My Self-Portrait, poem by Jakia Smith (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

MY SELF-PORTRAIT
by Jakia Smith

My truth is like a clock
ticking in the sky.

My fear is like standing
on a building getting
pushed off.

My anger is like the earth
falling into a hole.

My heart is like laying
in the rain.

My soul is like getting
stolen by the grim reaper.

My head is a bucket of fish
under the water.

My eyes are two cats reading
with the stars shining.

My hair is the sun setting in
a pink and yellow sky.

My heart is a whale swimming
in the deep blue sea.

IMAGE: Vincent van Gogh “Starry Night” wall clock available at zazzle.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jakia Smith is a student at Marcus Garvey Academy in Detroit, Michigan.

NOTE: This self-portrait poem is from the InsideOut Literary Arts Project of Detroit. To learn more, visit insideoutdetroit.org.

Silver Age, poem by Alan Birkelbach (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

SILVER AGE
by Alan Birkelbach

The eyes, surrounded by lines, of course, are by Kubert,
as is the day-old beard. It is always a day-old beard.
Even after I shave. Sgt. Rock always had a shadow.
I always have a shadow.

You might think I have no input at all from Gil Kane
but if the light is just right
you’ll see the vertical tendon
that goes from my cheekbone to the top of my jaw,
there for no apparent reason.

There’s a hint, I’d like to think, from Carmine Infantino
in the little half smile I’m casting, kind of like when
Barry Allen was first starting to date Iris and couldn’t let her know
he was actually The Flash.

There, at the base of my neck, you might notice the
lax skin, wrinkled, kind of turtle-like, freckled.
Why do I look so stretched out right there, you might say
and then you will realize that
Berni Wrightson was given the shoulders and neck
and he really likes to add a touch of pending macabre,
full of sinew and age.

My bushy eyebrows are obviously Barry Smith
in his finest Zukala-Conan period. It is a shame
that I cannot conjure demons.

My head is long. Jim Aparo did that.
He’s always liked long heads. That–and he drew
the little silver in my hair around my temples
like on The Phantom Stranger.

You notice how I am facing the mirror squarely,
emphasizing the shoulders. You can even see the
lines of my breastbone through the t-shirt.
That’s because Jack Kirby drew that part of me that way
(although there are times I think someone else
might have done the inking.)

Sadly, there is no part of me that is Steranko,
No false perspectives, no layering of muscles.
And neither is there any part of me that you can see
that is penciled, and penciled only, by Neal Adams.
I stay within the frame. I am not cinematic.

And lastly,
if the mirror was only a little wider
then you would see just off to the side
my concubine, obviously designed by Wally Wood,
her massive bosom perfectly round,
and impossibly full.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My creative process…It’s not seasonal, driven by exhaustion, coffee, or other writers. Sometimes deadlines make it happen faster. It’s as much a part of the spent hours of my life as eating tacos and drinking beer and watching old movies. It doesn’t depend on the Muses. My creative process is a river. I don’t know the headwaters. I don’t need to know.

IMAGE: Showcase #4 (October 1956), generally considered the start of the Silver Age of Comic Books (1956-1970). Cover art by Carmine Infantino and Joe Kubert.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Alan Birkelbach’s work has appeared in journals and anthologies such as Grasslands Review, Borderlands, The Langdon Review, and Concho River Review.   He is member of The Texas Institute of Letters and The Academy of American Poets. He has nine collections of poetry.

Author photo by Cavern Media, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Self-Portrait as Dog with a Mouthful of Feathers, poem by Kathryn Almy (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

SELF-PORTRAIT AS DOG WITH A MOUTHFUL OF FEATHERS
by Kathryn Almy

I didn’t kill it myself, but I seem to float
towards decay.
           Instinct says stop,
drop and roll whenever any corpse washes up,

sand in my fur, this smell
changing me in a chemical way
not even my ancestors understood.

Fluff and bones are trophies, like snow-
flakes, socks, bumblebees: treasures I bury.

