The Whisper Collector

Sleep Cycles

The trouble is I need to sleep.
The trouble is I’ve exhausted
My fate. With secret needs,
I’ve decried a wish of seduction.
A beat in the blood. Into the
Spiral spinal cord of the Rose
Tore the pollen from my mouth.
So silken is deceit when all
The wishes want to believe.
Every desire is disserting me.
Five flaming fathoms are
Opening and flaunting their
Favourites- all not me.
I’m deprived of dignity.
Rosebud mouth closing over
Fingers bent receiving sticky
Honey. Sweating petals dusted
Dew drop encamp upon thighs
So silvery old. The sights they
Have seen in a young age has
Eldered them and left limbs
shivering
In pale light.
I hate myself; I hate you.
I hate breathing that leaves me
Echoing the fate of the tree.
Leaves it open
Red gold marigold
Leaves in a garden
Frightened of two halves,
A whole…
Miracles suck the mouths.
Words wept into the lap of an
Empathetic man. I’m off
Inside my head again.
He can not find me.
I’m lost inside my darkness
Again. I’ll soon be clinging
To your light. A gust of wind
Shielding my tears from his
Tender questions, touching at
A core truth too picked on to
Be spoken aloud, the curved
Back hero administers the final
Toxic elixir to change me into
A myth before I am ready
Forgive my crushed petals
I grew them for you
I only wanted to scent the
Air, I only wanted… the
Want is covered under silk
The velvet hammer in his
Hands and I don’t think it
Was cruelty, this shattered
Glass feeling, he wanted me
Awake when he told me
So silken is deceit when
All the wishes want to
Believe.

Chicken Little Tendencies

I am not asking any more questions;
this is the time for you to provide answers.
They come on stilts, I know, and you
afraid of heights. Afraid of falling.
Afraid of landing. Afraid keeps you
standing looking stupid. I hope you
know it. You look like a complete fool
gesturing awkwardly. Some days
I hate you more than others. I know
you feel the same, but you lack
the strength to have your say. So
stay there, and gesture. Mime out
your panic and water your soul through
the eyes. There is nothing more regrettable
than a man made mute by chicken little
tendencies. I stand apart, and although
I hesitated now I am walking away.
I used to be like you, wishing I was
who I was before. But I grew in
ramshackle vine ways. I grew in a disarray
I save to say I don't want to be that one
who lead me through the maze
unrehearsed. I want to be better versed.
I want to be what I am becoming.
I want to say goodbye fondly to who
I was before. Who I was before I
catered to you. Now who I am canters
away without expression. You don't
effect me enough to warrant response.
Even my pity is dimming.
You are a part of the past that could
not move with me. Now you will stay
stagnant and smelling, standing.
I can't sense any of your fear anymore.
I am moving past, and forgetting all
the details that made you prominent
in my life. Now you are a character
stretched into a frame packed in
a box and left by the dumpster the
next time I move. Good riddance,
truly good.

Allergies to Society

I do not have time for people who
need constant supervision and
promises of my love... Love in friendship...
I have exhaustion and illness that drives
stakes into me, see, stakes like the ones
you set on how our friendship would be.
I can not take the time to pet all your
wounds, that is something a significant
other would do. Friendship is not the most
important thing in my life, not unlike how
high schoolers say Forever and mean until prom.
I have an interior world I do not let
anyone inside. I do not care how persistent
you are in asking. Can you not see
the door is closed? As well as all this,
consider this, I have lost my voice.
I have to cough it out in the morning and
soothe its aggression against me with
medicinal teas, throat herb drops, and
steam baths. I am carrying about tissues and
using them all until I am flushing the remainder
of the wealth down. Weak of tone I am now,
I only called my mother and even then sat
in silence for some time as my voice had sailed on.
I have had my anger sparked and no air
in my lungs to blow out the flame. It is not
that I wanted to forget about you. And I did
not forget. I just could not speak your
language those days. I could only cloud bust
with my eyes tight shut closed. My fingers
escaped their lacing with my sweet heart's.
in the night my heart is a closed glove.
I have no energy for you after him.
I am pretending all social skills, because
I want them terribly. For you and for me
and for the masquerade of normalcy. But
the mask slips and I settle back into my skin
of the person who forgets, and is bombed
by her flowers, bombed into creation.
A symbol of the human genius should be
a figure in love with a book. A book has so
many connections and a friend is only
that one person. That one connection which
never ends up seeming important unless
they can handle when I am silent.
When I am coughing up my voice again.

Genre

Synopsis
Sleep Cycles The trouble is I need to sleep. The trouble is I’ve exhausted My fate. With secret needs, I’ve decried a wish of seduction. A beat in the blood. Into the Spiral spinal cord of the Rose Tore the pollen from my mouth. So silken is deceit when all The wishes want to believe. Every desire is disserting me. Five flaming fathoms are Opening and flaunting their Favourites- all not me. I’m deprived of dignity. Rosebud mouth closing over Fingers bent receiving sticky Honey. Sweating petals dusted Dew drop encamp upon thighs So silvery old. The sights they Have seen in a young age has Eldered them and left limbs shivering In pale light. I hate myself; I hate you. I hate breathing that leaves me Echoing the fate of the tree. Leaves it open Red gold marigold Leaves in a garden Frightened of two halves, A whole… Miracles suck the mouths. Words wept into the lap of an Empathetic man. I’m off Inside my head again. He can not find me. I’m lost inside my darkness Again. I’ll soon be clinging To your light. A gust of wind Shielding my tears from his Tender questions, touching at A core truth too picked on to Be spoken aloud, the curved Back hero administers the final Toxic elixir to change me into A myth before I am ready Forgive my crushed petals I grew them for you I only wanted to scent the Air, I only wanted… the Want is covered under silk The velvet hammer in his Hands and I don’t think it Was cruelty, this shattered Glass feeling, he wanted me Awake when he told me So silken is deceit when All the wishes want to Believe.
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.

The Whisper Collector is RAW; and you WILL find yourself tremoring at the end of many of these completed masterpieces. Years have come and gone since I have read poetry capable of clearly painting a picture of the path of humanness, giving color to the pain and suffering accompanying us on this lonely, troubled road. Chartschenko's words cut deep, giving breath of the very horrors many have witnessed, but have not had the strength to speak themselves. The prose within this collection have touched many of my own memories, curiousities, and base fears restricted to the long, dark hours during sleepless nights! I have listened to countless freestyle, raw readings of poetry on stages across the United States, and any poem within this collection would be a sound addition on that stage. -Joshua Robertson
 

The Whisper Collector Book Trailer

The Whisper Collector is a dark and intensely honest book of poetry. There are five distinct collections of poems within- Provincial Lies, The Lacerations of Longing, A Tethered Ghost, Mother Tongue, and Munin. Each invite the reader to listen to the whispers of love, despair, doubt, and trust.