopefully, that gives you enough to go on? 

Me: Yes! Thank you!

I'm glad I'd plucked up the courage to do it. I got good feedback. She was right, of course. I knew the context I had had in  mind when I wrote that section, but the reader would need more information to make sense of it. 

Can I tell you? That was a wonderful way to end April 2015! I had won the poetry competition at the Lit Café, and @CBCBooks had held a lil #CBCRhymes competition on Twitter one day - and I was one of two (or three) winners! I received a few poetry books as my prize. They came just in time, too. A few days earlier, my publisher had asked me to send the write-ups - acknowledgements, author bio, and so on - for my upcoming poetry book. I had decided on a cover, too. When I got those books in the mail, the first thing I did was pay attention to the covers; how the titles were written; whether the font sizes were too big, etc. And, yes, I will be reading them. :-)

Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years is now in the production process. 

Again, #HappyDanceInMyHead! 

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Not-so-great Expectations

More often than not, whenever I open the new post page to the blank screen, I tell myself I won't be long. Next thing I know, I'm hitting 600+ words. Tonight, however, I won't be long. I think.

I've been thinking about this blog and where it's headed. I really like the fact that I've carved out a little space in cyberspace and write whatever I want to. However, my first book of poetry (there's at least one other poetry book inside me) is being published - Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years. I'm excited and humbled and thankful...all up in my feels, really. I am also a tad concerned that, as a published poet, my lil blog will be expected to feature more writing about poetry, the writing process, and the like. And, that's not one of the feels. Okay. Lemme stop speaking in SoMe language for a second.

The idea that I may be expected to write more about my work as a poet is a tad unappealing. I relish the luxury I now have - writing about a variety of subject matter. My posts range from dogs to Desiderata; Buju to BlackBerry; writing to World Cup.... You catch my drift. I am a real person, and I find many things in life interesting - even up to a point, at a certain point - and like to write about them.

So, I dunno. I'm thinking the writing/poetry posts will come - the words will force themselves into my psyche - and I will have no choice but to write them. For, whenever I do write about writing and poetry and creative processes, it's because I simply must. I am just a bit wary that I might have to sacrifice subject range on the altar of brand development.

That mightn't be a bad thing. Still, new visitors to my blog will, hopefully, come to understand that writing and poetry, and writing about writing and poetry, are just part of the whole. And, while they're at it, that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

All being well, my book will be out in September 2015. Would you look at that? "My book." :-) Thank You, God. At this stage, I'm writing those important sections for inclusion. Y'know? Acknowledgements, intro, bio, and everything like such as... :-)


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Epiphany"

April is usually celebrated as poetry month. It's in light of this that the Oakville Lit Café holds a poetry competition each April. I think this is the first time (since I started attending) I'll be in town for it. (I'm usually on vacation to celebrate my birthday.) So, I submitted my entry the other day. The entries will be judged by a panel - not the audience. Also, the poems should include three of the judges' given words - all starting with the letter 'E'. Out of the list of about 10 or so, I chose: epiphany, evanescent, and ethereal.

It'd be nice to win.

EPIPHANY

I hear the distance I travel

I feel the distance I fear

Spanning the height 

Between ground and endless sky

My feet are off the ground

And I am high.

This is neither flying

Nor soaring. An epiphany.

I'm being transported into

A vast nothingness

Losing all sense of context

And motion and time and space

I feel the distance increasing

I go up, up, and away.

Hands over ears

I melt inside

No tears

Can't cry if I can't feel

Now, can I?

Am I there yet?

No, higher yet.

Soon, I morph into a shadow

Of my former self

Looming evanescent

Still.

Nothing happens.

Suddenly

My thoughts are crystal clear.

This moving, my doing

This distance, my desire.

Is my fear of heights weaker 

Than my fear of loving you?

Than I fear being loved by you?

I was prepared to die flying

Than I was to die trying

At something new with you.

Something ethereal, yet true.