I open my mouth to shout in triumph, but
out comes only a hoarse croak
and puff of sticky, tickling down

          —the blades and barbs are black, mashed,
          the little white eyes hardly show,
          the iridescence dimmed.

It feels like being beaten for crimes I cannot see.

There is a knot within me: feathers, bugs, scum, and bark

          —everything I have eaten,

this eternal world beyond the reach of words.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I am fortunate to live in Kalamazoo, Michigan, a town of many fine writers. Just one of these is Diane Seuss, for whose class I wrote this poem.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kathryn Almy‘s poetry and creative nonfiction have been published in print and on-line publications, including the Great Lakes Review narrative map, City of the Big Shoulders: An Anthology of Chicago Poetry, Shady Side Review, and The Smoking Poet. Visit her at kathrynalmy.com.

Painting with Turpentine and a Rag, poem by Stephen Linsteadt (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

PAINTING WITH TURPENTINE AND A RAG
by Stephen Linsteadt

That first brush stroke on a blank canvas,
that great hesitation, where reason is abandoned
long enough to allow reflexes to have their way
and the brush to chose its own palette.

The fear lies in subsequent interpretations,
the lingering sense of judgment.

Brush strokes are vulnerable when left alone.

The temptation is to mould drops and splashes
into houses or trees, something conforming,
recognizable by an imaginary audience.

The art critics will want to write an article
causing me to regret I didn’t think of sheep
in tanks of formaldehyde
or giant purple poodles.

So I scrape out the childish scene of trees
with turpentine and a rag
and start over.

The blank canvas stretched over my ego
is stained by all my false starts.
It sits like a neon sign for the world to know
I was born without an original thought.

When I close my eyes and paint in the dark
the canvas fills with possibilities.

Brush strokes sing in fluid vermilion and crimson,
the stops and starts.

The delicate strokes and the heavy ones
keep time to the harmony of that moment,

and only that moment.

An unearthly chant rises from the surface
like jewels from a flood, receding imperceptively,
remaining only in my mind.

Another blank canvas is waiting.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:  To fully engage in the creative process requires a complete surrender to thinking about it. One’s muse finds you in the space that lies between judging and criticizing ourselves based on self-imposed standards. Creativity is a connection to the heart, which has a separate language from our mind’s thinking and judging.

IMAGE:  “Through the Floor of the Lapis Lazuli” by Stephen Linsteadt (2009).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Stephen Linsteadt is a painter, poet, and writer. He is the author of the book Scalar Heart Connection, which is concerned with humanity’s connection, or lack thereof, with Nature, the Earth, and the global community. He has published articles about metaphysics and consciousness in Whole Life Times, Creations Magazine, and others. His poetry is published in Moments of the Soul (Spirit First), Solstice, Cradle Songs (Quill and Parchment Press), Saint Julian Press, Poets on Site, Pirene’s Fountain, and others. His paintings have appeared in Reed Magazine, Badlands Literary Journal, and Birmingham Arts Journal and can be seen at StephenLinsteadtStudio.com.

On Both Sides, poem by Keyna Thomas (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

ON BOTH SIDES
by Keyna Thomas

Is there really much difference
Between the butterfly and the moth?
I like to think I’m on both sides
Eating nectar from the flowers
Chewing on someone’s gray sweater
Retreating to a dark cocoon
But drawn in between times
To the light.
Everything pretty has an ugly side
Every wing’s flutter would tickle
should it brush upon my cheek
And the cats, all three
Couldn’t care less whether
They chase a moth or a monarch
So they’re both the same to me
Sometimes I’d like to be one
More than the other
Especially when it rains
and it weighs, oh how
It weighs on me
Until my wings are moon bright
In the light
Day
Or
Night

IMAGE: “Butterfly” (Engandered Species Series) by Andy Warhol (1983).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Keyna Thomas is a freelance writer of poetry and short stories, as well as a part-time administrative assistant at a state university, where she is working on her Bachelor’s. She has worked in New England as a reporter and staff writer for MediaNews Group. There, she learned that true stories about people are almost always as interesting as fiction. Since then she has been writing a short novel that merges the two. Keyna grew up in Central Massachusetts, where she now lives and works. She and some of her 140-character (or less) ramblings can be found at https://twitter.com/Keyna.

