Updated Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Additional Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Poetry

Unpainted Canvas

ISBN: 978-0-557-63112-4

(ID #9272461): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/unpainted-canvas/9272461

When the Sun Shines in Winter

ISBN: 978-0-557-63113-1

(ID #9272496): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/when-the-sun-shines-in-winter/9272496

(Coming Soon)

Poems Past: Collected Poems from Years Gone By

Literary Fiction

The Stick Woman

ISBN: 978-0-557-64209-0

(ID #9294338): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-stick-woman/9294338

Exile!!!!

ISBN: 978-0-557-63107-0

(ID #9272431): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/exile/9272431

Children’s

(Coming Soon)

As Far as the Mind Can Fathom: Fairy Tales for a New Generation

Recalling the Darkness

The searing waves crash,
Frothing, onto the soft pink sands that steam
Beneath their fiery onslaught.
Numbing, blinding this constant pummeling,
As hard, round stones sink
To press against the moist, vulnerable lining beneath,
Crushing the bruised swells of the shore.
Relentless is the tumultuous roiling
Which pries muscle from bone,
Draining the tender marrow
So that the gelid winds
Howl
Through the achingly hollowed caverns.
Oh, but that it were merciful,
Pulverizing sense and sensation
To a jellied nothingness,
Leaving the helpless shell--
Long emptied of the soft-bodied creature
Once sheltered within--
Free to float outward
Into non-existence!
Yet, no such succor does it offer,
This unending sea of pain.
On and on it flows,
Churning,
The scarlet waters hot enough to scald,
Its foam a bitter, poisonous acid,
Slowly eroding flesh, layer by layer,
Ever bubbling,
Ever burning,
Into infinity...
For an eternity.

To Live Again

How does one find her way out of the Darkness when the Light is but a distant memory?

Breathe

Isn't life--with its moments of sheer beauty, its instants of tranquility, and its fearless defiance of time and tide, of anything which dares to shape or mold its boundaries to the preset dimensions of the mundane--



...far too beautiful to waste?

Wondering

Years ago, when I was in high school, an English teacher introduced me to a famous writer, who was at that time one of my "idols."

"Watch this girl!" my professor warned. "She's going to be somebody."

Even though the words were spoken with an combination of obvious pride, unabashed sarcasm, and the unspoken admonishment against letting the words go to my head, it was the highest compliment I had ever received--primarily because I so completely admired the "giver," who was a renowned poet in her own right. Over the years, I have treasured it close to my heart, secretly vowing to fully earn that praise, to "make my mentor proud".

Over the years, I have heard similar words. I have been complimented, encouraged, praised, and even dubbed "the best writer ever" by what has to be the harshest critic ever. Still, I often find myself wondering why that isn't enough. Time and time again, I have found myself facing an individual who easily boasts that he or she is the greatest writer of all time, bar none. As a developmental editor, I have marveled at the confidence displayed by those who have had no more talent than a five-year-old drawing indecipherable doodles on construction, paper, been astounded by the humility of others who have rivaled the greats, and completely baffled by works which--without any apparent style or form whatsoever--somehow manage to so completely capture the unique tones and timbres of the writer's voice that they draw in the reader as no other could. Still, the longer I write, the more I surround myself with truly exceptional writing, the more convinced I am that no greater glory exists than composing something of true literary value, regardless of its notoriety among men or its acceptance by the so-called experts of the time.

Could any praise, any approbation, any amount of affirmation or success rival the simple knowledge that one has, in a lifetime, completed that one piece he or she was born to write?

And does any artist, any writer ever recognize that defining moment if and when she reaches it?

"Questions, No Answers"....YET!

Since March, it seems, every word I have written has been dipped in poison!

What is it about heart aches and heart breaks that bring out the worst in people?

For hours now, I have found myself pondering that very question. Why was it, I ask, not enough to have slowly regained a significant portion of my health? Why have I not, I went on to question, taken more time to dwell on the positives of life rather than the negatives? Is it not enough to have three healthy children, wonderful memories, and a wealth of rather rich and varied experiences for which many would give a right arm (or at least a left foot)?

For weeks now, I have been "fumigatin'" over a number of issues: the inevitable disappointments of life. Anger over the demise of what I thought to be a lifelong friendship, resentment over the changing attitudes born of the change in socioeconomic status (from semi-successful editor to gravely ill "nobody"), frustration over the added stresses my children have been forced to endure, and a complete lack of enthusiasm for everything which once lent beauty and purpose to life have all but eroded the luster of vitality from my usually bright outlook on life.

And why?

Because I survived what was thought to be certain death?

Because the return to the Land of the Living was not the triumphant reentry I had imagined?

Because I got my lil ol' heart broken?

Because a friendship I never could have anticipated, never in my fondest imaginings could have conceived, ended in disillusionment?

Because my children are healthy and happy, just not rolling in the dough I was so sure I had kneaded for them?

Because love "done let me down"?

All these things should be reason to pick up the pen and cover paper with enough doodles and curlicues to fill several volumes.

So why haven't they been?











So many questions!

And not a single answer...

YET.

Comtemplating

"Perspective" can be a bewildering and frustrating concept.

The moment one is all but certain she has reached a firm and specific decision about someone or something, the focus shifts--thus changing the perspective--rendering everything she thought she had seen or hear, felt or decided, sensed or reasoned...

Insignificant.

Confusing?

My point exactly!

Nevertheless, as my world tilts and spins on its ever-jerking axis--and I find myself struggling to function in a time outside of time, in an environment in which nothing is as I before assumed it to be--I am learning so much that I did not before know...

And am not sure I want to know now.