I don't have a fear of heights

I have a fear of falling

I have a fear of loving

And falling into you.

Update 2015-04-30: I won! :-)

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"You Learn"

Lemme just squeeze in a short poem of mine, as a prelude to a well-known poem. Okay, I think it's well-known. And not just by many, but by heart. Someone introduced me to it when I was in my late teens. At the time, it was attributed to good ol' Anonymous. Enter, Google. The writer was Veronica Shoffstall - or so I thought. The Keepers of the Knowledge of Rightful Attributions - okay, that's not a thing, but it should be - came to the defence of Jorge Luis Borges, an Argentinian writer, pointing out that his was the beautiful soul that had penned those poignant words. It reminds me of Marianne Williamson's "Our deepest fear..." constantly being attributed to Nelson Mandela. But, I digress. The jury should be back by now on "You Learn". (It's sometimes referred to as After A While.) It's the Internet, who knows? What I am sure of is the high degree of relatabilty that burns within the poem. Well, "high degree of relatability" for some. For others, I think you'll appreciate it, nonetheless.

*squeezes in*

All In My Head

Fool me once - shame on you

Fool me twice - shame on me

Fool me thrice - I must like it when you "fool" me.

For a fourth time? I have been fooling myself.

It was all in my head.

Now, over to you, Jorges. (Yes. #TeamJorges.)

You Learn

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning

And company doesn't mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

And presents aren't promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn…

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth…

And you learn and learn…

With every good-bye you learn.

 - Jorges Luis Borges

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Back to Life"

What's a new year without poetry? C'mon. There's always room for poetry. Back to Life was written...ok, I won't say when it was written. Let's just say it's on the sunny side of Without the Kill. Because, well, seasons change.

Back to Life

I thought I had

No more strength or time for love

Until you came

I made the time

Your love gave me strength.

I wanted more of you

Wanting me

You said I gave you hope

By just being me.

In your eyes I see

How you take pleasure

In pleasing me

My love, no need to fear

Losing me at all.

For the first time

No second thoughts

Your strong arms

And long kisses

Comforted me home.

Your words wooed me

Your actions moved me

Into the new me

As you loved me

Back to life.

- Dnafcnatgada

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

I Should Get Out More

Last evening, I had the pleasure and honour of participating in the 100 Thousand Poets for Change poetry event. The session in which I participated was one of two that marked the event in Toronto.

Truth be told, I was a tad nervous about reading...delivering my poems to that crowd. Most of my readings, to date, have been to smaller Literary Café crowds. And, as I mentioned to the gathering last Sunday afternoon, I always feel I'm in a welcome and comfortable space when sharing my poems there. But, I was not sure whether - and how - the Toronto mix would be different. I simply counted on them being poets or lovers of poetry.

My preparation took me to a new place. I asked a (really nice) co-worker to give a listen. Well, according to her, seeing me in that element for the first time, "You're gonna kill it!" :-) Okay, so, I dunno about that. I do know I put a lot into preparing for performances and speaking events. I recorded myself; timed myself and was glad I came within 20 seconds of the allotted 15 minutes. But, it was good to see that a total stranger to my poetry didn't break out in hives.

The highlight of the evening was not the fact that everyone was noticeably quiet during my set - unlike the much chatter during those of others. (I read from my upcoming "Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years".) Neither was it the wonderful compliments I received right after and long after, in person and in email. No. The highlight of the evening was that one of my sis, Durie, was there to cheer me on. Well, she also helped me out by recording the set. Heh heh. But, I was really glad that she came to keep my company and give moral support.

Further to a few conversations I had with a couple of the organisers just before I left, it turns out I will have opportunities to deliver my poems to more audiences. I like the sound of that. It's one thing to be home, or wherever, writing. It's another to share the created pieces with others. And, the more I do share - online or offline - the fewer butterflies I have to whip into V-formation each time. Go figure.

Yeeaah. I really should get out more.


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years" An Intro - of sorts.