Suburban wilds: a self-portrait, poem by Liz Worth (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

Suburban wilds: a self-portrait
by Liz Worth

Ocean above the cheekbones and a savage lung, the breath of devastation to match the only scar I can still see from in here.

I dream in the robes of a witch, my mouth ravaged by an April birth and temper as deep as a wolf’s
but my hair speaks only of suburban wilds gone rough.
In my hand, the spider of insomnia as swollen as an under-slept eye.

Chipped tooth from spilling out onto the street a gasping reminder of my catch-all phrase: I’m fine / I’m fine / I’m fine.

At the wrist, ribbons of time – the dead honored in gold above flattened veins.

Skirt parted to reveal myself as the kind of girl who lets strange men’s legs rest against hers on a crowded subway.

(Lift. Just a little more.)

I don’t run with anyone because I don’t need to.

My mind isn’t as vulnerable as it used to be but
if you look me in the eye
you’ll find the photograph I will become:
a socket of poetry, its tunnel
as terrible as the Moon and
burning wild.

Downcast superstition behind the earlobe, pooling in the collarbone.
Paranoia’s an oil seeping from my pores,
blackheads behind bangs and drugstore concealer.
I scratch, shortened nails, a dictation of unease.

Lips, perilous. Wanting. My gaze, high.

Higher. Looking forward. Away, to something better.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: For me, creating usually involves coffee no matter what time of day it is. Occasionally it also happens with dark chocolate or banana bread, which I believe help improve concentration, or at least boost my overall levels of happiness. I always carry a notebook around and most of my writing starts with just one word or a fragment of an idea: an image, a phrase, a strange pairing of words. I take it from there and just let the writing tell me what it wants to do.

IMAGE: “Queen Elizabeth II” by Andy Warhol (1985).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Liz Worth is a Toronto-based author. Her debut book, Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond, was the first to give an in-depth account of Toronto’s early punk scene. Liz’s first poetry collection, Amphetamine Heart, was released in 2011, and her first novel, PostApoc, was released in October 2013. She has also re-written Andy Warhol’s a: A Novel as poetry. You can reach her at www.lizworth.com.

Self-Portrait with W, poem by Robert Okaji (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

SELF-PORTRAIT WITH W
by Robert Okaji

One might claim a double victory, or after the Roman Empire’s fall, a reclamation from the slurred “b” and its subsequent reduction.

Survival of the rarely heard, of the occipital’s impulse.

The oak’s crook performs a similar function.

Shielding myself from its entreaties, I contemplate the second family
root, weighted in weapons, in Woden, in wood.

Not rejection, but acceptance in avoidance.

The Japanese homophone, daburu, bears a negative connotation.

Original language was thought to be based on a natural
relation between objects and things.

Baudelaire’s alphabet existed without “W,” as does the Italian.

The recovery of lost perfection is no longer our aim.

When following another, I often remain silent.
As in two, as in answer, as in reluctance, reticence.

I share two halves: one light, one shadowed, but both of water.

Overlapped or barely touching, still we complete.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR ON HIS CREATIVE PROCESS: One word, followed by another. Revise. Rest. Read.

IMAGE: Handpainted manuscript initial letter “W” decorated with thistles by Clare McCrory, available at etsy.com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robert Okaji’s work has appeared in Boston Review, Otoliths, Prime Number Magazine, Clade Song, and Vayavya, among others. He lives in Texas with his wife and two dogs. Visit him at robertokaji.com.

I Am Who I Am, poem by Simen Moflag Talleraas (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

I AM WHO I AM
by Simen Moflag Talleraas

     I love those who love me
and those who seek me find me.

