POETRY

WORK IN PROGRESS: POEMS

Click HERE for sample poems from work in progress.

"I was hoping to be more critical of work in progress after reading the "no" trilogy, as they are the best poetry collection I've read in years. But I can only give my honest opinion: w.i.p is J.A. Carter-Winward's magnum opus."

--Harry Whitewolf, author, poet.

NO APOLOGIES

Voted "Best Poetry Collection of 2014" by Salt Lake's City Weekly Arty Awards, No Apologies is the first in a series of three unforgettable adventures in contemporary poetry. Part fiction, part memoir, part hilarity, and part gut-wrench, with all of the emotions in between, No Apologies is raw, brutal, fierce, and not for the faint of heart. You want sex? Carter-Winward will give you sex. But not in the way you've ever had it. You want religion? Check. Family, grief, joy, parenting, interspersed with domestic violence, sexual assault, and her rocky coming-of-age life as a former Mormon woman, living in Utah; living and writing with the ferocity of an untamable river.

If you're ready for a little profanity--okay, a lot--then be prepared to be pulled into a moments and pieces of a life that's both ordinary and extraordinary, a journey that's immeasurable, and a poetic voice that says it all, bares it all, with No Apologies.

World-class, renowned author, editor, and performer, Susie Bright, as she reviews no apologies, on her podcast, In Bed with Susie Bright, featuring J.A. Carter-Winward's velvety-smooth, yet emotive delivery of a few poems from the Audible version of no apologies:

"The irrepressable Susie Bright," photo by Chris Hall, and courtesy of SF Weekly

IndieReader:

The poems of NO APOLOGIES are raw, candid, often erotic and often heart-wrenching (and sometimes both); a fearless account of so many different life experiences, producing a very varied and very exceptional collection that can elicit a whole spectrum of feelings. See full review here.

Salt Lake City Weekly magazine:

BEST POETRY COLLECTION

For the past six years, JulieAnn Carter-Winward has been roping in readers with Utah-centric erotica prose that keeps eyes trained on the page. Her poetry collection no apologies is no different; the poems are deeply personal, swerving between the heart-wrenching stuff of growing up and agitating against parents and Mormonism, and the titillating details of getting "slammed into" by a bouncer outside a club. In "if I could talk to my parents again," Carter-Winward riffs on the biting reality that there are some wrongs committed that can never be taken back: "I'd say I'm so, so sorry/ for ages 12-30./ I'd tell them/ that talking to them/ was the most comforting/ thing in the world./ I'd say thank you/ for loving me when I was/ unloveable.

Raegan Butcher, author/poet, Rusty String Quartet and Stone Hotel:

"No Apologies: Wow. J.A.Carter-Winward joins Volatalistic Phil and Scott Alexander Jones as one of my favorite poets. The poems in No Apologies are strong, smart, witty, poignant, and (sometimes) angry. They cut to the heart of the subject matter like a scalpel, often leaving a bracing sting at the end. This is a great book, a true pleasure to experience. These are great poems. Check them out and see for yourself."

From Amazon:

"The female Bukowski (except maybe a better poet): These poems are accessible, hilarious, sad, scary as hell, pathetic, horny, loving, angry... everything. No pretensions, no holding back. This is nothing but edges, but it's edges with real heart. If you think you're a bad-___ -- especially a female bad-___ -- you need to read it."

"These poems are brilliant and beautiful and very human. I will be reading them again."

***

mistress

my dad's old mistress

showed up

at my mom's funeral.

everyone was so polite to her

but i wouldn't talk to the bitch.

i wanted to tell her my mom died

because she had heart failure.

i wanted to tell her she'd had dementia.

i wanted to tell her she was the reason

my mom wanted to forget

and why she'd had a broken heart.

hell

i thought i was a lesbian

for a long time when i was a teenager.

as a mormon girl i kind of thought

i was going to hell

but i couldn't help it because

boys sort of grossed me out.

i finally got into boys

but the girl thing never quite

went away.

in my twenties i dated a guy

who told me i could like both

and it was okay.

for some reason

i stopped worrying about hell

after that.

music man

something died

the night sinatra died.

martin didn't matter

davis jr. didn't matter.

frankie mattered.

my dad used to sing a lot

of sinatra in his band-

started at fourteen and played in dance jobs

all his life.

i wondered the night sinatra died

if my dad thought about death.

i wonder if he thought

the music would just stop.

kneel

he said

you've done it before

but that didn't mean

i would do it again

so i told him

to get his fucking hand

off my fucking head.