Yaaay! First post kicking off Year 7! Yes. Yes. I am getting waaay ahead of myself. Just a tad excited, is all.

For a moment there, I was beginning to wonder whether I'd finish coining the title of this post.

There are a few writing projects in train. The one I'd like to mention tonight is the poetry. You've heard about the poetry, yes? No? Well, allow me. (I have, in fact, mentioned a bit about the poetry in a few posts, and have also shared a few poems. But, I digress.) Over the weekend, I continued to work on my poetry project. It's a book of poems spanning quite a few years. After much to-ing and fro-ing, I've decided on the title and subtitle: Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years. I also have a sub-subtitle, if you will. (If there's a more technical term, do share.) The sub-subtitle will be written in italics right under the title. I thought of it just today, so, there's no way I'm ready to share that here. But, I love you! :-)

Man, those things really added up! I'm looking at scores and scores of poems out of the lot. Like, seriously. They do, after all, span the years between 14 and 40-ish. Hence the title. Any surprises there? Okay. Who did not see that coming? As I've envisioned, the book has three phases, with a few pieces of short prose in appropriate spots. It's taking shape, from my mind to the page, and I like that.

I've had two beta readers so far. Yes. One of them was my mom. Of course. But, as thankful as I was/am for her positive feedback, it's...advisable to get feedback from folks who aren't family. The other was an editor I'd met via Twitter. I won't share much of what he said here. After all, I am thinking of asking him whether I may reproduce some of it in the book. However, one thing stood out. He said, afterward, that he felt like he knew me. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm still not sure whether that's a welcome thing. And, yet, here I am about to publish the book of rather telling poems! Hmm. For, you see, they are rather telling. I write from the heart - and wear it on my sleeve. An English Lit professor had once told me/the class: "Poetry comes from a place of deep emotion." Over the years, now and again as I wrote the poems, I'd remember him saying that. And I'd understand all over what he'd meant. The poetry itself is in the composition but you can't make that stuff up.

I'm getting the doc ready for another beta reader. Daniel Kojo Appiah is a poet from Ghana I met on Twitter. We'd had a few exchanges long before he was named the winner of the inaugural Ghana Poetry Prize in 2013. Just sayin'. He goes by the handle: @OZionn. During a quick chat the other day, the thought came to mind to ask him whether he would do it. He said he would. I'm looking forward to his feedback. I shall have to remind him not to be gentle.

As I prepare to get the poems out, I'm also getting ready to read a few of them at the upcoming 100 Thousand Poets for Change, Toronto, later this month. One of the organizers said she thought of me and so extended an invitation. We'd met at the Lit Café in town a few years ago, and she's heard me read my poems. She added, "...your poems reflect a depth and a beauty more than you realize." She said a few other heart-warming things, but I'll save 'em. :-) So, this weekend, God willing, I'll be sure to show up at the Lit Café to practise...I mean, perform. The pieces I've done there on repeated visits have been appreciated. This time around, I'll be one of the featured poets. That'll help.

(And, I simply must find a way to tie in my pen name - reserved only for the poetry - Dnafcnatgada. No. I do not know what it means. It came, quite simply, out of the air, as I pondered, at 14 years old, what my "poet name" should be. Yes, that's a silent "D", to boot. If it rings close to something in your frame of reference; your knowledge base; your linguistic armoury, or your stream of consciousness, do share.)

So, you understand my excitement. Rather, so, you understand my excitement! I'm so psyched! Getting this book published will be a huge deal for me. Always thankful for family and friends who've been über-supportive. Can almost hear a few of them going, "Finally!" Lol! Ohh, the sound of it: "A published poet." Tee hee. God continues to order my steps and each day brings me closer. And, what's that word again? Ahh, yes. Relatability.

"Funny, isn't it, how one moment can change a million after it." - Raya (Movie: How She Move)


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Holes"

Holes

There are no holes in my arms.

Like the girl - early twenties?

