Vikki C.
LightNews LightNews
banner
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Vikki C.
@vikkicwrites.bsky.social
2.7K followers 1.2K following 1.3K posts
IN THE BLUEPRINT OF HER IRIS (IceFloe Press) | WHERE SANDS RUN FINEST| THE ART OF GLASS HOUSES | Bridport Prize 2025 Shortlist | Pushcart, BOTN, Orison BSL nominee | Contributing Editor: The Winged Moon | Guest Ed.: IceFloe Press

linktr.ee/vikki_c._author
Posts Replies Media Videos
Pinned
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Vikki C. @vikkicwrites.bsky.social · Sep 8
🔥 Now available for pre-order from @icefloepress.bsky.social 🔥

IN THE BLUEPRINT OF HER IRIS - A hybrid collaboration – my poems with stunning visual art by @rfredekenter.bsky.social. Exploring origins, heritage, ecologies & love amid our current crises.

icefloepress.net/in-the-bluep...
In The Blueprint of Her Iris – A Collaboration. Vikki C. (Poems) Robert Frede Kenter (Images)
Now Available for pre-order: In The Blueprint of Her Iris is a collaboration between Vikki C. (Poems) and Robert Frede Kenter (Images). It is 69 pages, full colour, 6″ x 9″ dimensions. …
icefloepress.net
Reposted by Vikki C.
susanlleary.bsky.social
Rebecca Hart Olander ♥️

“Talking to you now is like the language of bees…”

from SINGING FROM THE DEEP END (CavanKerry Press)

@rholanderpoet.bsky.social
As Bees On the fifteenth day of a fresh year, I lay my body next to yours, before I could never hold you again. Before they came and took you away, who was so much and was no longer there. It surprises, every time, the will. How it thrives, then gives over to a readiness to die. Oh, my brave friend, I can't stop thinking of that basement nightclub we found in Prague, the year we circled Europe on the train. I wish we could never stop our dancing, or disembark. In your final week, I held you as a midwife does, supporting your labor toward the next realm. Talking to you now is like the language of bees: A humming I do. The humming back you do.
February 10, 2026 at 5:59 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Delighted to see my poem 'The Blessing Hour' in Jarnal 4 from @masonjarpress.bsky.social ❤️

My thanks again to EIC Steph Sundermann-Zinger and team. The issue is a stunner with many writers I admire from the US and around the world. Available now: masonjarpress.com/jarnal

#poetrycommunity #poetry
2 contributor copies of Jarnal 4, published by Mason Jar Press. The Blessing Hour In this city, we stop hunting for language, instead redeem the plainest spaces. Wade in water that makes absence personal. I don’t want to write my way through a flood. Don’t want us to split over distance, or small aberrations, unnoticed at sundown. What we miss, chimes as colours on oil slick roads, and hills that steepen by us simply climbing. It hurts to labour for love. A mother lifts her child above a ruined wall — shows him the future. Morning smooths out a street of debris. The child believes it is dusty Lego, waiting. The war hasn’t happened for 300 days, meaning our beauty has been humbly salvaged, the clarity of a single moment bargaining with broken bread on a bistro table. Grace slipping a note between the hands of a man and woman drinking coffee. They never go further than talking. Or walking, where nothing falls — except fractured light on an evening like this. A girl from a dim alley adjusts her blouse, straightens her crumpled skirt. Vanishes in fog. I tell myself she must have been loved, hard. That there was no crime. Things appear as a heart is held. As a land askew, its weapons and dresses laid to rest. This translucent city — edged with fire. I tell myself she must have been loved, hard. That there was no crime. Things appear as a heart is held. As a land askew, its weapons and dresses laid to rest. This translucent city — edged with fire.
February 10, 2026 at 6:58 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
rfredekenter.bsky.social
I have a new poem at @thearsonista.bsky.social Guest ed: Ingrid M. Calderón. Love the collage banner.