NO SECRETS

No Secrets is the second volume of Carter-Winward's genre-defying writing that is part poetry, part fiction, part memoir, all told with a clarity that does not allow secrets. These short pieces tell us the stories many of us hide, even from ourselves. After the brutality and raw gut-punch of No Apologies, No Secrets is a new set of waves, taking you down different veins in the same river of human experience and heart. Powerful, stunning, and provocative, No Secrets is another "hold onto your chair" ride: arms and legs in--and although her poetry takes you from laughter to tears and back again, remember...have fun.

Raegan Butcher, author/poet, Rusty String Quartet and Stone Hotel:

"One of the top 3 poets in the United States--J.A. Carter-Winward is one of the best poets working in America today. The poems in No Secrets are by turns angry, witty, acerbic, bluntly honest. This is poetry with guts, heart, and a whole lot of soul. Highly recommended."

Aaron Richey, author, Long Live the Suicide King:

"As the title implies, the main value conveyed in “No Secrets” is that of honesty. The voice, the “I” in these poems, is to my mind, distinctive in that it is... what I might call... a female voice with a remarkable degree of testosterone – even for a man. It is very feminine, motherly in places. Little-girly in some places... but there is also the fuck-em-if-they-can't-take-a-joke, even aggressively straightforward and unapologetic, sexual strut and fuck-you-ness as much as any male writer I can think of (Bukowski comes to mind always). It is remarkable and worth reading for that reason alone; also for the humor and insight into a particular kind of American person – the deeply sexual ex-Mormon woman in middle age with adult children.

"This isn't the “voice of women” here, it's the voice of a woman; a very distinctive and unusual woman. Also, a very perceptive and open and honest and intelligent and sexy and fuck-you woman. It's good stuff, I don't think you're going to find much like it out there."

Reader comments:

"I've read through the book twice. I knew it would be in-your-face frank and rough and vulgar, but I honestly had no idea...I thoroughly LOVED it! It is true that it was like taking up a speculum to peer inside. [J.A. doesn't] write like a man. A man wouldn't have enough balls to expose himself so completely. My initial reaction from the first page was, "Wow! Really?" And then I guffawed and then my heart broke and then I soared and then I sang harmony."

"I took a copy of No Secrets with me to the desert. I often read first thing in the morning. When I was done I burned the pages in the fire, as an offering, as a calcification. This is a BIG BOOK. One of the many things I love about No Secrets is exactly how it turns and rails my soul. I admit, I had an affair with No Secrets. I respect No Secrets and want to hold its secrets close, honor them and not share them as it would be a betrayal."

"I had a vision of Sarah Silverman masterbating in public with a copy of No Secrets between her legs…. Saying 'Yes, yes, give it to me, give it to me… harder harder.'”

***

equanimity

she got his credit card

and he got to say he was dating

a stripper.

it was as clean a transaction

as any lap dance.

lights

we drove by a house

near my son's school

and i noted that there were

still lit pumpkin lights

on someone's porch.

it was the middle of february.

i almost made a snide remark

about halloween being over

but then i stopped;

what sort of thing

happens to a family

that makes a simple decoration

too hard to take down?

i shut my mouth

and felt a little sick inside.

debate

i suffer from self-doubt.

i wonder what's wrong with me

and the friendly part of my brain says

nothing.

and then the more sinister part of my brain says

everything.

and then a distraction comes along

and the debate recedes

for an instant--

and then i start all over again

when everything is still.

slam

i decided to accept an invitation

to compete in a slam poetry competition.

my poetry was so different

from everyone else's

(not to mention i was 20+ years older

than everyone.)

it seems if you're not

trans-sexual,

a rape survivor,

gay,

possess a family with at least

one suicide

or had been molested,

you really have no way to win

in the slam poetry world.

the order of the day

was:

whoever had the biggest pity party,

the most cheesy, hallmark-moment endings

got the highest scores.

i only got to the second round,

then i went over-time.

but i was pretty sure

my poems

wouldn't have won

because they don't

yank at the heart-strings.

i don't aspire to that;

i never have.

i simply want to

punch you

right in your fucking guts.

state of mind

every man in a relationship

has a box residing in his mind called

danger;

it's in a room called

things she doesn't need to know;

it's in a house called

keeping the peace—

in a town called

sexuality,

in a city called

guilt,

in a state called

justification,

in a country called

wisdom.

god is

the problem with believers is,

they fail to see the virtue

in the profane.