Pants - if you could call them that -

Maybe the Lululemon yoga sort

They had to finally recall

Too sexy; too sheer; too revealing

Shares fell after that.

Her pants - as she stooped to get

Something from her bag -

Slid below the crack. Way below.

So far down, I looked away

For shame for her.

Did she not feel cool air

Against that vanilla-pale, soft, smooth skin?

Then, as I stole another glance -

Or, maybe it was just that her move to stand

Caught my peripheral vision -

She stood

She rummaged

Pants still half-way down.

As she rummaged through her bag

Just moved to the top of the table

Her hands came into view.

They bore holes - large, healed, gaping

Waiting?

From the back of her hands to her forearms

Wherever there could be a vein.

Holes.

They held my gaze for more than the polite two seconds

When I finally looked away

I cast my gaze upon nothing in particular

Pretending I could taste

The iced tea I was sucking through a straw

Too large for that.

She found what she'd been searching for

She must have

She abandoned her bag

- Not caring, it seemed

Whether any of the hundreds of

Food court patrons

Would prove themselves untrustworthy -

Reached into the upper part of her pants

Pulled them up just a little

Before going for a refill.

It was on her return

I saw her face

Too young

Too old and long a story

Too weak

Too worn

Too familiar

Too easy to get sucked back in.

No fight

No more

All gone

What's the score?

Doesn't matter

All lives used up

Way too late to start over

Again.

As I looked around

And sipped my iced tea

I somehow managed to be thankful

There are no holes in my arms

That you can see.

- Dnafcnatgada

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"If He Loves You"

I was tempted to share my latest poem - written yesterday! But, I've shared it with only one person so far. And, it does need a bit of editing, I think. Plus, an additional stanza has been engraving itself in my brain. So, there's that.

The poetry work-in-progress is almost through. I've had it edited. There is a category I'm hoping to fill with poems that speak of happiness and loving and being loved in return. Grabbing the closest piece of paper I could find yesterday, I hurriedly penned such a one. They do not come by very often, so I dared not lose the moment. Turns out I'm pretty excited about getting those words down on paper or some electronic device. They carry with them a measure of...hope, if you will.

And, hope is a good thing. :-)

This one is entitled, "If He Loves You". It's from that batch I wrote in April 2012 when I took off for vacation and ditched the playwriting contest. But, I had to keep myself writing, so I went on an "A Poem A Day" adventure! Glad I did. I produced some that took the focus off of myself for a bit.

And that was a good thing. :-)

If He Loves You

I overheard someone at work today

Talking about a fight they'd had

Sounds like it was pretty bad

Between she and her lover,

And, like any other love story

It had the element of surprise

I saw it in her eyes

She blamed his mother.

Seemed he found it hard

To give what due to each.

That one was out of my reach.

I smiled because, well, to be honest

I did not know what to say.

Not that she was talking to me

But I felt hard pressed to duly

Inform her it would be okay.

There was something inside that said

Tell her it gets better

It looks bad but it doesn't matter

If he loves you - and he does - 

Then you two will work it out.

But something else spoke even louder

Above the din of my despair

So, why didn't you guys work it out?

- Dnafcnatgada

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Thug No Show Love"

In the spirit of St. Valentine's Day - which, it seems, is spread across all of February - I thought I'd feature love poems in this month's posts. I came across this one a little over a year ago. It's by a Jamaican, Joan Andrea Hutchinson, and it's written in Jamaican patois. I remember reading it for a few friends shortly after I "discovered" it. What a challenge to get through it without cracking up! The irony tickled me to pieces!

Thug No Show Love

                    - Joan Andrea Hutchinson ©2007

 Baby mi love yuh and yuh done well and know

But a guy can’t too meck him feelings show

Yuh feel mi love and dat suppose to enough

But man a man and man haffie flex tough

So no expect mi fi come wid no lovey dovey love

Cause man a thug, an thug no show love.

