Maya Massar Actress Poet Artist

Maya's Poetry

Note: Check Poem Blog for more posted poems.

 

I believe reading, writing and sharing poetry is an act of wildness and that it makes us all a little more alive.

I began writing poems when I was 8 years old.  But I wrote in secret. My grandfather, Giacomo Conrad Grillo, was a writer for a local Italian newspaper in Boston.  Seeing my interest in writing (I had given him three poems as a gift), he seized the moment – and, hoping to encourage me – had the poems printed up on cards and began distributing them and entered me into a poetry competition…I was invited to read my poems to a large audience. I panicked and took my writing back into hiding.…and for many years never shared another poem with anyone but my secret journal.  My Grandfather’s plan backfired. I learned one important thing though: Poems come from the deepest parts of us – they are raw and alive and as vulnerable as our naked selves.  Sharing them is like opening the tender doors to a private garden, like stripping the heart naked and opening an inner sanctum.

Now, later in my life, I find myself wanting my nakedness - the truths of my being - to be free.  One can’t have freedom and not risk judgment.  And so, I have taken the risk in order to allow my lungs a fuller breath in this world.  If you want to see me soul-naked, read my poems.  You can find my book on Amazon.com - scroll down and you will find a link.

 

 

(pinch pots by Paula Shalan)

 

 Poetry, to me, is a way of dancing or painting while using words. Growing up dyslexic, any nonlinear  means of expression was far more attractive to me than use of words in the regular way... I am undressing my heart or spirit or some other part of me when I put poems on a page...or in the sand on a beach...or into the air with my voice...even if I am whispering.  It can feel risky to share raw self - but I think risk keeps us alive. . . and I challenge you, if you do not do so regularly already, to do it!

Ultimately, I think we are prisoners of various sorts if we do not take risks.

Poems have a rawness and an aliveness that I think we all need.  If you read mine and don't like them, write some you like better.  

Love to All.

Maya

 

Maya's book:     Risk;  A Month of Poems

 
Click on the book image; it's a link!
 
 
Or you can order Maya's book on Amazon.com by clicking here:
 
 

 ~ Reader’s Responses to RISK; A Month Of Poems ~

“ … your being laid out on a page with all your fears, fearlessness, hopes, dreams, no expectations,
….I can't tell you enough how your words touch me. The
one about the sea - you spoke to me, a sea person,
in terms that I understand.  Man - you totally captured my
deepest feelings for the ocean in that poem.
Again, a world of thanks for your words.”
S.R.


“Excellent - Wonderful - glorious and so much more. thank you for doing it.”
C.M.
 
 
“Your book fucking ROCKS!!    Your poems are like:
really good pizza and beer on the beach...talk about
multiple orgasms...best read at da beach,
Digested with da ocean..
sex....anywhere.... first tattoos, sunset, sunrise,
 Moonrise, kissing,
the warm patch of sun on a chilly day      
RAW    
soulfood
  REALLY     GOOD   GOOD MEDICINE”

K.C.


“Just received my copy of Risk, and the one I ordered for a friend. It's wonderful!
Thank  you.”

J.D.
 
 
“Risk is so fantastic and beautiful.
I have read all the poems and it says it all -  orange and red glow of spirit dancing on clouds of shimmering hues of love..

thank you for sharing this masterpiece!”

J.P.


….Ok, I can’t personally say that my book is a ‘masterpeice’ (though I liked hearing that JP thinks it’s one), but I hope you enjoy the poems in this book, and do feel welcome to let me know what you think!

Bright Blessings to All

And

Go ahead – write a poem – right now!

 
 
 
 
for wholesale orders, please contact  Booksurge.com 
 

Next Book:             The Amen Poems

Coming soon.   But while you wait, here are two from the book for you to taste.

 

Wanderer (no fear of rain)

falling from the sky:  diamonds

curling from the mouths of spirits: smoke

Oil in cupped hands

I wait

For what

Only Gods can know

Drips out tight cracks

Can’t hold ghosts in

Squeezed fingers

     Ive said it before

The world is much bigger than my fist

Only Gods know

Or at least its only their opinion I care for

I’m a witch

Burn me if you like

You'll notice that

Ending lifetimes can’t stop me…

Here I am

Right back up on

Your doorstep

Coveting the dark bark of trees

Staging mirth

Taking down walls

With sweep of broom

Dousing false conventions

With my black wine

Tailor

Make me a coat

I'll be on my way

 

Amen

 

                                                 ----------------------------------

 

 

Poem for Living

 

I am fucking the world alive

Unto death

 

Walking perimeters has no place in the life of

A saint, nor any

Sinner

 

I am sad like a waterfall

My own bones

Drop

Like a barrel over edges

I never knew I had.

