Avril 26, 2017 Kate Noakes

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Kate Noakes is our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 4/26/2017 along with Carrie Chappell. Noakes will be reading and selling her new book Paris, Stage Left, Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

I am a poet, short fiction writer, novelist and elected member of the Welsh Academy.
My published poetry is as follows:
Ocean to Interior, Mighty Erudite, 2007.  The Wall MendersTwo Rivers Press, 2009.
Cape Town, Eyewear Publishing, 2012.   I-spy and Shanty, corrupt press, 2014.  Tattoo on Crow Street, Parthian, 2015. Paris, Stage Left, Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

My work has also been widely published in magazines such as The North, Poetry Wales, Mslexia, Planet, Poetry Ireland Review, Iota, Envoi, The SHOp, Magma, The Wolf and Poetry Salzburg Review, and in the UK national press. I have performed at venues as diverse as The Troubadour, Glastonbury Festival, the Poetry Society, Nottingham Poetry Festival and Henley Literature Festival.

I was founding President of Paris Lit Up, a not for profit literature organisation in the City of Lights in 2012.

I have degrees in Geography, and English Literature and a MPhil in Creative Writing and have taught creative writing for Oxford University and the Poetry School. My current practice is focused on contemporary culture and environmental matters.

For more info: boomslangpoetry.blogspot.co

 

Penelope: identity theft

I chose the hardest fibres
to strip my skin
jute, copra

to slice the whorls
from my fingertips
hessian, raw flax.

I am weaving lead.

Forth, back
the shuttle flies
the cloth wefted red.

Right, left
the pedals tread
my legs, my legs.

Sundown, yards done
well, not yet.
I sink on my bed
my head, my head.

The clamour from
the waiting boys too much
“Wed me.” “No, me instead.”

In darkest night
I cut the warp and pull
unthread, unthread.

My new skin
pricks with dread.

Avril 26, 2017 Carrie Chappell

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Carrie Chappell will be our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 4/26/2017 along with Kate Noakes who will be reading and selling her new book Paris, Stage Left Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

Carrie Chappell is from Birmingham, Alabama. She earned her Bachelor of Arts at the University of Alabama and her Master of Fine Arts from the University of New Orleans’ Creative Writing Workshop. She has taught English Composition at Delgado Community College and served as Writer-in-Residence for Big Class. Each April, she facilitates the Verse of April project, a community catalogue of voices celebrating poetry. Currently, she lives in Paris as an English Language teacher and French Studies student and serves as Poetry Editor for Sundog Lit.

for more information: http://www.carriechappell.com/

TRANSCENDENTAL ETHEL

6. once,

i// was a girl
scout.

to this day,

i// can be
long-winded
on the subject
of canoes, camp-
fire songs, rope,
kindling. listen,

5. i// want to go away.

/
/

another breath, another bemoan—love
is an always crisis.         corn was never my credo,
so i// never went wishing for someone there.

you know where. i// cut a rug and ran into a
tapestrie. there joined the campaign, the
circus. i// mean, i//
began caring, became

careful-

minded. a careless. fucking joy-lover. joy-

digger. oh joy. ode.    odious.         oedipus.            i // think we are blind, that the directions to our best
regions are lost in our eyes. joy. is held in a sweaty
palm or in a green field of (ode to) soy. don’t listen. don’t look

for someone. for somewhere there. don’t go looking for it.
i// swear. it’s better to get lost on the little stuff.
to take the helm
of a candy bar. like. take me for instance,

a girl
scout
at heart, wanting, what (?)
only a cookie
and to use my

skills.

4. from what i// remember, i// do know, do now

—bees do run
from snapping
fingers, snakes
from ground-
stomping, and kindness

above all, humility, too.—

yesterday,

you pointed me
down a trail. gosh,

thank you,

/
/

3. for pointing the way

to the future—

an american girl has options. a girl scout no less. has options, is what they’ll say.

and the dreams will ignite. and for some paris. for paris some
will ignite.

how to live it:

version 1: be a woman’s woman, but live for men, love the ones you’re with but also the far-aways. spend your time. telling everybody you miss them and then eat your blues in baguettes. own jewelry but wish to accept more, be bi-lingual curious! be baby-sitter swank! stomp the ground for snakes. wait for scooters, the kiss, the la defense legs, be ok with champagne pictures until. until. (*dream referred
to on most paris blogs.)

/
/

version 2: be a poet, ok, maybe just a writer, hang yourself up on homonyms, find yourself often taken with simple French rhymes: dommage chômage! dommage fromage!, be happy being cute for French men for a week until feminist moods set in, then find a new one, snap your fingers at the proverbial bees, be a functioning drunk, functioning introvert, try to break the stereotype.( *dream deferred, citation:
too difficult.)

/
/

i// think that’s it.

2. so, they shut me up in booze—and

i// am, i// professed, a troubled
roamantic—i// fit your—i//am the
daguerreotyped. as when a little
girl moves to a dream place,
calling yesterdays into—like

everybody i// sat upon a table, eating
mixed meats. everyone stood in my
way. and i// felt a friendly nothing. i //

had my tools—a set of earrings
succinctly wed to my lobes, a pair
of pants that blacked with every black,
and a you, distant person somehow
made into the criminal so i// could stand

myself,
away, spewing forth my jesus christs
just enough to make a small religion,
just enough to cast iron the long
breath of my short history. go. go forth, for christ’s sake forward, i// said

to myself, hither filth, fortune.

1. there, here—

with my planets arestin’ and my
chambers full of speech, i// lie
still in the thought of my many
shelters.          i// have fallen

where i// fall

and wandered out, a girl pulling
at her wet shorts tight and
knotting at the crotch. being
stranded wasn’t near as bad as
i// had thought, i// had lived and
tamed a many a thing. glares
more genuine exhausted in
their ravines, where trees
stand like old men, lampposts        poles to be
vaulted and i // a girl

scout sashaying where
bees grip
my ankles, picking with honey
spines the flesh i// i// i// storm(ed) in.