Mi will tidy house an help yuh wash plate

Change baby diaper, iron cook an bake

Wash yuh hair an massage yuh body all night long

Hug up an dance like grandpa when mi hear love song

But outa street mi no eena di smoochie smoochie love

For man a thug, an thug no show love.

Most people no know say mi have a romantic side

Mi will give yuh sweet an tender loving till yuh clide

At home mi will bow, cause yuh control di remote

An mi ready fi go front a parson go teck oath

But John Public no haffie know bout mi romantic love

For man a thug… an thug no show love.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did! By the way, did you remember to put on that deep "thug"  voice? No? Okay. Scroll up and read it again - in your "thug" voice.

Funnier now, isn't it?

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Word-coloured Lens

I used that term on Saturday in a tweet. Word-coloured lens. And, I liked it. I was making the point that my poetry  - from teen years to now - has changed over time. Certainly, the way I write, has. It has become more ...mature, as is wont to happen with growth. Also, that through the word-lens, I could see the metamorphosis I had undergone. More than one, in fact. So, recording the fact of change - and how. In a more succinct way (the tweet): "Weird to behold metamorphosis through word-coloured lens. Core things remain- of course. I love thickly. Always have;always will. #PoemsToPC."

July has seen me typing these poems I've had over the years stashed away in note books and on folder leaves and post-its and jammed-printer paper and the clean side of fliers... Anything I could get my hands on when I needed to put pen or pencil to paper right away. Undertaking this compilation has been thrilling - funny, enlightening and thrilling. (Hoping to get it done for a book of poetry titled: "Fourteen to Forty: The Formative Years." Praying for God's guidance in that.) Now, the plan was to type about four to six per night. However, I think because there is some relief that my mind isn't at work creating the poems, there is ease in "just transcribing" and I get carried away to nine. Then I round it off. To ten.

Perhaps I'll share a bit more about the kind of change undergone in subsequent posts for July. We'll see. Before I go on to typing tonight's set, however, I wanted to share two poems with you. The first, at 17yo; the other at 41. (Maybe the book should be called Fourteen to Fortyish. Tee hee.) Anyway, take a look at what I mean. (And, the common "without" is sheer buck-up.)

Without Electricity

In that flame I see you

And I see me

Sitting by that same flame

Saying that we see each other.

The black wick symbolizes

The hard and trying times we go through

But, there is always hope

As the blue flame shows

And it leaps up into

That pyramid of bright light

Depth of sheer peace and joy.

- Dnafcnatgada

We had a laugh the other night as I read that one to sis @MizDurie, remarking that it was a long time JPS (Jamaica's electricity provider) had been treating us to power cuts. As I mentioned in a tweet to them: "Thanks JPS! Inspiring poetry and bringing lovers together (in the dawk) for over 85 years!" Lol! Anyway, here, now, is the other. 

Without the Kill

The nape of my neck is all aflame

As the sun's rays beat down

Mercilessly.

The hem of my blouse flutters

Responding to the whiff of breeze

That takes the slightest edge 

Off the heat.

I am wrapped in a heat

That cannot be ignored.

Too tightly wound, I am

Unable to move.

Hot and breezy

Trapped. Uneasy.

Like the way you have me going

Friend to lover

Bi-lovely.

It's how you make me feel hope

Yet hopeless

How you hold me

But without caress

How you kiss me. Hard.

Without the kill

And, killing me softly

Without the will

To love me

Back to life.

- Dnafcnatgada

Don't ask. Really. But, see what I mean?

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Heads-up: Heart on Sleeve

All my synapses have been firing since last night. Felt like I needed a block o' ice on my brain! And, yes, it was all because of a TT that @MizDurie started: #PSMBookTitles.  Funny stuff. Sad commentary on governance in Jamaica.

But, I'm here now. My lil corner of cyberspace. Ahhhhh. I've been thinking about the content for today's post for some time. As they say in the making of movies, "Let's cut to the chase."

