This is Not a Song... | jacarterwinward

This is not a Song,

but

I am Singing

Poetry

This collection of work from poetic virtuoso J.A. Carter-Winward flows with a more lyrical style, as opposed to the more direct and stark language of her previous work.

But don’t be fooled.

Carter-Winward continues to show us that she is capable of running you through the gamut of emotions.

And forget thinking she is, in any way, polite about it.

With imagery moving from brutally raw to stunning and majestic, her use of metaphor proves she has the literary chops to hold her own in any genre.

Hardly demure, and most certainly not dulcet, Carter-Winward manages to capture the melody in dissonance, find the sacred within the profane, while turning the grit of existence into honey for the ear and mind as she pulls you, with words, into her exploration of the joys and carnage of her—and our—humanity.

Far from “inaccessible,” a common complaint for the MFA-less reader, have no fear: you will feel her words seep inside you and resonate, strumming chords that reside deep within.

Although J.A. Carter-Winward has shown us her ability to shriek, howl, and roar, in this new collection, Carter-Winward shows us in no uncertain terms that she can also, without a doubt, sing.

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Sample poems from This is Not a Song...

abandoned

our love

is an abandoned building—

people walk by

and are amazed

it still stands.

no one can see inside

not even you and i—

the vulnerable places are boarded up,

the entrance barred

not only by a lock and chain

but by words nailed to the wood,

etched in,

words that can’t ever be undone

even if we tear the paper down.

so when we broke inside,

i wanted to see if the carpet was lighter

where our bed had been—

i needed to see if the bath had a ring

honoring our vows.

i looked for your favorite chair

and how the impression of it

must surely still reside near the fireplace

holding ashes of something stoked too long ago.

it’s not the foundation that’s gone soft.

that was always sturdy—

it’s when we added on,

got greedy,

we took short cuts

where the work should have been

long and steady

maybe we start over.

maybe we demolish and

rebuild--

do we remain squatters

surviving on the glory days

of fragrant cooking smells from the kitchen

and a roof

that didn’t leak when it rained.

©jacw

Morning After

(for Krista)

The way your legs parted in that sunlit room—

And the way your lips played with the promise of a smile

Shadow and bright made you a piebald doll

On endless sheet with cat hair and wrinkles of entwined bodies.

Your smile was lazy and your breath hot; your nipples

Were flat but your back arched in that hallelujah moment

When I slid like a tongue-and-groove wood slat between

Your knees and told you that the sun had made your hair catch fire

Then you looked at me and your eyes became soft and unreadable

But then they closed and told me everything I needed to know.

©jacw

fly fishing

i tie on a fly that’s red

tight, matching lipstick

and quick smile

hair flip and sparkle

in left eye

i tie the fly and i cast.

i am surprised when i land

a six footer

who wants to take off

all my red

and nibble my neck.

i am surprised that he

wants to flop around on satin sheets

and whisper things

about my tits.

but it’s too late now—

i can’t catch him with anything else

but i am still surprised when i untie that fly

and tie a small piece of soul to it

and tell him to eat up

but he can’t see it

he swims right on by

he’s looking for blood in the water

he is a shark.

i am surprised that sharks don’t

nibble at souls.

i am surprised that my small piece

is invisible

in this quickly

moving

river.

©jacw

suffer the little children

come here, boy

i said

he ran to me at an angle,

face slanted to the ground

so i could only see

one shining hazel eye.

tell me about the world,

i said to his stricken face.

he looked at me then

and the black, blue and green

around his other eye

was like a fall decoration,

morose and wicked.

who did this to you,

i asked,

but the boy said

instead,

i will tell you about the world.

it is filled with sharp edges,

he began,

it is made up of barbed-wire words,

unkind eyes and stabbing laughter.

there is another kind of world, boy,

i told him.

but he only shook his head.

come with me and see, i said.

he flinched at my touch.

you are safe, now

i said.

he gazed at me for too long,

his eyelashes sweeping

like wind blowing through

a field of ripe wheat.

then he drew in the dirt

with his finger.

the children, he said,

they suffer.

i watched the boy walk away

and i didn't have enough arms

to cradle the hurts he carried

in each plodding step.

i didn't have a way to protect him

from the shards.

©jacw

where you find poets

under a dusty shelf

between cracked pages

and under ancient stone stars

is where you’ll find poets.

we are not in

the place to be

we don’t wear versace—

we bleed from our hands.

pouring out visions

into thirsty mouths

and servicing hungry

word whores

is where you’ll find poets.

the exclusive soirees

eating canapés

you’ll not find us there.

we are below,

sinking in the silent, black street

as we bleed from our pens.

chiseling truth

in soap stone

with one eye on dirt

and the other on god

is where you’ll find poets.

we are trampled

on wall street, market street

and commerce place,

rubble under shoes of gold.

we bleed from our feet.

in back bedrooms

with fire escapes,

in plagued houses

with spider-webbed drapes,

in every trailing symphonic chord,

in all the world’s communal hoards

in the hurricane eyes and sheltering lees

the whisper of words through autumn trees

in tears of gratitude

mercy and latitude,

the holy place where we come to breed,

the holy cunt

the male seed

that is where you’ll find poets.

and we bleed from the heart—

but unlike the harpooned masses,

we ask you not

to stanch

the flow.