Hand over hand, climbing over
indelicate industrial clamor, unrolling
typewriter ribbons to erase propaganda broadsheets / smear
the news and various
other kinds of puppeteer topographies /
February 10, 2026 at 8:01 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
masonjarpress.bsky.social
Beautiful poetry by Jane Lewty available now in Jarnal, Vol. 4! You can check it out here: masonjarpress.com/chapbooks-1/... #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers #poem #litjournal #litmag #poets
February 10, 2026 at 7:09 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
icefloepress.bsky.social
PROCESS/ MARGINALIA /OTHERWOR(L)(D)(S) series continues with Australian-based writer/artist Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad @oormilaprahlad.bsky.social
a suite of 10 haunting poems/paintings annotations night highway journey to overcome fear #self #poems #paintings

icefloepress.net/2026/02/09/t...
The Ourimbah Meditations – Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
THE OURIMBAH MEDITATIONS 1 The dark is a stealthy weapon,a vault to hold the errant childwho will not be reformed.The gloaming, a scaffoldfor her unruly spirit—feral being, dashingbetween thorns an…
icefloepress.net
February 10, 2026 at 4:37 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
suzfrischkorn.bsky.social
Received my contributor copies of SWING! Many thanks to editor Leigh Anne Couch for including my poem “Salt City” in this beautiful issue.
February 10, 2026 at 5:07 PM
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Delighted to see my poem 'The Blessing Hour' in Jarnal 4 from @masonjarpress.bsky.social ❤️

My thanks again to EIC Steph Sundermann-Zinger and team. The issue is a stunner with many writers I admire from the US and around the world. Available now: masonjarpress.com/jarnal

#poetrycommunity #poetry
2 contributor copies of Jarnal 4, published by Mason Jar Press. The Blessing Hour In this city, we stop hunting for language, instead redeem the plainest spaces. Wade in water that makes absence personal. I don’t want to write my way through a flood. Don’t want us to split over distance, or small aberrations, unnoticed at sundown. What we miss, chimes as colours on oil slick roads, and hills that steepen by us simply climbing. It hurts to labour for love. A mother lifts her child above a ruined wall — shows him the future. Morning smooths out a street of debris. The child believes it is dusty Lego, waiting. The war hasn’t happened for 300 days, meaning our beauty has been humbly salvaged, the clarity of a single moment bargaining with broken bread on a bistro table. Grace slipping a note between the hands of a man and woman drinking coffee. They never go further than talking. Or walking, where nothing falls — except fractured light on an evening like this. A girl from a dim alley adjusts her blouse, straightens her crumpled skirt. Vanishes in fog. I tell myself she must have been loved, hard. That there was no crime. Things appear as a heart is held. As a land askew, its weapons and dresses laid to rest. This translucent city — edged with fire. I tell myself she must have been loved, hard. That there was no crime. Things appear as a heart is held. As a land askew, its weapons and dresses laid to rest. This translucent city — edged with fire.
February 10, 2026 at 6:58 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
masonjarpress.bsky.social
Looking for gorgeous poetry? Check out the latest issue of Jarnal, available now! masonjarpress.com/chapbooks-1/... #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetrylover #poems #poets #fiction #shortstory #memoir #creativenonfiction #writerscommunity #readmore #literarymagazine #litjournal #literaryjournal
January 5, 2026 at 11:54 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
junegemmell.bsky.social
I‘m just posting beautiful things this morning and this is simply gorgeous, and soothing for your soul. 🥰
February 7, 2026 at 11:05 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
veronikafuchs.bsky.social
This is beautiful
February 7, 2026 at 7:20 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
alinaetc.bsky.social
What will we do with the loneliness of the mythical?

- Eavan Boland, “Eurydice Speaks”
February 5, 2026 at 4:23 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
rfredekenter.bsky.social
Listen up everybody..I was delighted to be invited by remarkable gallerist, hybrid-artist, poet, curator, visual poet Laura Kerr: to not only be featured w/a set of 11 inter-related #visualpoems now live at her Sedserio website, but also for freewheeling evocative inspiring podcast interview: 🎸😎🎤🎨
sedserio.com Laura Kerr @sedserio.com · 4d
I had the incredible privilege of speaking with Robert Frede Kenter @rfredekenter.bsky.social
Robert’s insights are as thought-provoking as they are timely, and our conversation was nothing short of inspiring.

open.spotify.com/episode/4xSk...
Robert Frede Kenter Interview
open.spotify.com
February 6, 2026 at 11:30 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Listen to Under Glass Skies by Vikki C. Music on #SoundCloud
on.soundcloud.com/EtLQ8KCfg63B...