I heard somewhere sometime ago that when it comes to new relationships, the older you get, the faster you know. It didn't take me long to realize what was meant by that. For, truly, somewhere near or after I reached Forty, it was like I was seeing and experiencing human interactions for the first time, clothed with a keen sense of the foolishness up with which I would not put.

And, of course, that applied to the men I met.

I have to say here: No one will ever get me to speak bad about "men in general." I have a beautiful example of a man man; a wonderful gentleman - my father. And, in my now extended family, there are really nice men - my Brothers-in-Law. I'm pretty sure I've said it here before: People are people wherever you go. And, someone who has been unkind or hurtful is just that - someone who was unkind or hurtful. I don't "fry other people in one person's fat" as the saying goes.

But, there is such a thing as wisdom. And, it is not wise to have learned a lesson, only to repeat the same mistake two, three or more times. They say by the time you're Forty, you would likely have met all the types of people you're ever going to meet. Pretty cool, huh? The new people you now meet remind you of someone else you've met...

Over the years, I've met a few very nice men. Others were not so nice - in the end. Dated outside of my race. Always dated older. Along the way, I've picked up a few lessons in gems. They are my gems. If you learn something from them, fine. If not, that's fine, too. I just know that, as that saying goes, we "learn from the mistakes of others. We can't live long enough to make them all ourselves." Now, what may drive one woman crazy, I may probably be like, pshhh! And, what may get on my last nerve would probably not faze another woman in the least. My point, know yourself and come clean from the start. Btw,  the "he" is used in a deliberately abstract way - not referring to all of them but may draw on traits common to more than one of them.

Keeping his word

This is important to me. A man keeps his word. But, he repeatedly broke his word. Even a small commitment seemed like an onerous task. Always said he was gonna be there, but, 8 times out of 10, didn't show. Nor did he call, or text, before, during, or after the disappointment. This was very early on and I slowly acknowledged that he was just not into me. I imagine that if things had gone on, he would've been the kind of person to leave me standing at the altar. I summed it up as a "cycle of disappointment" and, although it was hard at first, it came to pass that we settled into something along the lines of acquaintances.

The way he speaks

I had the pleasure of listening to Lorna Goodison, a Jamaican poet (now residing in Canada) as she read from one of her books years ago. I was in my late teens and had, by then, got drawn into poetry. I don't recall the title of the poem (and I'm not going to Google it. Google and I aren't speaking right now.) But, the part that got me was: He wooed her with words and he won her / He had nothing but words to woo her.  (It was about her father and mother.)

Another point before I make the point. My mother told me long ago - perhaps mid-teens - that "women fall in love through their ears; men fall in love through their eyes." Ever since then, something trips in when I hear a man speak to me in that certain way. It's like...like my pulse reaction is on a 2-second delay or something. Y'know? Like the TV coverage of Nik Wallenda crossing over Little Canyon the other day - just in case tragedy struck? Yeah. Kinda like that.

Now, when he wrote to me, it did not pass Go. The words were immediately emblazoned upon my brain where they will spend the rest of my life. Ok. A bit of an exaggeration, but, you catch my drift. Words on paper  - like, real real letter! - or on a screen, that I'll have to look over and over and over again, caress my senses and invite me in to come, stay a while. That makes my heart glad.

Raising his voice

He raised his voice at me and started to belittle me; tried to tear me down in his insecurity. Something said, "Wake up. This is verbal abuse. A two-fer, really - verbal and emotional and, well a three-fer - psychological as well. And, this is ugly." It made my heart sad.

None ever raised his hand at me. But, I would not have needed to be told twice to get out of that "friendship." Now.

Terms of endearment

The friendship seemed to be on his terms. He reached out only when he wanted something like dinner or so. He lost interest mid-way after he'd had his fill of conversation or dinner or so. It is never nice to feel that you are being taken for granted or so.

