There is no other poetry quite as exquisite as the work of Christopher Reilley.
He is a master of the written word when it comes to any genre of poetry.
He has a hypnotic way of capturing his readers. From rapture, to joy, to sadness, to hurt, he embodies emotion as if it were a delicious fine wine.
He sweeps us off our feet with the intensity he projects in his pieces.
He collects his thoughts, using each colorful word carefully, creating a beautiful palette of expression.
Once his masterpiece is complete he leaves us in awe and wonder.
His beauty is engraved in the hearts of us all.
He’s an exceptional artist and a dedicated father.
His work is a must read.
Acoustic Ink is honored to feature this remarkable artist.
.
Christopher’s interview with our team:
.
Name: Christopher Reilley
Location: Dedham, MA
Q: How many hours a day do you write?
A: At least one every day, come Hell or high water, often more. I use my daily 45 minute commute to plot and plan, and twist word balloons in my head.
Q: How do you deal with personal doubters?
A: The only doubt that matters is my own, and while it exists, it speaks in too small a voice for me to listen.
Q: When you were growing up, what made you want to
become a writer?
A: Actually, I wanted to be an artist, a painter and illustrator. I went to the School of the Worcester Art Museum, and then ran my own illustration business for years. I only took up writing after finding myself blocked, post-divorce.
Q: Describe a perfect setting where you can get writing done.
A: Anywhere, and at any time. But as for actually making concrete words, I prefer it late at night, when everyone else in the house is asleep.
Q: What kind of books did you read when you were growing up, if any?
A:I read EVERYTHING. I would read a three-year-old Enquirer used to wrap fish before I could go without something to read. My mom thought I was odd because I read encyclopedias for fun. I am still that way. I am reading at least six books right now.
Q: Are you a traditional type of writer (paper and pencil) or do you use your computer to write?
A: No, I am a total geek, digital in every way. I type a lot faster than I write, and even then it is difficult to keep up.
Q: What’s you’re favorite part of writing?
A: Watching my wife’s eyes as she reads a love poem, or a bit of erotica that I have created.
Q: How do you get past all the frustrations that come with trying to be a successful writer?
A: Spiced rum and denial.
Q: What do you do when you have several book/piece ideas?
A: I have a file of snippets, thoughts and pieces to be expanded. I call it “Thoughtlets”. Some of them have even been published as is.
Q: Do you have an agent representing you/your work to publishers?
A: Not yet. Why, do you know of one looking for a project?
Q: Have you ever been published/self-published? (list published works and/or experiences – Optional)
A: I developed the print system for Xerox’s print-on-demand book creation system, and in testing the system, I published my first book of short stories in 1980. I sold twelve. They were crap, anyway.
Q: What genre(s) describes your work?
A: I have no use for genres. I write it all, children’s poems, free verse, quatrains, limericks, story poems, Fibonacci poems, erotica, political satire, humor and horror. A good bit of wordplay is what it is about for me, not filling some niche.
Q: Do you write under a pseudonym? If so, what is the story behind it?
A: I publish most of my works online as Reilley, forgoing my first name, simply because it was easier, and now I continue to do so in hopes of becoming my own brand.
Q: What/who motivates you to write?
A: I am a frustrated visual artist.
Q: Do you have your work showcased on any website?
A: I write for Triond, and so have three hundred or so works online, but I would not call it a showcase.
Q: Share with us a fun fact about yourself.
A: I graduated from Ringling Brothers Clown College in 1984.
Q: What does the future hold for you as a writer?
A: I am working on a series called ‘Under the Gray Rainbow,’ a look at the darker side of the characters from the Wizard of Oz. I have a half dozen or so already, and am working on several more along with illustrations. I should have something published this summer.
Below you can enjoy a few selected pieces by this writer.
.
Dreams of a Poet
The toiling poet drank deeply of the sap of sane pleasures,
He exulted mightily in the cold beauty of dead stars.
He built careless bonfires of his demented sorrows,
And laughed a lunatic’s mirth in the light of their glorious blaze.
He sipped with resistance of a heart’s questing romance,
Mixed love maternal, familial and parental into a sloppy stew,
Which he then ate, wiping it clean with the bread of betrayal
Before draining the Scriptures dry for each last drop of peace.
In his toil, he wrung magic from the winepress of human nature,
Stole raw gems from the deep mine of inner thought.
He scraped sweetness free from the honeycomb of innocence,
And left his muddied tracks in the minds of those who read his words.
Yet none of this was sufficient to ease his manic need.
Every dream of his sleep became a nightmare of missing pieces,
Every rhyme a dancing will-o-the-wisp of promise,
Haunting and prodding the poet to further trial, and ultimate error.