 

I am breathless

In Joy

 

Light

Rages through my cells

At warp speed

Incinerating

All doubt of any form

Of wild Gods

 

Death is my passionate companion

We hike the volcano walls like

Sure footed goats

Who remember these paths

From before the ice age

 

This is no ice age

 

Fire laps my body up like blood on a tigers tongue,

Drinks me like a whale does krill –

I am rushed inward

And in the belly of the whale

I find

I am at the center

Of my own

Darkness

 

CAVERNOUS

 

Death says:

You must Die to yourself to Live

 

We have misunderstood Her –

The purpose of Life is to prepare us for compassionate, expanded Death

-       yes –

But the purpose of Death is to remind us

To Live

Wildly

 

Curling around

My own spoon,

Bent and crumpled as it is,

I realize

That silver is not all its cracked up to be

 

My Vampire self

Is pleased to find that,

Whether given or born with it,

My spoon is Gold

 

When I dare to dive to this center

I

Gift myself with it and, indeed,

It is a fine tool

For digging my way out

Of any cell

 

Yet shadow is no prison

It is gateway to passion

 

I choose to take it

 

Breath blasts through my lungs

 

Light pours down

 

Fire rages up

 

I am washed of belief

In any thing but my soul and body’s promise:

 

To live,

Fucking the world Alive, unto Death.

 

Amen.

 

Koreatown, October 6th, 2012

 

                                            ----------------------------------

 

Marginless

 

I’m making poems

I’m feeling full

I’m the aurora borealis, busting out of darkness

  For Inuit families who know raw meat

I’m slim

I’m a fire for all hungry

I’m shining in windows

   Making life rare

       And dangerous

I’m a blanket a quilt a pillow a lullaby

I’m a blacksheep blackartist blacknightboat to the places we all fear

I’m a brick – only one – in the mansion of Great Mystery (eternally, by the way, unfinished)

I’m completely stoned – on awakening – try it, its good stuff

I’m drums

I’m painting fleshy altars and free will

I’m a tractor

I’m sitting crosslegged as I sing this,

                                       Poems, my songs

 I’m featuring the last laugh, here, right now, join me

I’m an elf

I’m an angel

I’m a criminal

I’m a bone a stone on the salt flats raging on forever

                                                                          In equanimity

I’m an owl

I’m a thunderstorm

I’m any kind of storm

I’m for Her

I’m an invitation, and I know this scares you

I’m a winged horse and will carry no one

          Yet the winds off my wings can heal

I’m a sword

I’m a sheath

I’m a wielder of weapons, a bather of babies, a knower of mosques, a baker of bread

I’m crowned

        Yet sit on the bottom step whenever possible

                                                                And thankful

I’m alert to your heart

Love your heart

Bless your heart

         But cannot be its cave

I am deaf to no thing I know

         And open my belly to what I do not

I am someone who eats grapefruit with much joy

And lemons

I’m a bean

I’m a bird

I’m a soft footed killer

    A loud footed bearer of warmth

I’m wrinkly

I’m silk

I’m brave

I’m terrified

I’m a forest

I’m a good lay

I’m a priestess of this, in fact

How will we survive this, honey?

I’m solid to you like stone,

         Though you might not have a key to this.

I’m a sculptor, a weaver, a jumper into waves

I’m carving caves, weaving hearts, leaping into tears

I’m putting my thoughts out to sea

           Making a little more room for what counts

I’m a doughnut hole

In eternity

       So why, then, does it matter –

                                           Any of it

It don’t

I’m silver

I’m a moon

I’m a spoon, honey

                       Dripping off

Onto the ledge of Mystery 

 

I’m never tired

From life

But from the sleeping of the world

Will no one stay up with me?

 

                             Amen

 

 

Thank you, Pop-pop

Silly, maybe, to put these out for you to read.  But silly I often am.  (Sometimes it serves me, sometimes not).  Here are my first three written poems.  I post them for you, but really, for YOU, Poppop.

1968:

 

My Heat and Music

My heart is a guitar

It is a soft beating drum

it's the rain pitter-pattering on the roof

My heart

is

me

 

Living Changes

Once I lived 

in a rushing city

and the cars went whizzing past.

 

But now I live

in the countryside

where trees wave to and fro.

 

I Travel

 I have travelled many times

But this will be the last.

I will travel over the rainbow

And over every star,

And then go home to stay.