Priorities priorities
He placed me on the back-burner. And, I could never be in the right as far as he was concerned. What's the saying? Don't let someone be your number one if they treat you like you're number two? Or, don't let someone be your priority when you're only an option?

  

The NABA Zone

In the beginning, he made me laugh with gladness. Then, as things progressed, more and more I cried in sadness. As I've written in this blog before, no loneliness feels as bad as being miserable hurts. At times the behaviour was like someone just "hanging on 'til the right one comes along." I call that the NABA Zone - Not Available But Available. Who wants, when they're asked, "Are you seeing someone?" to find themselves going, "Well, not really. No." You're not really seeing someone? Then what are you really doing? That situation can't be fair - for either of you. You can do better. And, sometimes, doing better means doing without.

Self-explanatory
He cheated on me. No pain so great. No second chance.

God is holding my heart

Now, the heart and soul of the one for me may be in a tall white bald guy or a short white bald guy or a tall black bald guy or a short black bald guy...You see where I'm going with this, yes? And, it may be that the Lord would have me wait a bit longer or a little longer than a bit longer for that one who is right for me. What I do know is this. God loves me. And, if I knew nothing else, that would be enough. But, I also know that He is holding my heart. And, He is teaching me how to love, in spite of imperfections - not to be confused with ugly. He knows how persnickety and what not I get. How? Exhibit A: After tweeting whole night on the topic, I sent emails of book titles tweets to myself at three o'clock this morning because my synapses were firing. That how. I trust Him to bless me with someone who will get me and "love me anyway" - and who would come check on me to see whether I'm okay why I'm still not in bed at three o'clock. Although, I dunno. It's likely that if he were here already, the tweets would have had to wait. Zi mi. ;-)

He is holding my heart. "Sit still, my daughter, until thou know how the matter will fall." Ruth 3:18

Claudia 

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Shifting Moral of the Story"

Alas, the final post for this here poetry month. Not to worry, the poetry continues - as it rightly should. And, as it inevitably will.

Shifting Moral of the Story

So smitten was I with the way

You moved me,

In no time I let you in.

In no time I was driven

To satisfy as you desired

And, so soon I became mired

In the mix of love and hate

You were so deft to create.

People and things I loved

Grew distant

Which is to say, for me,

They became summarily

Insufficient, compared to you,

Your attention. Your love was new

But, in time, grew thin

Scarce affections without and within.

By the time I awoke

You had gone.

Deserted - cradling my new normal -

To face the shifting moral

Of the story. Which one?

They all end in the same song

I gave up everything to make you stay

But you left, anyway.

-Dnafcnatgada

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Like Dying"

Aaand the poetry continues... Here's another from the Lit Café last month.

Like Dying

Your words to me signalled an unbearable finality

I didn't want to hear them, but, I had to hear you out

I had to hear you say that this was, indeed, the end.

You did.  And, it was.

The end of us -

The end of us and we and our.

One call.  Five minutes.

Years of heartache.

I grieved my loss in silence

I petted my sorrow in my bosom of discontent

What little words I found within and without

I used to mop up tears of anguish.

And, when the words were full

I'd wring them out again.

Nobody tells you it's like dying.

I had heard you. Loud and clear.  I was there.

But I felt better, safer, in denial.

My anger seethed and I drowned it in drink,

And ink - never to you.

I tried bargaining - I called.  I wrote. You would have none.

How I got the courage to

Fulfill that pre-death obligation

Remains a mystery to me.

Fifty people at that party, and I'd never felt more alone.

On the way home - and at home - I cried. 

What did you do? And how?

Me? I'm still working on accepting that we've died.

-Dnafcnatgada

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Nothing"

It's poetry month. Yaaay! During this month I will happily share a poem on each blog day. These three are the ones I read at the Lit Cafe I attended last month. Today's poem:

Nothing

Sometimes I sit and stare at nothing

And nothing stares back.

Nothing can help me with this hurt

I carry in my heart, my mind, my spirit.

