The Tattooed Poets Project: Meghan Privitello

Our next tattooed poet is Meghan Privitello.

She told us that

"I've always designed my tattoos myself. I usually have a very clear idea of what I want and where I want it, and don’t allow for much reinterpretation by the tattoo artist, unless, of course, the design will not translate well to skin. In that case, I have the utmost trust and faith in my tattoo artist to adjust the design as needed. I've had all of my work done at Rebel Image Tattoo in Rio Grande, NJ by Mike Siderio. He is probably the nicest guy in the world and does consistently beautiful work."

She sent us two tattoos, the first of which is this anatomic heart in a jar:

In explaining this piece, Meghan referred to it as her Sylvia Plath tattoo:

"My 7th grade English teacher told me about Sylvia Plath, and I read The Bell Jar, which undoubtedly made me an even stranger child than I already was. Plath was the first poet that I fell head over heels in love with, and who made me realize that being a poet was something that real people in the real world can do. It seemed obvious that I needed a Plath dedication tattoo. I wanted a bell jar since it was the first piece of hers I read, and I wanted an anatomical heart inside the jar because, as cliché as it sounds, she had captured mine. And since I also have an obsession with anatomy and diagrams, I had lines coming out from the heart as in an anatomical drawing with a letter at the end of each line, those letters being P-L-A-T-H."

The other tattoo she sent us was her "V Tattoo":

Again, Meghan gave us a thorough back story:

"I’ve always been fascinated and entranced by illuminated manuscripts. Pair that with an obsession with the alphabet, particularly with the letter 'V', and this tattoo is born. V is my favorite letter for a few reasons. 1) Whenever I try to think of words that start with V, they always seem to be words that hang on the fringe of decency and/or are embedded with violence (vagina, venom, venereal, vibrator, vulture, victim, etc.) I love that a letter can carry with it these associations before a word is even made from it. It is a powerful letter, and I can’t help but love it for that. 2) On the other end of the spectrum, or at least a good distance away from the first reason, is the meditative quality of the sound V makes. I love the vibration it makes on the lips, that it is another (somewhat darker) variation of an 'om'. 3) I love that V can be a child’s way of drawing birds, that it becomes a symbol of flight.

By way of a poem, Meghan provided us with the following:

                            Crossing the Borders
                           

Today it is yesterday in California.  I will not dress up as a wildfire or a tame woman.  I will not compare your memory to a palm tree.  I heard that eighteen starlings have died in eighteen weeks, which is something I associate with love.  The last time love undressed in front of me, I blushed I itched I regretted my name.  This means everything I want is getting closer.  Call me a fool, but I believe it when a man says he would rather die than sleep another night alone.  Every time I try to get where I belong, there is a detour.  Orange cones.  Dirty signs.  I have started confusing fate with duty.  I confused myself with an evergreen and finally considered myself beautiful.  In front of my home a man proposes to a truck and waits for an answer.  I bring him a soda hoping he’ll explode into some kind of destiny.  I’ve counted the toes of everyone I’ve known.  I’ve had dreams where having a child meant never catching my breath.  What does it take for a narrow passage to become a field?  How much longer until we open up to each other and cover ourselves with birds?  In California, I haven’t happened yet.  The thing I told you underneath the covers that sparked your interest is still afraid to die.

                              

                               originally published in Sixth Finch

~ ~ ~

Meghan Privitello is a poet living in New Jersey. Her first manuscript, A New Language for Falling out of Love, has recently been a finalist for Alice James’ Kinereth Gensler Award and Persea’s Lexi Rudnitsky Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in NOÖ Journal, Sixth Finch, Redivider, Barn Owl Review, Bat City Review, Salt Hill Journal, Columbia Poetry Review, Linebreak, Quarterly West, Best New Poets 2012 & elsewhere. You can follow her on twitter @meghanpriv or visit her website: meghanprivitello.blogspot.com.

Thanks to Meghan for contributing to the Tattooed Poets Project on Tattoosday!

This entry is ©2013 Tattoosday. The poem and tattoos are reprinted with the poet's permission.

If you are reading this on another web site other than Tattoosday, without attribution, please note that it has been copied without the author's permission and is in violation of copyright laws. Please feel free to visit http://tattoosday.blogspot.com and read our original content. Please let me know if you saw this elsewhere so I contact the webmaster of the offending site and advise them of this violation in their Terms of Use Agreement.

The Tattooed Poets Project: Dese'Rae Stage and Some Poetic Tulips

Last Wednesday (April 15), I was trying to distract myself from having my back tattooed, when my BlackBerry chirped and I found a wonderful e-mail in my inbox. A poet and photographer named Dese'Rae Stage had graced me with some photos of a few of her fifteen tattoos. What follows is my favorite of those pieces:

The first piece is based on Sylvia Plath's poem "Tulips":


The poem is below, with the lines extracted for the tattoo highlighted:

TULIPS

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage ----
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free ----
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

Dese'Rae explains the background of this tattoo:

"The interpretation is literal enough: it's a poem about suicide and I'd recently tried to commit suicide (I got the piece done back in November 2006 and the summer prior was particularly difficult). One of my oldest friends, Ryan Falcon, just happens to be a talented artist, so I took him a tiny line drawing of some tulips and a copy of the poem with the selected lines highlighted and told him to go to it. The only stencil he used was for the words. He drew a rough outline of the bulbs, but everyth ing else was free-handed. This piece is on my inner left calf."

For the sake of brevity, I am only posting this one tattoo, of the five Dese'Rae sent me. It is, in my opinion, the best of the tattoos she sent me. However, I may post more in the future, with her permission.

It should be noted that the artist behind this tattoo, the aforementioned Ryan Falcon, is based in Miami, Florida and works at Almost Famous Tattoo. Truly spectacular, and worth a second look:

Thanks to Dese'Rae for sharing her amazing tattoo with us here on Tattoosday, as well as sharing the deeply personal story that accompanies it.

Head over to BillyBlog to read one of her poems here.