Olena was born in 1963, in Detroit, Michigan, and is a first generation Ukranian-American. She graduated from Wayne State University, the University of Michigan Law School, and the Vermont College MFA Program. She now lives in Anchorage, Alaska. She is divorced and the mother of two children. I found the photo of her below while 'Net surfing. Now, is this not a stereotypical photo of the torturned poet? From the ciggie to the tall coffee and those ass-kicking boots which I coveted, well, I wanna be her in my next reincarnation. Not really, but I do like to have a face to put with the poetry I read and this is an amazing photo.
Like Kerosene
By Olena Kalytiak Davis
Yes, it’s daily
that we move into each other—but this morning
I was separate even from myself—
my hands were shovels, I had mosquito netting for hair,
and the insect beating against the night
was my heart. My name was hallow
and the sky was made of shale when
I walked into a part of morning
I’ve never seen: the sky still heavy, still
smoldering with the nightmares of others,
the drunkenness and sorrow rising like dew, like fog,
like smoke back into the clouds. Suddenly,
my face was wet with it. I wanted to lie down
with it. To rest against the almost exhausted night.
Uncertain of what to do there
I started dividing the layers, the sediment,
thinking: Usually I sleep through his sadness.
And the morning asking: Why do you keep track
of the middle of the day when you should be
waxing the moon? How can these young fragile branches
be left out in the darkness, and who set that darkness
wandering inside your heart? Who can your love ignite,
like this, like kerosene?
And then the sky lit the morning.
And then I went in to set my own house on fire.
And then I lay down next to you:
a body filling with feathers or with snow
asking: and who are you that my love can light
like this, like kerosene.
University of Wisconsin Press (November 1997)
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Wishing you all a peaceful, relaxing weekend. Blessings!
~*~Marion~*~
"Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." ~Novalis
"The smell of ink is intoxicating to me -
others may have wine,
but I have poetry." ~Abbe Yeux-verdi
