Kill the Poet

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Allison Grayhurst

Kill the Poet

Kill the poet,

ransack the diet of bliss.

Dust away all traces of inspiration,

childbirth, breath and roses.

Thumbtacks, dried-out bones are

what has stayed.

I am a sand-fish, surfing the bottom,

accumulating

duties, commitments, leftover debris

to feed my already grown children.

Notions of a mission? A nest of delusions obliterated.

Kill the loose ends, dynamite the cave, come

out in the open and say your piece. My bed is

rippled with loose springs, arranging my nightmares

in grand succession. Kill the poet. You killed

my last cup, spilled my endurance, and I am thinking

I will cut my hair cleanly off, clip my eyelashes,

dump all my seeds on stony ground.

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

First published in “Gutter Eloquence Magazine, Issue #30”, 2014

http://www.guttereloquence.com/issue30/grayhurst30.html

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

“Her (Allison Grayhurst’s) poetry appears visceral, not for the faint of heart, and moves forward with a dynamism, with a frenetic pulse. If you seek the truth, the physical blood and bones, then, by all means, open the world into which we were all born,” Anne Burke, poet, regional representative for Alberta on the League of Canadian Poets’ Council, and chair of the Feminist Caucus.

“What a treasure Allison Grayhurst is. Her gift? To unfold for us life at this intensity of feeling and revelation. Who knew truth and beauty could be so intertwined and so passionate?,” Taylor Jane Green BA, RIHR, CH, Registered Holistic Talk Therapist, and author of Swan Wheeler: A North American Mythology, Swan – A Planetary Mythology, and The Rise of Eros, 2014.

Flies

Posted on April 12, 2014 by Allison Grayhurst

Flies

By dawn the flies

released their shape into

the soothing wind and what

came back was the weary pulse

of dying wings grafted to the day.

What world was this inside their

dark heads that honoured the

photograph over the experience,

that held up frivolous wealth like

a deserved trophy?

What faith was plucked with the flowers

as all their little tongues reached out to pocket

the short-term scent?

The flies live in their high castles like undergrounds

enjoying only the drive and privileged complaints.

They call themselves the philanthropists and

the even-tempered elite.

But I see them in the honey jar

and count them as already gone.

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

First published in “The Write Room”

http://www.thewritemag.com/poetry/flies/

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

“Allison Grayhurst intertwines a potent spirituality throughout her work so that each poem is not simply a statement or observation, but a revelation that demands the reader’s personal involvement. Grayhurst’s poetic genius is profound and evident. Her voice is uniquely authentic, undeniable in its dignified vulnerability as it is in its significance,” Kyp Harness, singer/songwriter, author.

“Allison Grayhurst’s poems are like cathedrals witnessing and articulating in unflinching graphic detail the gritty angst and grief of life, while taking it to rare clarity, calm and comfort. Grayhurst’s work is haunting, majestic and cleansing, often leaving one breathless in the wake of its intelligence, hope, faith and love amidst the muck of life. Many of Allison Grayhurst’s poems are simply masterpieces. Grayhurst’s poetry is a lighthouse of intelligent honour… indeed, intelligence rips through her work like white water,” Taylor Jane Green, Registered Spiritual Psychotherapist and author.

The River is Blind chapbook review:

“An existential curiosity courses through Allison Grayhurst’s latest collection. It’s Grayhurst’s physical constraints that comfort us: a box sitting at the top of the stairs, housecats in states of wakefulness and sleep, the “snails and moss” that preoccupy her. Indeed, The River Is Blind situates itself firmly in the familial but imbues those relationships and domestic touchstones with a disembodied calm. Ambition and disenchantment linger along the fences of Grayhurst’s property but she remains candidly in the present.

“In lesser hands, muses such as these might’ve resulted in verses of weak-kneed contentedness. But Grayhurst’s voice remains one of detachment, webbing daily pleasures into greater meditations on love and God. Through spiritual lens, poems like “Everything Happens” and “Flies” counteract steadfast faith with insights on the material world, a separate world; a place where people grind flowers for honey,” Ryan Pratt, Ottawa Poetry Newsletter, January 30, 2013