"They call me a junkie, a prostitute, crazy. I am none of these things. Are they the only labels you can come up with to describe something you don't understand? You use me as a pawn, as bait, cannon fodder. You got it wrong, very wrong and such viciousness does not become you and I say the gods will do nowt for you with such sprecht" Anonymous

Marisa was born in 1977 in New South Wales, Australia and moved with her family to Eumundi, Queensland in the early 1980's.  She majored in creative writing at Griffith University Gold Coast in 2004. Marisa received a gold star in grade seven for writing a poem about "Time". She hasn't stopped writing since. Her work has been published in Going Down Swinging, Cottonmouth, Wise Enough zine and Queensland Poetry Festival Anthology. She has made appeareances for poetry and music at 7 Queensland Poetry festivals and has 2 poetry chapbooks published as well as making artist books. She is not widely read. Marisa supports the efforts and endevours of the UN's cultural body UNESCO and is currently a member of the Queensland branch of Australian United Nations. She has sent her work to the UN's New York writers group for consideration.

Marisa writes from the heart. She has met with and dealt with numerous challenges to her mental and physical health from the biopsychosocial realms. She enjoys the practical discipline of yoga and Advaita Vedanta since the late 1990's. Saying her work destroys minds is like saying heavy metal music is responsible for people taking their own life. Reading is a life long skill only for the brave arousing passions, ideas and wonders within the imagination of the reader. To correctly interpret the meaning of a piece of writing one needs critical thinking skills. You cannot blame the author for your own state of mind. Basic psychology 101, you can't blame someone else for the way you feel. Your feelings are yours. What you do about those feelings is your responsibility and the consequences that come with it.

So remember, don't shoot the messenger, the messenger is often the message that everyone needs to hear.

You cannot evolve faster than you decay.

Such is the life and death of poetry and literature.


words, I cannot say


40 pages

drawings + text

high quality print images

6 x 6 inch

signed by the author

AU $35 + postage $8 (australia) $15 (international)

Authors notes: There goes a story found in music history that the great 20th century American blues singer and guitarist, Robert Johnson, went down to the crossroads and when he got there sold his soul to the devil, as to explain his prodigious talent as a musician. It is a story that has become legend surrounding the road to glory as an artist.

The collection of images and the two poems in this book came about from a similar dilemma in my own life. From the crises of numerous double binds that I found myself in over a time frame of about five years. These images done at my own leisure, unplanned and executed quickly during that time frame depict this freefall.

The title, ‘words, I cannot say’ is both a statement and an explanation. A verbal, psycholinguistic situation I often found myself in during this time. Some would call this mutism, there have many labels given to me - complex post truamtic stress and others with more stigma. Language became basic, functional, transactional and a way to placate others yes, no, can I? How lovely. It is no fluke that my own name immediately follows the title.

I am influenced by the artists Marc Chagall and John Lurie and I make images to communicate many things, a lot of which remains unsaid and unsayable in ordinary conversation, not least for none have the time in this busy 21st century yet also because the isolation I both courted by backing myself into a corner, and fought, by refusing to accept the circumstances I found myself in did not allow me the luxury of good conversation with trusted friends to test my ideas on others and so see if they hold any water at all in the non conceptual realm.

The buddhists talk about leaning into a sense of groundlessness, that essentially all is groundless and these images came out of the groundlessness I experienced, where I lost sight of the shore and was at sea.

In this state of groundless, freefall I lost the power of the word.

I have not written anything of note in 5 years. I have a pile of journals and notebooks full of incoherent, deliberately illegible scrawl. To salvage two poems from this for this publication is a miracle. For someone to whom writing to live is a way of survival it has been quite a reveal to find oneself so full of crap. As the meditation master Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche would call it, ‘setting sun art’.

I am left with, not so much writers block, but a kind of void where what I have experienced and what I want to say are not congruent with the times, the culture I live in and the volatile social mores of acceptability. That is to say I fear to tell the truth (my truth? Absolute truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth?). But that is too grandiose, it is simply I fear to speak. Faced with this dilemma my own small place in the status quo is not so much one of powerlessness but automatically defined by others, others who hold the keys to power. And what is that power? To choose for another – to decide who can be free to live as one pleases or who is to be locked up literally and metaphorically.

Any kind of writer, poet, songwriter or creative artist who experiences this paradox cannot but sway towards contemplating things such as censorship, free speech, human rights and the like. At a time when all decide that they must have a voice that it is their right to be heard the question remains, if everyone has a voice who is there to listen? Or, If you have been gifted the chance to use a microphone, use it wisely, say something worthwhile. This is largely an unpopular opinion but It is my own. I feel oppressed in a world of the vox populi.

This has forced me into a kind if hopeless despair at times and at other times an unsolvable contradiction that merely goes round and round paradoxically in my head. If I feel creative and clever I could reframe it as one of those koans the Zen master gives. It certainly does halt my thinking. And is thinking not the primary skill of the writer? Even now I find I often spend my days in a gentle wordless silence with only my own contemplations for company.

It dawned on me a few weeks before collating this book for publication. My own, now very faint, but firm inner voice, with barely any remnants of the tone that has infused the last 30 years of school essays, university essays, creative writing, poetry books, novella, songs and journalling, floated out of me and said

“Now you know, now you really know what it means to be a writer.”



fire in the head.jpg

Fire in the Head (selected works 1996-2006)


The author unequivocally disagrees with and disputes the editors description of this book on the back cover. This book is not about any of those things. The author reserves the right to defend the integrity of her work.

Poetry Chapbook. Published by outsiders press. $10AU ($8 postage) ($15 postage international)



Poetry Chapbook. Published by Walleah Press. 2014



Book enquiries should be directed to the author




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