
Happy Bithday to me,
Here's a closer look at this quill and ink bottle tattoo:As I came into my poetic self in college, I knew I wanted a tattoo to symbolize that. My friend, Kevin, designed it for me and I carried it with me for a while. For spring break in 1993 or 1994, I went to Seattle with 4 of my best friends at the time. We happened into a cool tattoo shop and 4 of us got our first tattoos (the 5th person didn’t want one).It was great because we each got something that symbolized who we were at the moment but also who we hoped to be in the future.
Grace
she lives here with mebut she comes & goes as she pleasesnever tells me where she’s goingnever leaves a noteit’s typical that she’ll come injust as I’m falling asleepI catch glimpses of her sometimesusually when there’s musicwe used to be inseparableI didn’t think she’d ever leavenow, daily happenings of my liferarely interest herbut sometimes they doand she’ll spend time with mewhen that happensI remember how good it feelsher company is like an avalanche ofwarm towels out of the dryerI could stay there all day© 2010 Lizzie Wann
"My first tattoo–I was 19, I was a punk rock kid, and I had been thinking about getting a tattoo for some time. I had had a dream in which I had a tattoo of a skull and crossbones design in which the skull had peace symbols for eyes. When I was shaving the next morning, I was surprised I didn’t have the tattoo. So I called up my friend Melody, whose uncle was Tattoo Ray–one of the best tattooists on Staten Island. She made the appointment and came with me to her uncle’s house.
Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler
In New York at the time (the mid 1980's), tattooing was still illegal: most tattoo artists worked out of their homes and their clientele was through word of mouth. Ray was pretty famous–and I have met a number of people over the years on Staten island who had work done by Ray. He was funny, sarcastic, and quick-tongued. I remember asking him about his needles (this was in the midst of the AIDS epidemic) after all and he asked me right back “How clean is your blood?”
I liked him immediately. He did the work. His niece and I talked. I just remember being surprised how much the tattoo gun sounded like a dentist drill. The little whine, the humming buzz.
My second tattoo: I got my senior year in college. We found somebody in Westchester who did the work in his suburban neighborhood house. I remember little of the experience. The tattoo was not the one I wanted: what I had hoped to get – Tigger with a microphone and a mohawk jumping on his tail – I ended up not being able to afford. Instead: I went with symmetry – and more pirate stuff: a rose with crossed swords above the left bicep. In hindsight, this tattoo has held up better than Tigger probably would have....
Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler What lasts though are the tattoos I wanted to get but didn’t: After the rose I wanted to get Charlie Chaplin tattooed on me. I asked several artist friends of mine to make me a design, and I got a few of them, but none of them “worked.” And for several years I wanted the logo for my old band tattooed somewhere. But neither happened.
So I went with two for a long time: but I often thought about getting new ink. I wrote. I taught. I created a program for young writers in northern Michigan called the Controlled Burn Seminar for Young Writers. I committed 13 years to that project, and after the tenth seminar, I thought I would get its logo – a lit cherry bomb – tattooed on my right forearm. The logo was important to me: I believe poetry and all art should be a lit cherry bomb. It should be a potential explosion. But it should be fun, too. I looked into it a few times, but I finally made the decision on a lark a few days after my birthday. I was walking on Carson Street in Pittsburgh – tattoo parlor row. I liked the name Flying Monkey Tattoo. So in I went.
Photo by Joy Gaines-Friedler
The tattooist was a kid, He could have been one of my students–he was finishing up his apprenticeship and mine was one of his first tattoos. The seminar after the ink ended up being the last one. It seemed fitting that the creative writing kids got to see it before the seminar ended.
And now, for one of Gerry's poems:And now I’m back to collecting designs: this time, though, I know who’s going to do the tattoos. The next one will be a Buddha carrying a tattered pirate flag on my back. These are the two strains of my life. And I want the MG logo somewhere. I’ve been driving an MGB for 15 years. The tattoo is a commitment and the things I am committed too, the things that define me, that continue to define me I want inked on me. I spend much of my life putting ink on paper. I think it’s only fitting to have some ink on me, too."
"The tattoo is fairly literal; the state of Florida is burning, with the words "Til The Bitter End" aside it. I moved to Miami for 4 years to pursue a relationship, and saw it out to its unfortunate conclusion. The tattoo is born out of that experience, and I got it to help me put a finishing stamp on what happened there and what brought me back to Long Island. None of us are perfect, but we can become stronger people if we have reminders of our mistakes and put them to good use to make sure they don't happen again. This piece, along with most of the work on my body, was done by Chris Koutsis of Da Vinci Tattoo Studio in Wantagh NY. I told him exactly what I had in mind, and between my ideas and his talents I was very happy with the outcome."The following is my favorite of the several poems David sent me to choose from:
"I love writing, tattoos and typewriters. When I met with Ron at Anonymous Tattoo in Savannah, Georgia, he seemed as psyched about doing my tattoo as I was about getting it. Ron asked a few simple questions. “How do you feel about birds?” I felt good. “Flowers?” I also had positive feelings about flowers. And then, we were off. Two sessions and some intense pain later, I came out with this amazing tattoo. Writing will always be part of my life, and now so will this tattoo."Claire also shared this poem:
Kazoo Serenade
The last nice thing you said to mewas “Your breath smells
like vodka,”as I hummed at youthrough a kazoo.
It was anoriginal composition;maybe nottechnically perfect—I wasn’t concernedwith mechanics.