Nothing says this is just a dream

A horrible dream that will soon end

Nothing stares back.

Nothing listens to the sound of my tears

Dripping on my pillow both morning and night

Making their way through the fibres

Until they can run no more

Trapped in an endless weave of

An unfamiliar maze.

Nothing knows how that feels.

You left me with nothing

I have the scent of the pillow next to mine

And nothing smells like it -

Your sweet body mixed with shampoo -

I can almost taste it

As I can almost taste your kiss.

And nothing tastes quite like it.

-Dnafcnatgada

www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Virgin Territory" and "Company"

I finally figured out what I found so funny the other day as I read my old notebook (and folder leaves - remember those?) of poems. It was the kind of feather that knocks you over when you think, "Look at what I was intent on getting, when God had so much more in mind for me?!"  This is not the same as "What was I possibly thinking?" Because, I knew what I was thinking.  I was thinking that I was in love. And, I'm not about to make fun of my younger-in-love self. But, just looking at what I thought was "the best thing, ever!" even asking God whether He was sure He could "top this", I just laugh right out loud given my 20/20 hindsight.  Yeah, each of whom I thought was "The One", was, clearly, at best "The Two".

After the laughs, I smile.  I reflect just a tad on how things were and I'm either glad that it happened or glad that it is over.  Most of all, I'm glad I had put it into words.  Here now, from me at 20: "Virgin Territory" and at 21: "Company".

Virgin Territory

Recently, all my thoughts of you

Have flowed from tears.

Salty, burning, irritating water

That springs from a bleeding heart.

Why do you cause me so much pain?

I thought by now I'd have refrained

From wishing to be near you,

Desiring with every nerve and sinew

To be loved by you again.

Cause me joy.  Cause me laughter.

Cause me to be happy ever after

You tell me that you have to go.

I feel empty without you so

I'm going to wallow in this

My pity of self!

Weep and sob

Until the knob

Of the door is turned

Inviting me 

Into peaceful, virgin territory.

- Dnafcnatgada

Company

My most beautiful moments

Have been with you

Under a black velvet sky - 

By the sea - 

You, my dreams and me.

With your laughter

You share the music of my heart

The rhythms of my soul,

All that I've longed for

To have and to hold...

On to your thoughts

That you share with me.

You touch. I feel.

There's more to meeting 

Than just...company.

My most beautiful moments

Sharing our laughter, our thoughts

With the wind. By the sea.

You, my dreams and me.

 - Dnafcnatgada

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

"Sand in My Shorts"

The poetry continues.  Quite frankly, "It never ends!" (Over the Hedge)

I read The Haunting at the lit cafe on Sunday.  (As a "brawta" I did I Can Dream.)  As I read, I felt comfortable.  It was a delightful almost-seven minutes.  I'd like to do it again.  A small group had gathered at the Moonshine Cafe in Oakville. And, they kept their word :-)  Reading and listening to poetry inside that literary cafe drew the probability of my being a published poet that much closer.  It was...inspiring, y'know?  I know.  I use that word here a lot - for the same reason spelled out in the phrase that I also use here a lot: "Sometimes, you just need to be inspired."

The poem I'm about to share was written when I was 21.  Gonna be honest.  I was looking through this worn and torn book of poems, reading and re-reading and, I just found myself laughing out loud. For a few of them, I had to compose myself to continue. Of course I'm not laughing at the idea of my younger self in love. That couldn't be it...Nah!  I'll work on it.  I have a theory but, more anon.

Here now:

Sand in My Shorts

You took me from my dream

Into your reality.

Everything that I've ever hoped for

You handed to me

Under a star-spangled platter

Then, nothing else seemed to matter

But your sharing my fantasy

That dream which you had now

Realized.

And, in your eyes

I saw you doubting

Whether or not my love was mounting.

And I closed my eyes

And loved you

Hoping for no hurting retorts

While I had sand

In the folds of my shorts.

- Dnafcnatgada

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro