Chatterbox

Chatterbox Poems by Sandy Day

You may have noticed I’ve published Chatterbox. Readers are asking a lot of questions and as the original chatterbox, I’m delighted to respond. Here are some of their enquiries:

It’s bigger than I imagined, how long did it take to write? Well, the poems flew out of my pen over the course of a year or so, and I laboured over the prose passages for the following twelve months.

What is it about? Ugh, I hate this question. Death and grief and divorce and love and infidelity and cats and writing and my mother. How about that for an answer?

Is that you on the cover? Yes, though I’m a bit older now.

Do you think your ex-husband will read it? It’s FICTION! Holy smokes!

Okay, enough of the prying questions!

A few reviews I’ve received:

My aunt: “Shocking!” (I think she lingered over the sex bits.)

My best friend: “Love it!”

A very nice woman: “It makes me feel a sense of ‘home’ somehow? Stunning!”

A strange cat woman: “It’s risky and full of feelings I can identify with to my core. The poems are clearly inspired, the author, Sandy Day has become my absolute favorite writer.” Love her!

I hope you will grab yourself a copy from Amazon. And let me know how you like the book. And if you hate it, keep it to yourself! Didn’t your mother ever tell you, if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all? Kidding! Sort of.

Here’s an excerpt from Chatterbox:

The Apple Tree

Gnarled old thing
with twisted limbs
and thick grey bark.

I lean on the fence
watching
as birds fly in
disappear into the leaves
reappear
flustered,
flutter off drunkenly.

The fruit glows
dark and shining
like eyes across a room.
I wonder
for I ate apples
sweet and new
but I picked apples
wormy and dry.

Such a divine old tree.
Somehow so familiar.

This fence is falling down.

The Fall is underway. I travel to my mom’s house north of the city for Thanksgiving. On the way we stop at an orchard and the kids run off to pick apples.
As I lean on an old fence waiting I think about my new friend, Laurence. He is a friend of Mark’s, a musician, and we’ve connected online. Though I fight it, his attention delights me. By day I correspond with him. Our email boxes fill up and our instant messengers rarely turn off. Chatting feels wrong to me, I believe he attracts all kinds of birds. I don’t completely trust him, I’m not sure what he’s after. But I can’t stop chatting with him. He’s kind, and funny, and attentive. And sometimes he intoxicates me.

 

 

 

 

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