Interviewed by Uvi Poznansky

jaye tomas

I was honored to be interviewed by the uber-talented Uvi Poznansky. Please check out her highly impressive blog and lists of books  – all of them a must read. She is also a talented artist!


Today I have the pleasure to present Jaye Tomas. Jaye is a wonderful poet, and she won the Writing Contest on my blog some time ago. Please check out her interview:


Interview with
Jaye Thomas
Poet, winner of the Writing Contest
Is your writing inspired by additional talents you have (music, art)? 
NO. Absolutely no other talents whatsoever. Although I so admire people who are artistic. Must be an amazing thing to see something take shape and form before your eyes that was just a thought in your head at one time.
What is the most challenging part of writing? 
Actually doing it. That would be the first thing. Then doing it and liking it enough to share. It has gotten a lot easier but the first steps of putting yourself out there…..that was really tough for me. It is a strange amalgamation – the needing to write, being driven half mad with the words in your head wanting to taking shape and then not wanting to actually show anyone what you have done. I felt very private about it, very protective & secretive. It was a matter of being courageous I guess, for me anyway. And, like alot of writers, I have a love/hate relationship with my material. One day its brilliant and the next I want to line the bottom of birdcages with it….
What themes do you find moving? What is the main focus of your writing?  
I like the darker, twisty, paranormal side of me. Creatures of the night, of the world just outside of normal everyday vision. I also like (if I can use that word) to write about feeling lonely and unloved. It’s one of those things all people feel at one time or another, but when you are in a bad situation you can feel very alone, very isolated. That can be dangerous.  Just knowing that it isn’t something wrong with you, you aren’t the only one who has ever felt like that, takes the shame away. Other people have gotten through it and you are not stuck in a bad spot forever…. that can also be comforting.
Tell me something that others would be surprised to know about you. 
How utterly normal and boring my life is…  
 Man, I’ve got nothing. 
That I have multiple tattoos? 
No. Nothing.
Who are your favorite writers and poets, and how do they influence your work?  
Oh my stars, how much time have you got??  Too many to name….. 
They influence me by giving me the encouragement to keep doing it my way. To not listen to anyone else about the way I write. They have taught me about the importance of  finding and developing wholly your own style. I can admire other writings and their “voice”  but I don’t feel the need to imitate it. One of my daughters says she can “hear” me when she reads me. That’s high praise I think.
Please post an excerpt of your writing.
The End ~
This is the end
the fat lady has left the stage
her final notes faded into the air
the dusty velvet curtains dropped down with a final boom
now the thud in my ears is the only thing I can feel
I would pick myself up but I have lost all sense of gravity and can’t tell if I’m up or down
besides that going home is going nowhere 
 I only shrug when people ask if I’m okay because I can’t connect words to what runs
 under my skin
everyone says I’m a keeper
they say
that girl she’s got a heart of gold
so maybe you needed the money and that’s why you stole it 
I’d like an explanation
and I’d like the chance to tell you
some thoughts I picked up along the way
but I stand a better chance of catching the moon like a moth in my hands
 than of you facing me
So I will just have to focus on not stumbling through the weeks
 as I wait for my equilibrium to fix itself 
and for my ears to stop straining to hear your voice in a crowd
this is the end 
and I know the story has more pages
but I have lost interest in the next chapter

The Circus of Night ~
The Circus of Night has come to town
raise the tents and put up the signs
and scatter gold dust amid the straw
watch the elephants dance for their peanuts
and laugh at the bulging shapes your reflection shows in the tricksy mirrors
as the cups in the back tent are refilled endlessly
raise a glass and join the crowd
wind the calliope up once more and listen with filling eyes
as the Bird lady sings so sweetly
from her canary swing
Come hear 
come here 
the pretty lady needs her fortune told 
Pennywise waits in blended shadow outside the gypsies tent
he already knows your fortune and seeks to start your journey
on a more immediate path marked “abandon hope….”
while Mr Dark walks the straw strewn lanes twirling his cane and laughing in his horrible way
to his tattoos who hiss softly back 
with instructions to the dust witch for the amusement of the gleefully mad
to scatter the glittering lures for boys who run the night 
who are only seeking calliope music and merry go round rides
wanting the view from the funny looking mirror to be just a curiosity
and not a snare
but the traps are subtle and eternal in this 
The Circus of Night
and not all the acts are seeking only applause
and not all the exit signs are to be believed
and not all the paint and glittering lights can mask the dark
Ruach ~
white wind
wind of power
of change
breath of God
of spirit
of might
rolling across the nightblack spaces
breathing light into being
calling the stars by name
blowing across the vastness re-forming
and re-contouring 
bringing the purpose into focus
white wind
wind of power
I want to be caught up into that mighty storm
I want to harness it 
to speak my will and word into the fabric of reality 
I want to spread my hands and scatter light into the worlds
I want to feel the wind growing 
building within me
and watch the exalted bow before it
before me
white wind
wind of power
I want to possess you and be possessed
being merely human
all I am capable of 
is the whistling of a bitter little tune
and the mightiest of winds merely blows through my hair…

Your Bones Will Know Them ~
Smile smile
let it be your umbrella
be controlled be pleasing
and if it hurts, take this pill and you will feel better
you WILL feel better
even if your nerves are raw and scraped
and creeping all over the top of your skin
and the looks you will get in the grocery store are the only thing that keep you from
that and fear
knowing that, once begun, you may not be able to stop
take this pill
and this one and this one
and ignore the silly notion of piecing a broken spirit back together
it’s not
to talk about really…
stop stop shred that scarf they have muffled your mouth with 
let that patronizing stifling cloak slip from your shoulders
wrench the knots kick it aside 
heed the words of an unmistakable voice
and listen to the grief inside your bones
give it credence
give it meaning and heft 
and a conviction that allows you to
move away from despair
 from that cold hard hand that pushes, that isolates
that hurts
find the silenced crowd, the multitude that understand
they are all around
and your bones will know them
and you will know them

Absinthe Visions ~
Come with me, walk with me, guide me through the alley
 and knock upon the door
with surreptitious glances
giggling deliciously
as we trip across the threshold and
  enter another sphere 
a  welcome shift in perspective
inflamed like a cube of sugar
let me drop into the dwelling place
 of the green fairies 
where the eye can be teased into showing the mind new tricks
this portal moves at will and you follow it at your peril
or your pleasure…



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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