EMC Bio: Elizabeth M. Castillo is a British-Mauritian poet, writer, indie-press promoter, and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. She lives in Paris with her family and two cats, where she writes a variety of different things, in a variety of different languages, and under a variety of pen names. In her writing Elizabeth explores the different countries and cultures she grew up with, as well as themes of race & ethnicity, motherhood, womanhood, language, love, loss and grief, and a touch of magical realism.
Her writing has been featured in publications and anthologies in the UK, US, Australia, Mexico and the Middle East. Her bilingual, debut collection “Cajoncito: Poems on Love, Loss, y Otras Locuras” is for sale on Amazon, You can connect with her on Twitter, IG and TikTok as @EMCWritesPoetry, or on her website www.elizabethmcastillo.net.
Book purchase link: https://ninepens.co.uk/shop
Book Blurb :
‘Not Quite an Ocean’ by Elizabeth M. Castillo is a paean to the feminine, to motherhood and to the natural world. At once these poems are both unabashed in their celebration of womanhood, and are searing in their unflinching confrontation with darker undercurrents that threaten to break and destroy. The poems in ‘Not Quite an Ocean’ are beacons, are rallying calls, and are ultimately a roars of strength, pride and hope that cannot be silenced or subdued:
To be woman is to be everything All things bound together and, if you can manage it that little bit more The Cancer The earth was held between two breasts / warm and safe from the beasts inside / the world was kept against her chest / milk from one / salt water from the other / the world was split along her middle / one half wrenched / like a joint / from a socket / like a feeding calf / from its mother / the other severed / long / painful / strokes / and she cried out / this bleeding earth / with every motion / the faultlines cracked / the oceans stood to attention / bursting their banks / covering the earth / only volcanoes left standing / spitting fire and ash / from their gaping mouths / there was no alternative / it had to be done / letting the blood / deep from the earth’s core / and after the rubble / after the rains / after much digging / beneath each breast / that cradled the earth / lay the cancer / they had buried there / long before 20th December, after Lucille Clifton In a week I will be born to the misplaced ambition of a woman and a man whose feet would itch to be anywhere but here. She will suture me to her inner arm, there both a comfort and a crutch, and he will censure me for it. They will do for me and my brothers all that they can but perhaps that is a lie. we will plaster smiles across these infant years, and she will live long, in spite of her best efforts. in one week I will emerge, my small neck cordoned and they will inhale their regret, exhale their civil congratulations and to their friends they will say she is our pride and joy. Love song I'm learning to fold myself into him, warm as he is. My south to his north. My mighty armies, his unbending will. To trust myself in his arms, safe from the world (outside/inside). To ask, and be given, is an art I've yet to master. To take, and show gratitude, is no shameful task. There's a strength in rupture, and a hope of new beginnings. There's dignity in broken bones, and torn skin. I’ve decided that I shall love him as I have never loved another. I’m learning to listen: the gentle coax of a winter morning is his. I’m learning to hear: the last whispered hope of the day is his. Things that have replaced my Father Today. The cult of oneself. Altars, built at sporadic hours. Social media. Poetry. Written in the bathtub, on my phone. Blood. The defacing of my body. The misplacement of lessons learnt. Cause. And consequence. Reinvention A sense of justice entirely my own. An appetite for knowledge. Paralysis. Inertia. A hunger for travel. A howling need to run. Ungraciousness. Self-confidence. Thunder. The thrill of the hunt. The headlong pull of conquest. My pathological inability to belong. Men. At least four or five too many. The burden of my people, whoever they are. Forgiveness. Yes, sometimes even that can be wrong. My father himself- his unfathomable approval. And this dark cloud that I watch, helplessly, as it swallows him whole.
Fevers of the Mind 