Bright Needles

Rusted

i miss the way
we used to talk
now you're
always spent
working and
i am wordless
when it comes
to you it makes
me blue a
love which hinged
on the door
that opened into
the frames of mind
you used to produce
has rusted with no use.


doubt now

My dreams are turquoise rivers
Running from the source. My
needs may be human but they
are tearing me apart. i breath
through veils which hold my hair
demanding an expectative glance
Cut with a shard of glass the
instinct to laugh. To run. To hold.
i have no one deeply, they all shine
on surfaces, reflecting. Underneath.
Underneath the winter snow i hold
as blanket. i bury myself until cold
becomes warm. Bury myself. Sleep
now, live
later.
i brought home a fish and named
him Lawrence of Arabia. i am in the
desert of his life. i am his mirage.
i put in the pellets, the water, the
places to hide his eyes.
Deeper mingling, beyond hands and
beyond words and beyond all the
places been before. i stretch my
watercolour sound into something
i can step through, no easier light;
although it is yourself you can be
most you with, most centered, most
deeply communicative with, i need
someone
else.
Strings...


Out of the Ashes

into the garden mother.
i need to be born
out of the ashes
the deaths i've endured
and the breath i discovered
it all flows mother
i want to know who i am
not just a name but a heart
but i've been to the grave.
escape the pressure little one
let her take control
but not anymore! i want to be my
own!
into the garden mother.
i need to be born
out of the ashes
the deaths i've endured
and the breath i discovered
i want to absorb it all
i want to be whole.

Genre

Synopsis
Rusted i miss the way we used to talk now you're always spent working and i am wordless when it comes to you it makes me blue a love which hinged on the door that opened into the frames of mind you used to produce has rusted with no use.
Anaïs Chartschenko hails from the Canadian wilderness. She has come to enjoy such modern things as electric tea kettles. Her published works include two collections of poetry, Bright Needles and The Whisper Collector. She is currently writing a series of dark fantasy stories.

I recently read a poetry collection by a Nobel laureate. It was nice, but you could see the thought going into it. Even when some lines spoke of something personal, there was restraint and you could see the writer tip toeing around emotions.

There is no tiptoeing here.

Anaïs Chartschenko walks the fiery path of her emotions and delivers one of the most intensely honest collections I've ever read.

This is raw poetry. Beautifully and intensely raw at that. You wonder how much of what is captured here is inspiration and how much of the source material is from real life. I found myself again and again reading and being floor by how deep these lines carve. I've recently begun to read more poetry and have for some time always had a poetry collection running while I read other works and I can honestly say this is as candid as Bukowski, but no vulgarity, just pure raw emotion.

I picked this collection up not really sure what to expect and what I found is yet another indie author that has impressed me and leaves me intensely curious as to what is next. If you want to read something that is as deep and personal as a page can hold, this is a wonderful example of just that. -JD Estrada
 

Bright Needles Trailer

i miss the way we used to talk now you're always spent working and i am wordless when it comes to you it makes me blue a love which hinged on the door that opened into the frames of mind you used to produce has rusted with no use.

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