the louderARTS Project

Caitlin Meisner

Never one to fit neatly into labels, Albany-raised, Brooklyn-based Caitlin Meisner is a poet, activist, educator and graphic designer with a BFA from Pratt Institute. Caitlin began writing at age nine, with a chapbook of Christmas poems acclaimed by Ms. Terry, her fourth grade teacher. Fourteen years later, she uses her background in anti-racism work, disability advocacy and youth empowerment to propel carefully crafted poems on the human experience. She has featured for the louderArts series; opened for the acclaimed Page Meets Stage series, shared sets with musicians such as Immortal Technique, Grandmaster Caz, Maya Azucena, Boot Camp Clik and many others; has been published in the His Rib and Got Poetry 2007anthologies; mentors young people through various sources, and has performed on countless stages- from street corners to Columbia University, The Nuyorican Poets Café to Rikers Island. Caitlin is currently Project Coordinator of the all-woman Saturday Performance Series at The Lower Eastside Girls Club (where she also teaches poetry) and is involved in way too many projects (ask her about them!) She is trying to keep the demons away by madly scribbling poems in her notebook on the subway. Her journey is to live, and help others live, as magically as possible.

+ caitlin.meissner@gmail.com > email
+ myspace.com/caitlinmeissnerpoetry > art

Possibilities in Time: the Story of Our Love

7am

in Brooklyn the sun might be a sweet butter melody
whistling over the broke down ball hoop lamp post
below our window

here my mouth wakes sandy with California heat
a buzzing beehive, slow-thick with honey & sting

7am

and we might be two lovers under an African tree
breaking Kola nuts steady into each other's hunger

or maybe we are just simple cells floating through
the body of a mythical wing-ed thing,
knowing nothing but its river of veins

or maybe we exist only as painted-face puppets
in the grand story some idealistic poet dreamed up
to explain that great mystery of love

it is way past 7am New York time and
we are actually just sitting on a back porch
smoking the desert dust swelling our lungs
summer-philosophizing through our ego's thin skin
about such things as language, its delicate
skeleton, our own mortal limitations, the box we've
built to house our clumsy bodies made meaningless
by the universe, how our palms touch the air open
lotus, is really the sky and the horizon is just sky and
the blanket it throws down on our fire of beings, what
matter the stars are, we are gas and water, slippery
things, our reflections, they frighten us, they never end
they are a tape loop, they are a tape loop they are

in our world you are always mine,
the green-eyed wonder
7am comes every morning regardless
we understand little but the budding hearts we harbor
I put my hand to your ribcage, it sings to me purple
and I wonder how I will ever explain the split open
in my chest, like the fast and furious break of a wave,
crescendo peak come tumble, the hard pull of undertow
like the ground falling away and fingers, they snap
like twigs against the rush, surrendered and sacrificed
like a breaking open like too many questions in mind
like empires burning like a beginning with no mouth
of vowels, it just hums.



© Caitlin Meisner



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