Creative Study: Elisabeth Horan
Artist Statement:
I find myself so thankful for the feminist writers who have taught me to write poetry… When I first read Emily Dickinson, I thought this is the real thing… the power of scarcity, the complete control of the tone and voice. She is the master of doing so much with so little. I have always wanted to emulate her craft, which is so original, so effective – – – one just knows… it’s perfect.
Emily’s poems evoke solitude, lust, hope, yearning, loss, quiet, cold, passion, and most certainly, death. I also write these themes. In starting these poems, I first found it intimidating. What business do I have trying to write something even vaguely attune to Emily’s work… With Emily, I had to find the control…. to corral my often knee-jerk pain and
Lastly, I have always loved the pioneer which Emily was with punctuation. She didn’t give a crap about whether it was cool to use the dashes. Everywhere. She just did it. In my poems to her
So that is becoming my ode to Emily punctuation. And I absolutely dig it.
Channeling a poet heroine makes me write better, I think. Out of respect for them, I try harder; I have to get it just right. Otherwise, I would be letting them down. And by God, I can’t let that happen.
Odd list odd house odd me – – –
Odd list odd house odd me – – –
Time navigates its ream of paper
My father sister brother neighbors
My quill my ache my captain
allows me
Travel, upon scented rainbows
made, laid upon my breast in
arcing layers
A love bandage, my soul less hollow
my face more colorful,
a theater enacted
From the weight of my legs I cannot
stand. You do not write enough these
stoic days of leaves and language – – –
Not that I judge, yet behold a
woman’s seethe
Seems to permeate my list my
with a mildew stench, unbeknownst,
Before I knew of your tick tock hands,
to me.
I am a Simple Woman – – –
I am a Simple Woman – – –
my pasty grey-dawn Smile
I cannot leave my bedroom;
I’m naked and I’m vile
I love my bedroom linens
they seduce me ever lightly –
they do not use such fingers
as the men who grip too tightly – – –
In here – I am safety Goddess
of a night filled with golden ships;
ruby-red riches; slippery hips
I pine for; would die for.
A winking Woman’s eye
Does not judge my hag-filled Harem – – –
but holds it tender for the Feminine.
Never as Provocateur,
nor some Bastard Child of
the Masculine – – –
This is The Knell
This is The Knell. The Death
Knell Some can smell – the
simple way He says – young
Lady, you shall come with Me now –
The Horses
the Gollum flicks a fork-ed tongue.
Back. And forth. A change – – –
In the Gross Weight – – – seven
sentient Grams – had I not taken
the Fatal Dram –
I would still harbor His Trolls – – –
with all their crude support
as Traitors, mutants of My body.
Something for to worship
What a woman wouldn’t do
to be torn into something new –
a more vixen version of her usual;
a muse unknown by her summer god
One covered by youth and
lion and the rhino. Not that of
Little orb of red bullet flickers on/off
for the idea of you; little gem ruby-red
rock produces shock waves at the
image of a man, with his hands, with a face,
With a mouth residing in the cave of
my crisis – saying lay down woman…
be still. Lay down – – – while I go ahead
and revel in the worship of you.
Some days, alone is not what it seems
Big horse big horse
A lover.
I lost I lost
My father
Curled violent
I circumcise
My petal. Big
Horse creates
Kill chaos.
Some
Lover did eat
My face off
Left nothing
For the crows
&
My shirt is
Still off
Big horse, my
Heart
Evil lover, took
His part.
His part,
Took my art
Evil lover.
Were I With Thee – – – And Your Scepter
Wild is the untaming
of the night’s quiet slip – her
Soothing movement in the
thrush’s bush –
The reeds the reeds, the cattails
whisper; go young one, go
And touch The Scepter.
Hush Babe – – –
She nudges the door, it’s
a rock, a sway, her hip
Does push it farther
away, his
A static door but a portal
and he knows the cave,
Honey meadow pollen
thief, all the petals of –
All the Blossoming Shebas
cannot sate the pinched-
Lip Flower Seller. He rows
upon the river. He follows
Her into the night
– – – wherever.
And So Easily, I Cave
The feathers have been stitched into
a pillow, young woman,
Did not they tell you?
the tree has come down
A terrible hurricane, a nor’easter,
came and fell
The mother’s nook aerie. Who shall
we stone – – – who shall we arrest; the pyre
waits for no one
The licking flames
succumb to no rogue wave
Tickling my leg
knee to tendon; you’ve cut
A slit for diversion – I know
your type – this
Kind who skirts punitive
damages. This is
Not the first time the white dove
has died. Now you are
Tracing the L of my leg and
I cry out, not for
Hope, nor for the
Scant be the Blessings
The window does shine a light for
Hangs;
Suspended over the bridge of life – what
Match this kind of tensility, as we, simple humans
Cannot mime any kind of strength from weaving
Orbs of crystalline dew receivers, the miracles of
Arachnids – ah, spinners of everything meticulous
And deadly –
Are you not like The Creator who
Out from – small miracle of the eye – to see that
Which is still alive in the world
– outside.
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Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain – especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. Elisabeth is honored to serve as Poetry Editor at Anti-Heroin Chic
