Now I Know Myself

By Stacy Stevens

Written in my mid-twenties, at the peak of my collage career and just at the beginning of my role as a mother, this collection of poetry is a remarkable testament to the strength and resilience of women everywhere. Through my bold and determined voice, I invite my readers to embark on a journey through the various stages of life as I experience it, from childhood to adulthood. With each line, I dare challenge stereotypes and empower my fellow women to embrace their uniqueness and stand tall in the face of adversity. This collection is a celebration of womanhood, a call to break free from societal constraints, and a reminder that every voice deserves to be heard!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacy Stevens
• Release date: Mar 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224820245

Stacy Stevens

Stacy Stevens is a writer, digital artist, and confessional poet who possesses a unique talent for crafting compelling and imaginative narratives. With her words and images, she brings worlds to life, leaving a lasting impact on readers' hearts and minds.   Stacy's passion for storytelling began at the tender age of 14, when she first discovered the power of words. Since then, she has honed her craft, exploring the depths of the human psyche and delving into the mysteries that lie within the heart. Inspired by the greats such as Ani DiFranco and Anne Sexton (to name only a few), her lyrical prose evokes a raw and visceral emotional response.   As a confessional poet, Stacy delves into themes of vulnerability, introspection, and personal struggles. Her poems offer a glimpse into her own soul, inviting readers to embark on a journey of self-discovery and find solace in shared experiences. Through her poetry, Stacy encourages readers to navigate the complexities and beauty of their own lives, offering a gateway to introspection and self-reflection.   In addition to her skills as a writer, Stacy is also a talented digital artist, bringing her visions to life through intricately crafted digital paintings. Stacy utilizes Photoshop to meticulously photo manipulate her images before digitally painting each one. She has been working in digital art for the last 15 years.   Stacy's journey as a writer and artist has been characterized by determination, perseverance, and a relentless pursuit of her vision. She is a five-time graduate, earning majors in psychology and English literature.   Stacy has had over 80 poems and artworks published in various magazines and ezines since 2006 (via a previous pen name). She was also nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web on numerous occasions.   When she's not engaged in her writing or artistic pursuits, Stacy can often be found perusing the local antique shop, where she finds inspiration in the treasures of the past. She also enjoys curling up with a cup of coffee and a good book, immersing herself in the pages of other writers' works. She travels quarterly and has her own library which is perpetually over-flowing. She lives and writes from a quaint little house nestled between the rolling hills of Kentucky.  Follow

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Dark At Daylight (Gothic Romance Book Reviews):

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I dedicate this book to my daughter, Arianna.

May my words instill in you, always,

The strength and determination to understand

The difference between inability and socialized limitation,

So that you may find your dreams and

Reach even the highest star with the ease

Of knowing: you can do anything.

Acknowledgements

All Thing Girl

Mastodon Dentist

Della Donna

Muse Café Quarterly

The Dande Review

The Poets Haven

Nefarious Ballerina

Pens on Fire

Think Pink

Zygote in my Coffee

The Beat

Leaf Garden Press

Mad Swirl

Breadcrumb Scabs

The Cut-Thru Review

Negative Suck

Chippens Blog

LIT UP Magazine

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k)

Muse Poetry Review

Gods of Chance

This is the June of 3am,

The time of night when Summer

Lifts the skirt of her thighs,

A discreet dance of ‘rings around the moon,’

I watch atop my balcony the boats

As they make love to the laps of cerulean waves

And dream myself a constellation atop the water.

I imagine each woman is a piece of me,

Right down to my paint-stained poets hands,

When at night Monet whispers into my ears

The sins of each sunflower, the seedling, the lie.

How I try to mimic his short thrusts and strong strokes

Beneath the naked spark of a moon beam.

Sometimes when I paint, and paste, and rearrange

The magnetic parts of me, truth slaps me

Like a raw circuit of copper wire,

And I manage to believe I’m not married,

Have never bore the noose cords of romance,

Dry as a dead rose petal, it’s browned thorn menacing.

I fall into the abyss of starving-artist reverie,

Pretending there’s no new lover in my bed,

Bathing my sheets the gasoline-stink of sex.

I listen to folk songs and try on the single life

Like a pair of old jogging shoes, lying empty

All these years, but awaiting another mornings run.

And I remember the Norse campus in my head,

The woman sentiment of empty pockets and dreams

Cracking the center of my core like antique China tea-cups,

How life found me living amongst empty yogurt cartons

And the bland taste of tuna fish straight from the can,

Amongst words upon lines upon notebooks of bleeding prose,

Useless without an agent, or so they preached it vehemently.

Back then I believed dreams were things you folded

And stuffed into your pockets, quotes from dead Presidents,

Classic vignettes of famous poets,

Haiku of the immoral Victorian feminists,

They were whims atop a bruise-stricken thumb nail

A penny-well toss to the Gods of fate and chance.

The Poem-Gift

There’s a part of me

That is crazy about myself.

I adjourn the poetry reading,

With a sparkle in my eye,

I am my own star,

My own banner of repose.

Tonight I am also omnipresent,

My belly full of moon glow,

I fade behind the shadow

Of a park bench,

I am the concave of singularity,

I am the ‘o’ of my own noose,

If I dare not write, I strangle.

And the words,

I draw them out like a web,

Like a bizarre Bermuda Triangle.

Don’t venture into my book,

Lest you never find your way back.

I am slap-stick happy, I am me.

Tonight my heart smiles,

My blood boils to a simmer,

And all those men, all those faces,

They ogle my shoulder-straps,

Their stares stroke the malignancy

Of my narcissism, my smile spends itself.

I watch the sky, the stars are men,

A girl as flighty as me

Can never look at just one.

Somewhere in the male species

There is a secret society,

Heartbreaks and love benign,

Like orangutan’s, they gather.

One day you will read this,

With doubt in your eyes,

The corners of your mouth

Drawn out in shame.

The canary of your soul

Will falter in it’s ability to sing.

You’ll ask me what my words mean,

And I will tell you,

‘Darling, my poems,

They are gifts to myself.’

The Good Girl Exhibit

Summer is abloom,

And we make our way

Through the steady stream

Of side-walk passers-by,

to the small mom and pop,

A rail-road station of

Sometime yesterday

Where the young cashier girl

Bids her mothers wishes.

Old men carry in their canes,

Coffee extra black, ma’am,

And she taps the sugar bowl empty,

I observe, my eyes dancing among

The shelves of jarred jelly and

The lemon-spray scent of

Wood rotting, steady drip-drop,

Ceiling leaking like a faucet,

A dust-bunny brine of surplus treasure.

And my grandmother,

Never young in her rubber sandals,

Bobby-pins swimming the net

Of gray on black,

I watch her