     I am what I am
          nothing more than one
               who sings love songs
                    with a beautiful voice

                         I am the world’s light as
                              long as I am in it.

                              I am the man
                         who wants to borrow
                    knowledge of the
               baked bread
          and the garlic

SOURCES:

Exodus 3:14 | I am who I am
Proverbs 8:17 | I love those who love me, and those who seek me find me
1 Corinthians 15:10 | I am what I am
Ezekiel 33:32 | nothing more than one who sings love songs with a beautiful voice
John 9:5 | I am the world’s light as long as I am in it
John 18:6 | I am the man
Matthew 5:42 | who wants to borrow
Ephesians 3:4 | knowledge of the
Isaiah 44:19 | baked bread
Numbers 11:5 | and the garlic

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

How quaint it may sound,
That I merely arranged,
Some passages of text
Into this weird context

But as simple as is
My love for poetry
Guided me to the
Poetic structure

IMAGE: “Tree Against a Yellow Background” by Odilon Redon (1901).

ABOUT AUTHOR SIMEN MOFLAG TALLERAAS: Norwegian citizen, born in the 90s. Fond of found poetry, surrealist imagery and all forms of experimental poetic literature. Several Norwegian newspapers have published his socially conscious poetry.

Pieces Make the Whole, poem by Denise R. Weuve (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

PIECES MAKE THE WHOLE
by Denise R. Weuve

None of my parts are original,
one of my kidneys
belongs to a 35 year-old Hispanic woman
whose name I will never know
nor how she died.
Maybe a traffic accident,
or a lover waiting beneath
her bed next to dust bunnies
and regrets forging their way
into bullets with gunpowder and tomorrows.
The other kidneys I leave where they were
except I turn them to face each other,
sad formaldehyde guinea pigs
commiserating about a life they never got to live.

My eyes stolen from a father
that disappears at seven
in the evening.
These sapphire eyes
wander truck driver style
searching for the next rest stop
or diner to forget there is a daughter
358 miles away.

The liver I have moved
to the center of my chest,
it ferments in vodka
becomes sauerkraut strong,
like the grandfather
whose hate sat so long
it had to swing from a basement beam
on a Thursday night.

My heart rest where the spleen once was,
enlarged, filled with a bacteria strain
whose origin puzzles even the devil,
as he puffs on filtered Marlboro,
talks of his yesterdays
with Gabriel and Michael:
Back then, they decided what parts belonged to whom
placed crystal vocal cords into humans
so we could praise our creators.
Once we all loved.

IMAGE: Untitled by Jean-Michel Basquiat (1981).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Denise R. Weuve is a 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee who resides in Southern California. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and she has won a couple of awards here and there, like the annual Sheila-Na-Gig contest and Donald Drury Award in Writing. In the past. she has edited for various literary magazines and is currently associate poetry editor for Cease, Cows!  Her chapbook The Truck Driver’s Daughter will be released later this year by ELJ Press. None of this has impressed her cat, friends, or family, who can either be found chewing up her poems, calling to do a night out, or asking when she is going to get a “real” job. Currently, she attends Queens University of Charlotte, where she is obtaining an MFA in Poetry.

Self-Portrait, poem by Eric Burke (Self-Portrait Poetry Series)

SELF-PORTRAIT
by Eric Burke

As a kid,
he couldn’t get enough light

to go through the aperture
from the small mirror.

At forty-two,

he finally sees
rotifers in the bird bath water.

SOURCE:  “Self-Portrait” by Eric Burke was first published in PoetsArtists and has subsequently been remixed into a whimsical poetry video by Paul Broderick for The Poetry Storehouse.

IMAGE: “Bird Bath Reflections” by Delia.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Eric Burke lives in Columbus, Ohio. He has an MA in Classics from The Ohio State University, but has worked as a computer programmer for the past 15 years. More of his poems can be found in Thrush Poetry Journal, bluestem, PANK, qarrtsiluni, Escape Into Life, decomP, A cappella Zoo, Weave Magazine, and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. You can keep up with him at his blog.