Who needs ruleswhen there are kazoos in the world?
I did an accompanying jigon a cracked patchof sidewalk.Why is cementalways damp
on summer nights? It made such asatisfying smackagainst my bare-feet,cool and wet,like the familiar kissof a person I rarely see.
I could have danced circles around youall nightuntil we were both too dizzy to knowmelody from moment,beauty from spit and plastic.Instead, I unbuttoned
the pocketon your shirt, and slipped the kazoo inside.I don’t need retrospectto tell meyou don’t deservea kazoo serenade. Oh I wishit was about deserveand not desire.
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Photo by Arnold Browne |
"Swans usually mate for life…Passion is a given in my work and how I love...The inspiration to become a part of something or someone for the duration of the journey is deeply beautiful. Breathing through the ripples, the illusions, the wounds, the truth, the laughter, the healing and the magic of letting love…Sharing life IS the adventure! My poetry, like the mating of swans has been a part of my consciousness since I was a girl child. It has grown with me and in me; writing candid love notes on my heart to the groove of house music in my soul! I am life poetry."
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Photo by Arnold Browne |
Poem for HaitiToe nails painted red
Fingernails and
Lips thus stained
I look at her cleanly
Parted scalp
Plaited locks of wisdomWith lavender ribbonsGathered at her skyVibrant energy skirted andPleated from waist to ankleWith her hands delicatelyPlaced upon her chestOne on top of the other
Motionless
She was gentle
(I think) Most likely
Waiting for her groom
for she was a good girl
before she was swallowedThey lay in piles
the brown people tinged gray
and I wonder
if the one with the chocolate hand
was her belovedRespectfully waiting for his brideHe dreamed of her too
(I think)
before he was swallowedButthereweresomanyThereweresomanyThereweresomanyFairies, maidens
Princes, poison apples
and ogres in the agony of
Hushed lullabies and wailing
Absent walls or petitionsOnly tears of freedomGushing in perfect French
pooling into mud cakes and spirits
that rise from their dust
Excerpt from Gathered at Her Sky - Poets Wear Prada Publishing 2010
"The tattoo is from the front cover of a vintage Heavy Metal comic book my ex-boyfriend used to have. The sleeve was adapted from the drawing by Avelino Avilia at Spirits in the Flesh Tattoo Studio in San Francisco. I had the work done in 1997. There was no deep meaning behind it. I simply found the original image aesthetically pleasing."What follows is Christina's poem "Charity, " which, she says, "was supposed to be published in [another magazine] this year, but they fell off the face of the earth." Their loss is our gain, I say, and they haven't responded to her queries about the poem, so this would mark it's first publication, I believe.
CharityThis person who requiresvery little of mewrecks the neighborhoodin spirits and crushed feathersI wheedle the ajar doorjust give a pushand enjoy the feel of it givingLet loose on the nightwith you clawing behind meferal, whip-tailed, gentle mana shriek of rubber on wet pavementand questionsso many questionsI feel two things:the smoky grit of the upholstery &the constellation of insects in my veinsLust is the arch of the moonin the stomach of a middle-aged womanperverse and sterile,a sprinkling of glass and lacquerfrom a childhood memoryof dark sex and rageI keep hearing you talk to meIt sounds like a sugar cubemuddled in brandy
For people not familiar with The Glass Menagerie, one of the characters, Laura, has the nickname "Blue Roses".The Mets are kind of responsible for the tattoo I have on my arm and shoulder. See, my husband is obsessed with the Mets and when we moved to San Antonio from the East Coast, he lamented not being able to see his team on a regular basis. He was so puppy-dog sad that when he planned a trip to Houston purely on the basis of seeing the Mets play the Astros in Minute Maid Park, I couldn’t help but enthusiastically agree, just to see the wonderfully happy look on his face. But, I said that if he was going to have a cool experience on the trip, I had to have one, too: I was to get my next tattoo at the famous Texas Body Art, known for countless features in tattoo magazines and highlighted appearances at tattoo shows across the country. I wanted a skull with blue roses coming out of it but I was wavering about the idea. Then, a dear friend reminded me of the literary connection of the image in Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie, one of my favorite plays by one of my favorite writers. Ah, yes, the idea was perfect—and the trip was, too! The Mets won in a record 17 innings! And I won a professional work of art that was designed on the spot in a matter of minutes by the skilled artists at Texas Body Art. Sweet!
Trash
Papi threw out all my artwork.Derek’s carved open chest,blue-black heart and orange skin inDesign marker scrawl,condemning our underground afternoon ofSouthside sad lust.A spotlighted box of cereal called “Health”in a room with a grass floor, pine treedecoration, and chopped lumber sitting neatly.Acrylic nature. I miss this one the most.I am reminded of it every time I shop at Whole Foods.Even the two-bits. Tiny 2x2 art,entered in competition, or sold.Two of mine won awards.One of them, my first sale, was bought for $5.It was a multi-colored, swirling cathedral called “My Bed.”I placed all the work under the bedin the guest room. By my next visit,it was gone,except for “Insane Bridget.”She is framed and in the living room,face turned away, bony backcurved at the viewer, harshcharcoal on brown paper.Dark copper sadness, winner of a gold prize.Papi values winning.Anything else is trash.And this is why, today, he is so afraid,scared that retirement means he, too, is trash,wary of children who might find him useless.But artists make beauty out of trash.We roll in the discarded and live with its decline,listen to it crumble and make the sound song,cradle it in our hands and sculpt it useful.