NO REGRETS

No Regrets is the final stop in J.A. Carter-Winward's "No..." poetry series. The book is the final arc, the tummy-tickling ride down the falls after crashing through the class-4 white-water rapids of her genre-defying, thought-provoking poetry.

Carter-Winward's final book shows subtle shifts in style, and revelations from her personal life--noticeably more mature and introspective. But don't let that fool you into thinking it's smooth sailing from here on out--No Regrets is just as bold and gritty as the first two in the series.

Carter-Winward takes us even deeper into herself, the world as she sees it, oh, and a brothel, as she did research for her upcoming novel, Wade.

Whether you read it on the page, or hear her deep, smooth, emotive voice via Audible, you won't regret the ride of your life in the turbulent works of one of today's most courageous and honest poetic voices.

Raegan Butcher, author/poet, Rusty String Quartet and Stone Hotel:

"Devastatingly honest, wickedly funny, packed with soul and compassion, this is a book to be read over and over again. Rich in spirit, loaded with wit, and sometimes so achingly sad that it can bring tears to your eyes, No Regrets is the best poetry collection yet from my favorite poet, J.A.Carter-Winward."

bargains

when your partner tells you

i think we should start seeing other people,

that translates into

the wardrobe equivalent of:

i like this shirt okay,

but i want to go shopping.

parts

i am made up of parts

that don't match,

yet

these parts make up a cohesive self—

my brain is made up

of a mormon woman scorned

by her male-centric church,

crossed with charles bukowski,

carol brady, and cat woman.

the other part of my brain is

a metrosexual caveman

who plays rugby,

classical piano, and who jerks off

to porn on sunday afternoons.

my arms are soft,

yet cut like a body-builder's

when i flex.

my torso is an hourglass

half full of creamy stout,

broken glass and bruises.

my ass is brazilian.

my tits are scottish.

my legs are short,

muscular tree stumps

that hide in skirts,

never wear shorts,

and can lift two-hundred pounds

on the seated press.

my lungs are from the netherlands

my heart is french

my soul is bohemian

my cunt is a hungry whore

who hails from spain.

my feet are chinese

my hands are miniature

tea-cup poodles.

my eyes are darts

seeking a board to impale.

my mouth is a cupid's bow

linked to my quivering spanish cunt.

my guts

are warlords from mongolia crossed

with visigoths.

my words are sirens

hailing the coming

of a shit storm.

barkeep 2

the bartender at the brothel

wanted my mailing address.

she told me she wanted to send me

her poetry.

poetry—from a bartender

at a brothel?

oh hell yes.

real deal

after a long

hearty hug,

madam bella said to me,

you can't buy a genuine hug.

talking with her

turned my ideas about brothels

upside down.

people think that paying for sex

is the ultimate illusory experience.

but after that hug,

i realized that just the opposite is true:

in a place like that,

everything is as real as it can get.

twist

of all the emotions,

jealousy feels

the ugliest.

it takes the deepest parts of

you,

twists and warps them

and causes you to distort

everything about yourself

that is good.

red

i don't know that the words are compatible

but it's what she did—

she waltzed and exploded

under my canopy,

all at once.

we watched a rugby game in the sun

and the woman with red hair,

a one-piece sailor outfit with short-shorts

and fishnet tights with boots

swept down next to me and sat

in an empty chair.

at first

i didn't know what to make of her.

then she commented on the day

and took a little plastic bugle

from around her neck and blew it.

i scare people, she said.

i told her she didn't scare me.

she said she needed a man—

i told her to pick a rugby player.

my daughter suggested a clown

(because of the bugle)

and she declared that she could "fuck herself

better than that."

what's your name,

i asked.

people call me red

but my real name is alisa.

she told me she knew she looked like a whore

and she hadn't been laid in months.

and i wanted to help her out

because she said she'd never been

with a real man.

i saw it in her eyes then—

the moment she steps into her apartment alone

with her over-stuffed purse

and her mascara running.

i saw her washing off her face

and crawling into bed in panties and an old

t-shirt.

i saw how she defined herself

and how fragile it all was

in her light, bright blue eyes.

i took off my sunglasses and looked her right in the eye.

let me tell you something, red.

i may not look it,

but i'm way fucking scarier than you.

she smiled and moved toward me.

i like you, mama, she said.

and i liked her too.

you're going to be in my book, i said.

she nodded,

as if being in a book

was the most natural thing

in the world.

COMING Summer 2018

WORK IN PROGRESS: POEMS