3 Amy Winehouse poems from Courtney LeBlanc

Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Abecedarian for Amy Winehouse       

Amy, how many poems do I have to write? How many times were you

branded drunk, disorderly, fool? You were only lovestruck,

colliding with the man who made things worse.

Drugs of course, but his love was the habit you couldn’t

evade. You tried. He went to jail and you served him divorce papers.

Finally severed the attachment. But he’d already sold your story to

Globe and Enquirer and anyone who’d pay. Already

hawked every juicy detail to whoever flashed money.

I know what it’s like to love something destructive –

just look at my past, the ex I was better off without.

Kindred spirits, you and I – you wrote songs, I write poems. But I

learned to stay away, forced my hand to put down the phone,

make plans, strike his name from my heart.

No one said it was easy but Amy, you could have done it.

Oh, I know you were alone when you took your last breath, I can’t

put all the blame on him but maybe without him you would have

quit the drugs and the drinking, maybe you would have gone to

rehab. Maybe the next album would be filled with intense

songs about a new love, a new life, a new emotion that didn’t border on

tragic. But I can’t bring back the dead, can’t

undo the past. You’re gone and your music lives, your

voice still provides the outlet my heart needs.

Without your words it would have been hard to sign my name on the

X of my divorce papers. I would have drowned myself in a bottle of wine,

yelled into the night, hoped for a quiet end. Instead, I found a new

zeal for life. I still listen to your album; it just doesn’t make me cry anymore.

23 July 2011

It’s the kind of weather we wish

for in January but curse when

it arrives, when it blooms hot

enough the honeysuckle rots

violently in the noon sun,

our stomachs turning

and tempers rising

with the mercury. Across

the Atlantic the news was breaking,

the crowds gathering – some

in congregation, others in morbid

hope of catching a glimpse

as they wheeled you out, your

gazelle body still inside the body

bag. I don’t remember what

I was doing when I heard

the news. But I know the day

was wet with humidity, sweat

rolling down between

my breasts, slicking my skin.

The day brilliant, still

unmarked by tragedy.  

*“the honeysuckle rots violently in [the] noon” is from Filé by Aurielle Marie

Feral

I think back on my wild days – that bonfire

party where I had a bottle of Boone’s Farm

in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.

And later, after the divorce I danced till closing,

kissed three strangers and went home with

a fourth, my shoes in the middle of her

kitchen for her roommate to stumble over

the next morning. When I learned your antics

earned you a rejected visa, that you couldn’t

attend the Grammy’s when you were nominated

for seven awards, I realized my wild days paled

in comparison. You went home with five

though really, you never left home, banned

from the country that celebrated

your talent but not your feral ways.

Courtney LeBlanc is the author of the full length collections Exquisite Bloody, Beating Heart (Riot in Your Throat) and Beautiful & Full of Monsters (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press). She is also the founder and editor-in-chief of Riot in Your Throat, an independent poetry press. She loves nail polish, tattoos, and a soy latte each morning. Read her publications on her blog: www.wordperv.com. Follow her on twitter: @wordperv, and IG: @wordperv79