But when he finally cast aside all dreams, all ambition,
He found himself floating in the cool dark of sanctuary.
Guided by a tiny glimmer of light just within his grasp,
He found his soul, and it warmed him for all time.
.
Heat for a Snowy Winter’s Night
Welcome my rubicund weight
If you will,
Wrapping yourself beneath me
Grounding me while giving me wings.
Shifting skin and twin hearts echo
The fandango rhythm of heartbeats
Warmed by the embers of lusts
Without end.
Matched only by the fever
Of sweat-slick fingertips
Tangled in hair,
Grasping and pulling.
The skin beneath my lips
Tastes of salted raspberries
While my world winnows
To this moment, this life, this love.
Fire consumes thought
In love-stained teeth
Until my name growled in heat
Catches my passion for me.
Show me the power of your desire.
Give me what I demand.
I am as unrelenting in my gift
As you are.
.
Coincidental Orchids
Concealing her newly flowered, hard-won bruises
She waited, for the moment to act was not yet right.
The faded beauty whose use propriety abuses,
Hid her warrior behind mirrored shades looking for a fight.
Lugging bundles of thorn-less roses to the bus,
She preserved what seller’s value that yet remains.
Mumbling tales of Synchronicity’s hold on us -
The pavement was more than just a nation’s oiled chains.
Mother going blind taught her how to pluck sunshine,
Father leaving home taught her to shield her heart away,
One moment you are shooting the shit inside the goal line
The next you are scrambling to gather disarray.
A smile for the man who swiped her card, arrow up,
A frown for the one who smelled of screw-cap booze.
She knows we all get offered a drink from Wisdom’s Cup
And some of us are so foolish as to actually refuse.
The bus smelled of prom night, of orchids and teen love;
She faltered for a half felt moment at memory’s door.
When she shook herself free and her eyes looked above
She found she’d arrived at her her own home once more.
As her ride pulled away, and she turned away from Might Be’s
She steeled her mind to choices she’d have made if she’d known.
She would have had someone say “Bless you,” when she sneezed,
She would not like to see herself in her twilight years – alone.
And so to her hollow home, and her lonely cold bed,
She comforted herself while tired of repetition.
There was no escape from demons racing through her head
And she resigned herself to a spinster’s submission.
The orchid on the stoop caught her eye, then her heart.
The man from the laundromat last week, or some other,
A memento left to spark a conversation’s shy start
Left alone, so that no propriety should smother.
She smiled with real warmth, clutched her treasure inside,
Slept the sleep of a woman who knows she is desired,
Unaware of the orchids that took a stray wind’s ride
Coincidence landing them where they were required.
.
Dreams of Travel
I take the bundle of maps and roll them tight,
Stack them neatly in the shelf where they will rest,
Marveling at my trick of sliding the whole world
Into a cardboard tube, wondering if oceans spill,
If mountains will tumble like laundry being dried,
Continents trickling away as hourglass dust.
I know that when I sleep, they come to me,
Unfurl themselves in order to lay against my skin,
Whispering the names of exotic places
With the hot breath of sirocco in my ear,
Moonbeams glittering possibilities
Across their paper wings.
Their fragile magic is eternal, but changing,
Place names and political climates mirroring fortunes.
They wrap me in a traveler’s blanket
Calling me to come where I’ve never been -
Taste the winds of Moroccan streets
And the lush fruit of unknown isles.
And in the warming light of day
I walk the public gardens and concrete ways
Of urban indifference,
My face a shuttered lantern,
My work-booted feet recall the papery shush
Of stolen steps across a fragile field.
.
In the Company of the Comb
All at once,
that is how I would love you
if time did not exist.
But it does, so let us both love
one instant at a time.
Often,
I feel the need
to shake the dewdrops from my mind
watch them fall
drizzling to the ground.
Of course,
I prefer my honey mad,
the sweetness countered by the sharp edge
that only insanity can give.
.
The Shameless Flirt
It does not matter to you
That I am married,
In love,
Taken,
Committed,
Or otherwise inaccessible.
You care nothing for the vagaries of life.
No use for conventions,
Rebel that you are.
You speak only of the now.
Step out of confused flight
To wear a hole in my coat
With your tears.
Your reflective embrace
Is free-form jazz in the dark,
Improvisation,
Done without ground rules
Or agenda.
I allow only laughter to touch you.
My distance a choice of mine
Not yours.
My reflection dances
On your wine glass,
And in your eyes.
My vows means less to you
Than the bar tab you will flirt your way out of,
Less than the weightless mood
You carry along with you
Like lipstick and a lighter.
My desire for her means nothing to you.
Yet it is everything to me.
.
Click here to read more from Christopher’s work.
.
