Blood is blue.
PURPLE DIVINE will look to promote and publish work we deem poetic and beautiful.
I am a Lexophile:
What is s friend and lover of words. My name is Kiki Dranias and this is the story of my poetry book: Blood is blue.
I believe good artistic writing has a lot to do with the words and their musicality—it's nice when the reading can be done with melody and beat. The voice of a chorus is also something I can’t ignore. Of course not—I’m Greek. Then there’s the stripping of inhibition. Because if you ask me, pretty much anyone can write well—if and when we let ourselves go…enough to become characters confident and free.
To take on tones, colors, express words, feelings and vows—other than ones ‘we’—the individual, would be typically characteristic of. Flash poetic license, I say, make it designer-yours. And flat-out be aware when we’re composing, that no harbor be built for any fear (or shame) of the creativity waiting to get the heck out of our bodies! Simply because it doesn't matter who the world thinks the writer is.
The way I see it, if you’re telling a story and it sounds interesting, coherent and true—boom you’ve written something well. And chances at this point, you’ve also touched someone’s heart. Maybe even changed it.
My truth (which I will attempt to make interesting and coherent here), is I used to think—in secret, that the voices in my head were real. Not like a mental illness of sorts, but more like spending a bit too much time in dreamland, and being consumed by scenarios and dialogue between characters (exclusive to a stage and audience in my head). Although instead of trying to work and have fun with the ‘voices’, I’d try and ignore them. “Focus,” I’d tell myself. “Forget the talking in your head.” Impossible. I had lost voice-control. Sirens announcing voice-patrol.
Till after one night in 2014, when my husband at the time asked how I was doing. “I hate my job and feel like dying," I said. “So quit,” he retorted. As simple as that.
Because three days later, I was out looking for a space to rent. A space I could go to and sort out the all stories in my head. Finally let-loose all the characters that had been waiting to be laid out on text, and no longer repressed.
So from a room, with my city's mountain's view inciting, first I wrote a tragedy. About a bunch of love addicts and a perfect lover. “Too many characters and lots of flashbacks,” the dramaturg said. To re-write one day, I decided. Because like a rooster with full-on intent: a fresh page setting new stage, for an exciting new idea for a children's book! Of which is still in the writing...
All the while the play and the kids’ tale though (not to mention mommyhood and a marriage on its way to rumple), was poetry. With Ezra Pound as my newly-embraced idol and banner, I started reading poems all over again, analyzing different style and technique. And soon enough, came a cool-found comfort and easy access to a really cool and personal cocoon...I started writing my own verse. Woot. I'd spend days honing in on images and sentiment, about my issue-stacked (ream-resembling) childhood, and energy-bound life-after-that. What in hindsight was a mounting surge of words and rein, wearing hat for all the love and pain. True dat, as they say.
Yet alongside all the unleashing being bred, there were days I felt stalked. Where thoughts of failure and mockery would have me running to my car—begging mama, please stop. So I’d oblige, by getting bass lines and hip-hop lyrics in the car to swap places, with all the derision and laughter. Leaving mama tranquil.
Cut to now—and proud to present, is the life of my 33-poem collection entitled Blood is blue.