*The collaborations with Debra Balchen, Grady Harp and James Needham have been previously published by Didi Menendez publications, GOSS183 Publishing Group.*
Above is my collaboration with artist/sculptor Debra Balchan which was displayed, along with Debra's sculpture of the girl, at Palette and Chisel Academy of Fine Arts. We addressed a law in Mozambique which stated that if a girl under the age of 13 was raped, all charges could be dropped if the rapist then (saving the face of the girl's family) marries the girl. Debra's piece, Sacrificial Lamb, is breathtaking. If you look closely, you will see the words of my poem, The Sheets, in the background.
THE SHEETS by Laurie Kolp The sheets are bleached white and ironed crisp like you like them, no sign of blood or struggle left behind. The way you threw me on the bed that night, spread my arms and legs, I thought we were making snow angels on pillows until you stilled me with your stone eyes, quieted me with fists of steel. I remember darkness, my lids shut tight as if your ripping off my clothes might end if I didn’t look, but I felt your fingernails dig into my flesh, your knuckles bear into my thighs and pull them apart, a wishbone, close to the edge of snapping, but not quite. I made a wish in vain as what once was pleasure self-imposed (when I put my hand in my panties and rubbed, rubbed until the rupture) became ugly and painful, what you were doing to me not eager fingers anymore but your maleness standing tall and firm just like the bed post; so close, I felt your pulse, your sweaty skin as you probed further in, faster, over and over again, then left me lying naked in bloody stains. My life is now devoted to you, sir… I hope you think I’m a good wife. At twelve, it’s the only thing I know. /// Grady Harp and I collaborated on this poem together. His part is italicized. Hector Milia provided artwork and audio.
OF THE SEA AND LEGENDS AND ECHOES by Grady Harp and Laurie Kolp Rise, rising from a seabed through swirlings of foam and forks of light from the distant sun that would dare breach the dark of my kingdom. I, the mighty Neptune, whipping my hippocampi to pull this chariot away from rest, away from placid undulating depths of my ocean throne to answer a voice that ever escapes my desires. Anchor me in seaweed, in tangles of sanguine hair. Let Man-o-War squeeze all breath from me with tentacles that won’t let go, but don’t turn away as if I’m nothing. I struggle in currents, circling plankton a wake of wonderment. Sea anemone bejewel the arms I stream before your eyes, but you fail to see beyond the confines of your throne where you sit alone. Sirens sing, seduce shipsmen to their lair. I rise to reach for their perfect swimming bodies ….call her Undine, Rusalka, but call her …. I try. A god should have control, but the heart of man so longingly clogged in my breast begs for the solace and the passion that fails to cut the veil of myths and legends. Wreckage of what could be, your consideration the setting sun I can’t swim fast enough to catch or jump high enough to reach. Must I bathe before your chariot, intoxicate you with splashing bubbles of champagne? She in her beauty and radiance fails to sense a thought, a god whose longings sink back through the darkening foam of the sea, alone. Fury propels me to coral reefs where I think of loving you. I rally dolphins, swim from shore to shore drawing hearts in waves, but still, I’m nothing when you fail to see beyond the confines of your throne where you sit forlorn. I try. A god should have control, and yet without her song her breast and seething beauty a myth perhaps? Longing, a god alone. |
Rebecca Venn Profile Poem
by Laurie Kolp Noted: nudes on Sunday morning sessions, live models sketched in 25- minute stretches, 25 pictures appearing in my news feed from all angles. Time stands still as the model stretches out on bed, arms flung above the head, knees bent. Scrolling down the page a walk: the two of us on Sundays after church while Mom keeps the kids. // James lives in Australia and I live in Texas, so how did we collaborate? James painted my portrait from a picture, and I used paintings from his online gallery to inspire me to write a poem. Interpretation.
RESEMBLANCES by Laurie Kolp Define the moment you discover a seductress sporting a light knit jumper and burgundy boots, sans pants, waiting in your leather chair. Captivate her attention with your usual flair, uncensored flattery the key. Compliment her raven hair shining beneath her blue beanie like your mother’s hair shined when she was alive. In your mind, caress her silken skin with oil-on-canvass brushstrokes, fingers longing for a simple touch just one more second to embrace her, if only you had that chance. Wonder why you’re not thinking of art, but of familiarity, a subtle trait her sullen countenance, a look that says she’s real, living life on life’s terms-- hard knocks or not-- she’s resilient and strong, but those sunken eyes wear such exhaustion… why? Was it 11 blacked-out nights, endless hours unaccounted for, whereabouts unknown the trips to Vegas, strangers’ beds, county jails or so they say in stories shared amongst drunk friends knowing when you finally made it back she’d hold you tight, then scold you for worrying her so? Was it the women you brought home, the lack of discretion in places that you met, your insatiable appetite she called debauchery when she finally had enough and kicked you out? Note an expression less than innocent, complexities reflected in the way she doesn’t smile, doesn’t seem to need you but through her hopeless state, you know she needs you like your mother needed you, but you failed to see desperation in the way she spoke of loneliness, posture wilted, eyes grounded as if a sidewalk mirage held her hostage, as all around the bilious sky funereal moods spread like ashes rising from the smoky realms of hell. Tell this woman she’s beautiful and loved, that she’s everything your mother was before she stepped off the roof away from you, parting the clouds as her soul flew high, a Phoenix. Ask her where she’s been. *Paintings: Ally, “Ally”, The Roof, 11 Green Bottles (2013) |
Hello, it's Your Mother is available at Finishing Line Press
Upon the Blue Couch is available on AMAZON and BARNES & NOBLE
Upon the Blue Couch is available on AMAZON and BARNES & NOBLE