Katie's Blog

Phew. Life's getting complicated all over again. The annual Valley International Poetry Festival kicks off tomorrow with an anthology release, which happens to include 3 of my poems! It is, by the way, available on Amazon . Here's the full schedule. See you punks tomorrow at the Incubator! Celebrate National Poetry Month . . .  . . . With a plethora of international poets! Please note: the 2012 schedule is being added, but please check back for updates! WHAT: "5th Annual Valley International Poetry Festival & "Sixth Annual Poetry Pachanga" WHEN: April 26--29, 2012 WHERE: Click Here to see a list of 2012 venues across the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas TIME: Event times will vary throughout the weekend. FYI: All events will be free and open to the public, except where noted as private. Books, Chapbooks, CDs, T-shirts, etc., for sale. Please supportthe poets. Contact: Daniel García Ordaz , Founder Be part of the audience at r

Just keep thinking about cactus :) and Daphne... She crouches down among the endless rows of sunflowers, her honeysuckle hair tangles wild in September's breeze, takes in the scent of sunshine, the sweetness of her sweat. Beautiful but dangerous, she points her rifle to the cooing sky, the white-wing dove, russet hued against the blue, perched atop a prickly pear, pecks at the bright pink blooms. As she slides her finger on the trigger, closes her eyes and imagines heaven opening the thumping, the rising up of Texas dust, the crimson eyes sealed shut and silenced. 

Here's my South Texas Daphne! Apollo wanted just a little taste of her agave breath, to squeeze limon atop her midrift, taste tequila's tang mixed with her sweat. He wanted just a peek of her pink nipple blooms beneath her shirt, to run his palms across her smoothest skin. The story says that not all women want to be just like a potted plant, beautiful to look at as they come to bloom. Some girls prefer the taste of Texas dirt to lips, of men. Some like to roam the wild brush and get a little dust upon their boots. So when she felt his hot breath on her neck the lovely nymph became a prickly pear :-)

Today's prompt was to take a walk, go on a journey, and take mental notes. I obeyed. It’s spring and trees unravel catkins, bits of pollen cling to strands of hair Hidden in honeysuckle color. It has to happen, right? I ask. He nods. I think of worlds Bursting open, how grains of pollen sail In the wind and nestle in the right spot And make a seedling spring to life. Sure, sure, he says and pats my shoulder. I think of all the magic I believe, Take into the sidewalk cracks of my heart and let bloom into faith beneath pavement. A sparrow, one small enough to tuck into my pocket,hops and pecks at crumbs. A grackle puffs blue and black, his dead yellow eyes fixated on the crumbs at my feet. A sago’s leaves begin their journeys soft, Curl and harden as the seasons pass. The grackle crows. The sparrow startles, Flutters away. And still to me, underneath this heavy sun, When we piece our flesh together, Worlds open.

I went to a funeral today, so naturally, that's the topic of my poem: For the Medranos, Virgilio and his amazing daughter Santos. No one could stop the April breeze today from animating her hair, the pinned back curls of his daughter as she hurried into church. As family shuffled in, heels clicked against the tiles like steady heartbeats, his blood flowed, his name alive on tongues. The clocks ticked on and cell phones rang muffled in purses as prayers were whispered and mouthed. The songs of reuniting filled the pews, and children's laughter echoed, dug out nascent smiles. The flowers bloomed white around the silent ashes, but never did I feel more alive than when I held his daughter's hands in mine, her eyes ablaze with strength. I whispered my condolences.

So there's this fantastic indie journal I've recently discovered called The Lavender Review . I just have to say, it's been a pleasure to sift through. Lavender Review is a one woman show, founded and edited by Mary Meriam, a poet I love and respect. I met Mary on Eratosphere when I joined about a year ago, and she's posted some of the more inspired sonnets I've read in a very long time. Anyways! Lavender Review needs some support. Mary's put together a Kickstarter campaign because, after all, it's an independent journal run on the sweat and love. Check out the updates section for more videos of poets, artists, and readers declaring their love for the journal, too! I hope you'll consider LOVING the Lavender Review back by sending in your support or uploading a video like I have. The deadline's May 4th!  Let's keep this journal going, so woman everywhere can have their voices heard. Here's my video, which... is probably one o

