Sirens Anthology/Five Femme Fatale Poets

Misti Rainwater-Lites, Debbie Kirk, Jude Lynn, Iris Berry & Cynthia Ruth Lewis

Sisyphus Press P.O. Box 10495 State College, PA 16805-0495 www.sirens5.com   

Reviewed by Christopher Robin  

This anthology is nothing short of an outsider epic. It is composed of five hungry female poets who may bring to mind Patti Smith, and other goddesses of Rock ‘N’ Roll-and-the-Word, Five writers that have not succumbed to self-destruction, (like many of their predecessors), but are saving their own asses (and ours if we’re lucky enough to read them) through their writing. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

Debbie Kirk’s poetry is a good example of this. Historically, we have lost many writers to mental illness and suicide. Hence, her poetry is pure redemption: “I’m a crime scene sex idol/the bastard child of Burroughs,” (from ‘My Cross is Upside Down and I’m Dizzy.’) And yet, more than merely pulling us into despair, Kirk, a veteran of the punk and poetry scene, shows us how she has survived the horrors of addiction and abuse, and may in some way instill courage in her readers (mostly based on the fact that she has lived to tell): “even my closest friends won’t offer me a hand up/I spent two weeks in that roach infested shelter for battered women/but I lived/ so I’ve stopped asking for help/and stopped waiting for it,” (from ‘A Mercy Killing’). The titles alone will draw you in: “Judas and Idle Hands,” “Crazy People Eat Glue,” “What is the Color of Evil,” “My Arena of Hate…” Often self-deprecating, and sometimes empathetic, she usually gets the last word: “I know we are both scared of ourselves/I know we are both scared of each other/But today I’m on fire/and you’re fucked, (“From ‘Climbing on Top.’) Poignant, rebellious, cathartic, and delivered with a sneer, if you dare to delve into her mind, you may be tempted to reach for the razor blade, but I would recommend that you keep reading instead, hold these poems  to your heart and hold on tight, praying to whatever god you have left.

Cynthia Ruth Lewis also writes with a vengeance, to attack her captors and her abusers, slinging barbs at her lovers, their wives, and her own family. But ‘Images’ is still my all time favorite poem of hers, as it shows a tender side: “loving you more than life/I tried to bolster myself/ while slipping the/keys from the ignition/your one/unbandaged eye trained weakly on me/awaiting my touch  on your now-gray fur.” This softer side is also quite evident in ‘Another Future Twisted Poet,’ where she sees a young loner in the schoolyard and realizes that fate may have a sense of humor, and should the kid not become a suicide, they will someday have their poetic revenge,  much like herself as an adult: “and I always want to catch their eye/and give them a sympathetic look/to let them know I understand/ that they’re not alone/and I drive off/chuckling to myself.” You may be relieved to know she leaves the hatchet in her purse and reaches for the pen instead when you read poems such as: ‘The Makings of a Serial Killer,’ ‘49% Sweetheart, 51% Bitch,’ and ‘Short Fuse.’ She is another fiery poet who has been fucked over  by life for far too long, a common theme from all of the writers in this book: “I’m good enough to fuck/just as long as nobody sees: I am the disease/the black sheep…whore to every man she meets,” (from ‘I Am the Disease.’)

            Jude Lynn’s short stories are nothing short of brilliant; funny, sad, slice of life pieces chronicling not- enough-beer and too-much-bad-love. You may get a warm feeling and a chuckle, if you like revenge served with a keen sense of humor. In ‘Freud Had Pussy Envy,’ she informs us: “Nope, I’m not a feminist. I’m a skeptic who enjoys a good cigar, especially the kind that vibrates.” ‘The Life-Long Philanthropic Offerings of the Dead Boy Next Door’ is the most compelling story, about her childhood next door neighbor, a popular high school kid who killed himself in the early 80’s: “Sometimes I feel appreciative towards him; I appreciate him for hanging himself way back in 1983. In a sense it was sacrificial because he’s the stupid dead fuck that’s kept me alive.” Lynn is an excellent, hard edged writer to be reckoned with.

Misti Rainwater-Lites is transfixed by a pop culture that she also finds vapid and despicable, and turns the media drones on their heads: “he rides motorcycles/smokes cigarettes/refuses to lick Hollywood’s bleached asshole/like Tom Snooze and Brad Pitiful/pretty boys never did much for me/mickey rourke looks like the kind of man/who knows how to eat pussy,” (from ‘Don’t Be Jealous, Honey, He’s Just An Actor’). A writer with insight and much levity, many of her poems are anthemic: “here I am/ 33 years old/my ass sufficiently kicked/I have no money or credit/but plenty of debt/sometimes my husband fucks me/ America fucks me frequently/and I come,” (from ‘The Abz’s Of Me’). A starving writer in the most bleak sense, she refuses to lower her standards in the sarcastic and autobiographical: “you were destined to become a porn star/too bad you’re such a picky eater/you refuse to swallow cum/you refuse to lick assholes,” (from “Poor Little Bitch.”)  There is no topic that is too taboo for Lites,  her many subjects include: her birthplace of Texas , losing her virginity, her dysfunctional family, and  mind numbing poverty. Committed to her own sense of joy, yet always writing from the vantage point of her failed American dream (one she gave up on very early in life), she writes with courage and  universality, finding much to laugh at and desecrate in an artificial and unforgiving world.

Iris Berry is the quintessential L.A. street-savvy poet. ‘Greetings from Branford Park ,’ is a remarkable nine page prose-poem about her childhood in the 1960’s. It is a piece of history, recalling old cars, gang-kids, drugs and dirty tricks, and worth reading more than once: “Our house/was bad boy central/It was a neighborhood hang/for all the bad kids/and off limits/for all the good ones.” ‘I Am the Bastard Child,’ proves without a doubt the wicked sense of survival she has honed and instilled in every one of her poems: “I am the bastard child/of Jack Kerouac/Jack Daniels/and Jack Sprat/I am the lost/illegitimate love child/of the ages.”  

Indeed, these women are all bastard children in a similar sense. They may have been the ones picked on in the schoolyard: not pretty enough, not smart enough, too poor, too sexual, or too loud; and they attack mediocrity, conformity and poetic politeness with a vengeance, all of them beautiful in a most imperfect and illicit way. They deserve our respect, to be adored, feared, and in a better time, well paid. Also included: a Q & A with color photos of each writer, and collage and artwork by Misti Rainwater-Lites and Debbie Kirk.

Last update : 16-06-2008 12:39

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