Part 2 with Writer Nakanee Monique: Worldbuilding and Finding Community

We jump back in with Nakanee Monique and they kick us off with a reading of part 2 of her epic poem Listen. Take some time to read the full poem, included below.

Tacoma-based writer and activist Nakanee Monique (she/they) has been writing poetry since they were 8 years old and is “inspired by nature, science, literature, and all the great and terrible beauties of this world.” Find Nakanee’s poetry on their Instagram, @Lunarrhythm_6. Listen to Part 1 of our conversation with Nakanee here.

In this episode, Nakanee, Jamika, and Katy nerd out about the triumphs, struggles, methods, and tactics of writing. Nakanee is a four-time NaNoWriMo champion and entices us with the descriptions of their as-of-yet unpublished books! Nakanee also generously shares this link to their short story The Lore of the Blood Tree.

We talk through pandemic lessons learned, rediscovering ourselves, branding and monetizing creativity, and building strategies to survive and thrive as a working artist. Event planning also ensues including brainstorming about silent reading parties and write-ins.

Shout outs and topics include dragons, poetry, journaling, capitalism, commodification, hand-washing, TikTok, astrology, goals, boundaries, NaNoRiMo, worldbuilding, death, fantasy, imagination, naming, community building, write-ins, editing, vulnerability, trust-building, constructive criticism, Blue Cactus Press

(Featured photograph by Jamika!)

We want art tips! Email us at wearttacoma@gmail.com or hit us up on Twitter @wearttacomapod!

Listen

By Nakanee Monique

pt 1

Can you not hear
the past echoes
coming from our
throats, we’re choked
and we are suffocating
Still advocating for
ancient blasphemies
and trafficking
a tragedy
of souls by the soulless.
Made homeless,
then controlled us…
left alone in a sea
of apathy.
They sound like screams
like the roar of
collective dreams
unheard, on repeat
Always the frequencies
reverberate upon
frigid mountaintops
unmoved
like the screams are
merely a breeze
an afterthought;
an imperfect black spot
on the snow that
maddens though no
blot can stop
the avalanche your
hell hath wrought
for all your treasures
were paid and bought
with those screams
with those dreams
then hoarded
by dragons who
own the word ‘Free’.
Those worshiped
fiendish beasts have
pulled sheep’s wool
used cheap tools
to blind you.
But are you deafened too?
Learned no lessons through
songs and stories consumed
like cannibals…
Careful to whom
you refer as animals