CHRIS RICE COOPER is a newspaper writer, feature stories writer, poet, fiction writer, photographer, and painter. She maintains a blog at https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com. She has a Bachelor's in Criminal Justice and completed all of her poetry and fiction workshops required for her Master’s in Creative Writing with a focus on poetry. She, her husband Wayne, sons Nicholas and Caleb, cats Nation and Alaska reside in the St. Louis area.
Christal Ann Rice Cooper
Friday, May 5, 2017
Guest Blog Post by Poet/Fiction Writer Hedy Habra . ."My Sacred Space, My Sacred Place."
of my writing is done at home, and I have a couple of “sacred places.” The
first one is my library where I feel comforted by the presence of my books. I
have books in Spanish, English, French and Italian, and shelves cover the
This is where I sit by my desktop computer to do my online
research and polish the several versions of a work in process. This is also
where I relax as I read, take notes, or watch nature surrounding me--the change
of seasons being a source of constant inspiration in Michigan.
My second “sacred space” is my kitchen table that is lit by
bay windows, and is the ideal space for reading while underlining and taking
notes. This is where I usually write longhand.
This also where I paint and keep
my brushes and watercolor supplies on a corner of the table.
and all sorts of birds keep me company on daily basis.
Why I Love to Paint Cranes in Chinese Ink
They carry dreams under their wings,
flattened over rice paper, cranes spread
their wings in grey shades, their necks
bleed ebony, its darkness melts all over
their raised tails. See how their
eyes frown under the red patch of bare
cresting their heads like a mask or a
as they stand on one leg, majestic,
(First published by Fifth Wednesday Journal)
We both stared at the
of what must have been a rare
book. Its pages
seemed to turn on their own,
one by one,
following the rhythm of our
breath--were we so afraid
to touch its precious leaves?
I noticed faded characters
here and there, like
distant memories, missing
lines rubbed away by fingers
or written in invisible ink,
perhaps words never said,
unable to fall in proper
order--could the writer or scribe
have wished to light a match, imagined its fire racing
elongated curves of the phrase, erasing even the
of his thought?
Then came an empty page,
intimidating the one about to
stamp it with the colors
of life--what ever happened to this page, I wondered,
realizing you were gone.
published by Puerto del Sol
From Tea in Heliopolis
Under the Crescent Moon
The violinist has grown wings,
the donkey is flying.
The bride and groom listen all
to the blue notes cascading over the
They hear a secret tune,
each from a different slice of the
He takes off his top hat, unties his
hums to the opalescence marking
the beginning of his dance.
Dovelike, she lies in embroidered
her ruffled dress rests on a chair
like discarded wings.
She knows her waist will swell by
the full moon,
its dark side where Chagall is hiding.
published by Sulphur River Review
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)
*All Poets and Writers and
Artists are invited to share his or her SACRED SPACES, SACRED PLACES by answering the following:
Describe your sacred space, sacred place where
you write or perform any artwork?
Submit a photograph of that sacred
space, sacred place
Submit a photograph of you inhabiting
that sacred space, sacred place.
Submit at least two lines of a poem (can be the complete poem) written
from that sacred space, sacred place or an image of your artwork.