I've decided to change my goal a little X-D How about instead of a poem a day, I just write as many as I can? Because man, one a day? No, I'm not cut out for that. I get all anal about them, and then I want to go back and revise, revise, revise while the conceit is still fresh in my mind. I can't leave them be. Taking a poem from scrap to poem in a day is, well for me, impossible (nearly, I've done it a few times, but it usually takes more time than I have most days...). Ok so here's #5. At this rate, I'll be at 10 by the end of the month. Which, isn't really half bad. Some things are done in faith , she says, her fists filled with soot. She raises her hands to the wind and opens up her palms. The wind periwinkles with ash and blows past the garden bed, leaves a fingerprint of gray on a single red bloom of hibiscus. I can't understand how it works, the bits and pieces of grease and bone from the bottom of the grill will seep to the soil,

I know, I know, I'm falling behind. I've been revising my little buggers... which isn't the idea of feverishly writing but whatever. Ok, so here's another shitty first draft of a poem, a "musing" let's call it about a South Texas Europa.   I can't tell you what made me do it, the gritty bar, a night like any other where I sat underneath the neon lights, listened to that same old song of men left by women who are to blame for all of life's dilemmas. I swill cheap beer, it's bitter on my lips, it always tastes the same. I breathe the stale air, smoke and sour breath, listen to more bad pick up lines: My girl, your eyes are perdier than... No more. I slam down my glass, half empty now, and before the rough man can offer to buy me a drink, ask me to dance in a two step that leads me nowhere but his dirty apartment. I'm gone, left my bar stool, my heels clicking against the wooden floor. I don't know what made me do it that nigh

I'm taking a little break from feverishly writing poems for the weekend. My publisher asked me to write a narrative on how I came up with my book. Goodness, nothing is more awkward than writing about your own poems. But, alas, Publisher is Publisher and well, Poet must listen to Publisher. It's... how nature works! Anyway, here's my little "essay" so far. How I Planted (and Uprooted) The Garden   I've always been a reader, the worst and best kind all wrapped up into one. I was that awkward girl, you know the one with the bad skin that hangs out at the library. Yeah, that was me. I was hungry, taking in the stories of fairy tales as a kid, escaping to a realm of mythological beasts and fancies, and diving into the worlds constructed by my favorite novels. I'll admit it; I spent the better part of my teenage years fantasizing about Mr. Darcy from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice , wishing someone just like him would move next door to me. I thoug

This is *kind of* a true story. As a kid, I tagged along with the boy scouts since I had two brothers, and my dad was a troop leader. I always felt like I was one of them, sort of. Anyway, here's a little poem about being a 5 year old girl, in the woods with a bunch of wolves ::ahem:: I mean boys. I sit around the fire with the boys, and hold my stick above the flame. I let my marshmallow burn to hear them laugh, to stop their talk of guts, how, while hiking they’d come across a rabbit, torn to pieces in the brush. What do you do when lost in the woods? my father asks the troop. They talk of earth, of footprints, broken twigs and stars. A language I can’t understand. I clutch my rabbit’s foot, dyed red and on a chain. Which one’s the northern star? The troop leader asks, his eyes on me. I shrug. Dunno. and point my finger towards the night sky at any old star, one of thousands in the milky night. A boy scout grabs my arm and guides my finger towards t

Ahhh this really snuck up on me. I have some plans for National Poetry Month... among them include participating in the Valley International Poetry Festival at the end of the month, in addition to going on a DIY writer's retreat. I really want, also, to devote more and more time to my writing. You see, I'm not making fast enough progress on my manuscript. I'm writing, slow and steady, but it's just too slow for my taste. I've been averaging this year a decent poem maybe every two weeks. At this rate, I won't be done with my next manuscript in awhile. So, in the spirit of National Poetry Month, I'd like to paricipate, also in NaPoWriMo. I know, I'm getting off to a late start. I meant to start on the 1st, but I've been completely swamped with grading. And... making headway on my novel, which is another project that I'm making too slow progress on. Anyway -- I'm going to try to pick up the pace and write 30 poems this month. No, they