Carrie L. Kornacki has a B.S. in Journalism from Ohio
University and a Certificate of Education from Bowling Green State University. She taught English Language Arts and Reading
for nine years in Ohio; English As a Second Language in Suzhou, China; British
Literature in Galveston and currently teaches at Westfield High School in
Spring, Texas. In addition to her experience as a teacher in public and private
schools, Ms. Kornacki worked for over 12 years as a copywriter and executive in
print and broadcast advertising where she won regional CLIO awards for
freelance radio campaigns. She has also worked in public relations and has
performed her original poetry in Ohio as part of a community therapy team to
assist the mentally ill. In addition, Ms. Kornacki has taught Sunday school and
has worked with kids in summer creative writing programs. She lives in Spring,
Texas with her husband and three dogs. She is currently working on a children’s
fantasy Middle Reader, and performs her original work throughout the Houston
area.
Carrie L.
Kornacki will be a featured poet at our FPL Poetry Series reading on Wednesday,
October 3 at 7pm. This reading, in honor of National Poetry Day, will be hosted
by poet John Milkereit and will include poets Vanessa Zimmer-Falls and Kelly Ellis.
Dots
What
might happen if my forehead split open,
right
down the middle, perfect like a walnut,
just
like the head of Milton’s god?
Could
billions of colored dots shoot from
that
blackness at the front of my head,
shoot
one, two, three, each one a Eucharist
with
sugar invading the world?
What
would you do with these pieces of me
I
give you?
Would
you take the color hungrily in your mouth,
your
heart darting like suicide without its whys?
Would
you press these circles into your dusks
and
dawns, until they fall shimmering like gravel,
until
they’re only an echo, a copy, a nothing to touch?
And
if you could, would you collect and study them,
buy,
sell, trade and exploit them: make them stars,
put
them on Oprah, steal their eyes, their hearts,
their
souls?
Could
you use them at home for bath salts
and
wedding rings, doorstops and money,
miracle
drugs, patio lights, earrings and buttons?
You
could boil them like eggs, bake them in cakes,
fold
them in dough and forget them.
Maybe
you’ll think they’re cute, rock them
like
babies, squeeze their cheeks, take their
temperature,
watch them grow up into mudslides,
so
you’ll have to run like crazy.
Maybe
you’ll stop and build a monument
to
the god of space and worship each dot with
palms
and ornaments and costumes.
Or
maybe you’ll just send those dots home in a squall
of
pride, my head still open like loving arms and ready,
ready
to take it all back in a ricochet,
back
into my cold black fire.
Carrie
Kornacki (Garns)
“Save what you can, Emily. Save every bit of thread.
One of them may be the way out of here.”
Thomas Higgins, in a letter to Emily Dickinson
The layers of her coalesce with the scattered handfuls
of romance novels on East Beach, perhaps a month ago,
discarded from the window of someone’s car.
Brown words pose on shriveled, parchment pages
arching up and out like wings, and she sees everything
quivering gold, as things do at dusk, with the tumult
of her own stories where she, the heroine, in the middle
of her obsession, does not see the cliché.
She knows these stories should have never been written,
but she cannot surrender them.
Touching the edges,
she will fold their pinions into the earth of her until she flies.
Carrie
Kornacki (Garns)
Branch in the Postage Stamp Room
Suzhou, China
I trip over bars of light. Gemmed polyps of claustrophobia
and panic current through me as I run on cement walks,
over stone bridges, past whitewashed buildings, pagoda-tiled roofs,
my ink shape pounding into willow herb, amber lily,
persimmon trees burning inward with their suns.
Around a still silver pool, I pace, feel lotus-root citadels, unstained,
pursing hidden lips at me; see moon cats kneading my mutable
shadow, hear torso rock formations breathe as the things I’ve broken
stitch together into this frightening fecundity.
Here, over the polar ice-cap, where it is noon at midnight
I have no place to put the things I’ve severed.
Then I see the French Oak branch torn from its trunk.
This branch will bring things from outside in, save my mind
from imploding into a twilight crucible for all my mistakes.
And in my postage stamp room, I will hang snapshots of who I thought
I was, hang them from the blue silhouette of this twisting branch next
to my white bed. I will see my
husband, my daughter, my lover,
my God and pretend they are still part of me, pretend nothing is lost
as a watch everything fade away.
Carrie Kornacki (Garns)
Other
Poems by Carrie Kornacki: