Selected Poetry Online

Adviatam Speaks – p54 – Things I Learned Out West – Dedicated to Cacy Forgenie

Directives Undone  – Adviatam Speaks

Two Serious Ladies – What You Said | Verbatim | The Season of Okra in Question *Please read horizontally.

BlazeVOX 12 – Tailed Calibration | Standard Kitchen Heat | Game River | Orange Season

After The Pause p28 Poem 1 | Poem 2 

Buffalo News: Tandem Poem Written with Josh Smith – Maker’s Mark

 

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Media

Elizabeth Mariani’s PoemPlay featured as part of Between People curated by Galia Binder

Elizabeth Mariani interviewed on WRUV – Moccasin Tracks  – October 2017

Commentary in Support of Indigenous Peoples’ Day published in VT Digger

Elizabeth Mariani featured as a new member in the National Organization of Italian American Women blog

Art Everywhere: Starlight Studio: Short Documentary by John R. Hand

30 Days of Creativity: Elizabeth Mariani, Poet

Elizabeth Mariani featured on Radio Roxanne: The Apple and the Tree (2006)

The Puritan Toronto

Buffalo Performance April 2016

Rooftop Poetry Club

Decade Old Teaching Artist Link

Kind Words

Goodreads Something

Poets & Writers

Starlight Showcase

Susan Marie Review

The Broadside in Print

Urban Legacy Videos

5 minute video – Hoft TV

Seattle Times . Sherman Alexie. The MFA Question

 

I am for

I  for healing
I am for the redistribution of resources
I am for hard truths
I am for discussing and confronting the invention of race
I am for art
I am for health
I am for all forms of self-determination
I am for blocking remotely, in reality and otherwise all those who seek to harm me, who seek to suspect me, who seek to rip me from my roots and tell me to start again.

I am for difficult conversations
I am for showing you my bones and blood and imperfections as proof of growth
I am for the separation of my soul from the brand of my name
I am for determining my own path
I am for soothsayers
I am for ceremony and prayer and song
I am for returning to the languages of my grandmothers
I am for storytelling as medicine
I am for vulnerability over preservation of the false self
I am for rearranging American English
I am for hot weather and cold weather and wind weather
I am for rivers of fresh water and communal resistance
I am for calling in
I am for anger when it rises
I am a passionate Italian-American woman
I am for returning again and again from disassociation triggered by early and repeated trauma
I am for our imperfections
I am for leading by example and being led by example
Not words or promises
I am for healing from the oldest of wounds
I am for your light
I am for mine
I am for this opportunity
to shift

***********************************
Elizabeth Mariani

Water Census

IMG_0056I told you this would happen. You’d wake in the morning and drain your thoughts into the rain barrels stored near the bricks your ancestors used to lay. Just remember this planet is a living being and you, these days, you are more than a census taker. Stop counting people and money.

This is what we will count. One dog bark every 6.5 seconds, 17 morning bird noises, the house plumbing, the distant hum of the fridge, 1 luna moth, 4 young foxes, 86 books in Italiano, 2 – 6 yard rabbits, 3 books en Español, 87 books, 3 booklets and 12 chapbooks in what’s left of American English, 76 poems scattered in pieces of Acoma and Hebrew and Mohawk lifting, 5 clear recordings of my great grandmother’s confessions, the confessions she left in Ontario, a tub of anise oil, another tub of coconut oil, 28 vats of Spanglish words determined to be impatient expressions and a thousand chihuahuas running in one direction. Away from the Ocean. *Keep in mind, the sea is a language.

Arrêt

Flash future. Before the drinkable water ran out. Before the birds flew. On another day.                 In another place. You will have ripped open a cotton shirt. You will have no nipples, no chest, just a mark where the seatbelt continues to invest in bruising the sternum. Everyone’s sternum. With that kind of friction, with that kind of collision, you can expect to get hurt.

The skin you had, we had, will wash away like bed linens released from their restrictive, impressive clothes lines. Free to the wind. My heart, our hearts will be made of bubble wrap and my lungs, your lungs will be filled with the disorganized coils of video reels. Everything will be turning and twisting so that no Doctor could possibly accurately diagnose what it means to be filled with the short films of passersby. This is the life of an empath. Before your days end, sweet friend, promise me, yourself, the sky, promise me you’ll donate your body to Art while you’re living.

 

Stay Conneceted and Woke.

Love Always,

Elizabeth Mariani

the life & death exchange | october into 5777

 

This is life right now.

This is the hybrid fantastical.

Begin by   walking outside.

Open your mouth.

 

When the rain fills

Only then              will you heave

a repulsion of inauthentic energy

eager to capitalize on this particular season.

 

Give it a whiplash gif.

Face the gravel, the tar, the ground, the earth.

 

From the mouth

all liquid-like fluid gravitates into

predictable waterfalls of bottled turquoise.

into rivers of gestured azul.

 

This is how the sun follows.

To beings like this

it becomes innate.

We leisurely refract this and every autumnal scour

with equal abrasion                            for the giving.

 

Only then

will fuschia flood.

Only then

will blood red.  

 

Elizabeth Mariani

 

It’s not as if life hasn’t attempted to derail itself before.

Ascolta. Listen. Escucha.

It’s not as if life hasn’t attempted to derail itself before. Life hates life. Life loves life. Life is the apothecary of life. It smells. Like shit sometimes. Like poison lilac scent. For newborns. Or newcars. Or whateveryourheartdesires.

Remember the system you’re in. Please play along. On giving it away. For free. In the face of the market. In the face of personal and communal debt. In the face of The Idea of Debt. I’m giving it away. Pull it from your gut. Or your most prized artery. Or your expired tropical memories.

Pull it from the grip of the emergency brake. Push back into it a full human. Eager to play. The game. Even if every breath is a toss-up. Life and Life and Life but Death. We are standard in the hollows of thunder. We are solemn and re·sus·ci·tated. Reciprocated. Evaporated. Emancipated from rest.

Elizabeth Mariani

May 14th, 2016

* Written at a reasonable distance from a fresh water lake.

A Call to Creatives – To Continue

IMG_0016This is an age of insanity. Of instant ingestion. Consumption. Consuming. We live as beings in a cataclysmic relationship with reflection. Reflection and revision at all costs. These are the times. The days where people. Places. Entities. Corporations. And otherwise. All these spaces where your story can begin. Can be shifted. Can be tweaked and quirked and spoken for. Who is speaking for you? Who is telling your story? What becomes of the space you hold when the holding, is, itself, up for an intense debate?

The grasp. Clasp. Crunch. Squeeze of ownership. Is it possible our stories are melding together?  Are our spirits actually as singularly identifiable as our separate government numbers and names? What exactly are you doing here?

If you find yourself struggling as a creative in a world astutely focused on quantifying your worth by means unintelligible to beings not born and named human, you’re not alone. Or you may be the type of being entrenched in the popular and heavily ingested casual validation of self-possession.

Are you obsessed with your infallible über-humanity?  Were you among the those who were lucky enough to be born, and be born human of all species? Well, then, we have a conundrum. Most children can’t tell the difference between a delicious ice cream cone topped and toppled with pistachio flavored ice cream and the vibrational promise of a black hole. I’m going to ask you again. What are you doing here?