It is with great pleasure, I introduce you to Ink and Quill’s feature guest, Laura. A. Lord. Laura is a very talented poet and I’ve really enjoyed finding out more about her. Her poetry is incredible, edgy and original. Please, follow the link to check out more of her wonderful writing.
NAME: Laura A. Lord
COUNTRY: United States
Please tell us a little about yourself:
I’m 30 years old and live on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with my husband and three children. I have been writing since I was a teenager, but didn’t start publishing my work until my mid-twenties. I have published six collections of poetry and vignettes and one children’s book.
‘Poetry is by far my favorite form to write and what I spend most of my time on.’
In fact, my newest collection set to be released this summer, I Am, in entirely poetry. I’m also an editor for Birth Without Fear and The Reverie Journal (the latter of which is a poetry magazine). You can find out more about my work on my blog, Laura A Lord
When did you first start writing?
I started writing poetry as a teenager…Really bad, emo poetry. In fact, I have a huge binder full of the poems I wrote back then. I keep it effectively hidden in the hopes that no one will ever be subjected to the horrors inside there.
What does poetry mean to you?
Poetry is memories’ music. I am rarely ever able to write about something that is currently happening in my life, but after some time has gone by I am able to reflect on those memories.
‘I think that is what is most important to me about poetry – the ability to be able to freeze those feelings, emotions, and images in something like a poem.’
What might inspire you to write a poem? How does a poem begin for you, with an idea, a form or an image?
I tend to choose a theme. I think of a specific time in my life or emotion and try to work from that. I also enjoy wordle prompts. I have had great success with those and it is always fun to be challenged to use words you might not have ever chosen yourself.
Which writers/poets inspire and influence your own writing?
Sylvia Plath and Raymond Carver are two of my absolute favorites. I could, and have, read and reread their works again and again for inspiration.
Has your idea of what poetry is changed since you began writing poems?
Certainly. I used to think that poetry had to rhyme and that it needed a dark undertone. I am thankful to keep those hidden in the binder and to have learned to evolve my writing. I rarely rhyme these days, but I think the dark undertone lingers.
Tell us about your writing process: Pen and paper, computer, notes?
I have terrible carpal tunnel, so pen and paper is almost always out for me. I do keep a notebook in my bag and in my car, just in case, but I tend to use the notebook on my phone to jot down ideas. I write everything exclusively on my desktop, though.
Please share your favourite piece/s with us and a brief description of the inspiration behind it:
These three poems are from my upcoming book, I Am. The collection focuses on a woman’s view of herself at different points in her life. “Not for Keeps,” for instance, revolves around how I saw myself after learning of my (now ex) boyfriend’s infidelity, while “Brood Mare” stems from the drastic changes I saw in my body after the birth of my last son. “Skeleton Dance” formed a sort-of promise for me, in my effort to be as honest as possible throughout the book, and how it felt to open up so much about my own self-image.
Not for Keeps
I’ve been nursing this blow up
like you’ve nursed that watery beer.
I wanted it big
and bright –
an explosion of color
in the harsh tones of a Las Vegas wedding.
I wanted my pain to hurt your eyes,
make you blink back a few tears.
I look better a bit hazy.
My angry face is heavily lined –
a child’s drawing,
all thick crayon swipes
and blurred edges.
I wanted my rage to be palpable –
a pulpy glob of orange juice in your mouth
after brushing your teeth.
I wanted you to roll me around on your tongue for a moment.
I wanted you to spit me out.
I’m no good for the long haul.
I’m not for keeps.
I break up like a wave crash,
a grenade with extra shrapnel on the side.
I can make a soap opera look like reality TV.
So come here, baby.
Let me lurk there at the back of your throat,
a taste you can’t get rid of.
I’m the kind of memory that gets closed up in some shoe box
under the bed.
I want to dine on the dust mites there and
listen to all the moments you whisper into her hair.
I want my claws so deep in your back
you still feel them when you’re fucking her.
I want my name engraved in your throat,
your voice box to massage every syllable as it slides
between your gritted teeth,
riding the wake your hips have made.
I want her to hate the plague marks I’ve left behind in you.
I’m such a needy little thing.
I am a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.
I’ve lost all sensitivity and
I’m emotionally bloated.
I’m an angry red slash –
The Joker’s mouth,
right above lips that have
stretched open so wide to speak
that they have split themselves sideways.
I’ve been stitched up,
stitched tight, and
I’m still loose.
I’m a pair of crow’s eyes at the corner
of a red-faced, wailing baby’s eyes.
I am lanolin-caked nipples –
I’m just trying to make the pain bearable.
I’m, “My God, I want you,” and
“Don’t touch me. I’m fat.”
I’m a hormonal, demolition derby car,
with no roll cage.
There’s no height requirement for this ride.
I’ve got an ass for days and nights,
sunsets and rises, and
like high rise to tuck in,
I’m a peep-toe shoe
with thigh high stockings,
in a terry-cloth bathrobe.
I’m fuck-me-in-the-dark beautiful and
a saunter while I walk through the produce aisle.
I have nursed this image
until the well ran dry and
the keloids rose like mountain ranges
through a bush so neglected
it’s become a fanatic feminist icon,
but you’re still banging my crown against the headboard.
So I’m either that kind of desirable
or I’ve got a concussion.
Either way, I was never meant to be a princess.
I was meant to be a brood mare
with empty feed sack tits.
I am ready to spill my skeletons,
open the door to the proverbial closet
and watch them perform an irreverent
skitter-dance across our bedroom carpet.
They will two-step in the moonlight
shining in jagged strips through the
wire screen against our window pane.
They will sing a false swan song
with lipless mouths and bones that
rattle as change in your pockets.
They will twist up on one another,
like a bow around a present,
and I’m giving you this gift,
because it is no longer possible
to keep them in my head.
I am dragging them out from under
the piles of old neglected things
that hinder our ability to speak freely
and humiliate what is left of our love.
I am giving you faceless truths
and praying that the melody of our past
is enough to string us back together.
Would you like a free copy of Laura’s book, Rumble Strip?
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