#poetrycommunity #music #composition #artistcommunity
Under Glass Skies
My original composition 'Under Glass Skies' - September 2021 Composed and performed by Vikki
soundcloud.com
February 6, 2026 at 4:47 PM
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Listen to Under Glass Skies by Vikki C. Music on #SoundCloud
on.soundcloud.com/EtLQ8KCfg63B...

#poetrycommunity #music #composition #artistcommunity
Under Glass Skies
My original composition 'Under Glass Skies' - September 2021 Composed and performed by Vikki
soundcloud.com
February 6, 2026 at 4:47 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
jenwithwords.bsky.social
✨LIGHT CHEMICAL SEA - Cover Reveal!✨

After years of writing tiny stories about small moments, I’m so excited to announce that my flash fiction chapbook LIGHT CHEMICAL SEA is forthcoming November 10, 2026 with @bullcitypress.com

Preorders are now available:
bullcitypress.com/product/ligh...
Front cover of book is an abstract painting of ocean blue paint over white canvas. The title is in blocky font with pale navy blue letters. JENNY WONG LIGHT CHEMICAL SEA STORIES & SMALL FICTIONS Back cover of book with the following blurbs: "Quiet, contemplative, transformative, Light Chemical Sea, will send you on a meditative journey through wavelengths of sound, of light, of love, of loss, on pathways of auroras, of highways, of elements, of life. Jenny Wong's singular voice will whisper, will call, will summon you to be present in the warp and weft of her words." -MELISSA LLANES BROWNLEE, AUTHOR OF BITTER OVER SWEET "Jenny Wong is an alchemist turning moments of being into illumination of character. Wong is drawn to those on the periphery, people who don't quite fit in. In small flashes of brilliance she highlights the elements of their lives as they find solace in nature or catch glimpses of their true selves." -DEBBIE ROBSON, AUTHOR OF A GLIMPSE AND THE HERMITAGE "The obscure and almost-absurd become visible and believable under the skillful care of writer Jenny Wong in the compelling Light Chemical Sea, a collection of stories and small fictions. In three parts, she delivers us into the essence of light, dips us full-bodied into the effervescent chemicals we are made of, and then returns us to the sea where life as we know it really begins. The words, beyond language-rich, flawlessly represent images we want to hold under a microscope to try to assess the ways she gives them voice. It's a magic only a few can master. Make no mistake, this is the work of a sterling storyteller who weaves mystery with mundane to concoct a world view that draws us not only into her personal reflections of such basic natural forces (light, chemical, and sea), but leads us, sometimes unknowingly, into a labyrinth of cues and clues towards to the majesty of life we all belong to." —KAREN PIERCE GONZALEZ, AUTHOR OF DOWN RIVER WITH LI PO Description: Jenny Wong peeks into the lives of characters caught in lighthouses, subways, shorelines, Walmart aisles, and airports. With a talent for lingering and looking, with the elemental precision of a poet, her small mosaics imbue the quotidian with quiet wonder. The international traveler, the preteen chemistry student, and the perimenopausal millennial who spends her days in the sun are trail guides for landscapes saturated with solitude and vastness, the whispers of ancestors and the ironies of aging. Light Chemical Sea reports back from the transpacific diaspora, glimpsing into the liminal pause between what happened and what happens next.
February 5, 2026 at 3:36 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
samrasnake.bsky.social
I'm pleased to be working with Ballerini Book Press ... Fallen Leaves (poetry collection, 2025) and work included in Through the Looking Glass (anthology, 2026)
@ballerinibookpress.bsky.social @amantineb.bsky.social

ballerinibookpress.ch/rareswanempo...
I'm pleased to be working with Ballerini Book Press ... Fallen Leaves (poetry collection, 2025) and work included in Through the Looking Glass (anthology, 2026) https://ballerinibookpress.ch/rareswanemporium-bookstore/ I'm pleased to be working with Ballerini Book Press ... Fallen Leaves (poetry collection, 2025) and work included in Through the Looking Glass (anthology, 2026) https://ballerinibookpress.ch/rareswanemporium-bookstore/
February 5, 2026 at 4:46 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
susanlleary.bsky.social
Biggest thanks ever to Matteo Fais for translating my poem, “Now That My Mother Has Apologized," into Italian as part of an American poetry feature in Il Detonatore Magazine! This poem also appears in MORE FLOWERS, out NOW with @triohousepress.org! Check it out, friends! 💙♥️
NOW THAT MY MOTHER HAS APOLOGIZED SUSAN L. LEARY In the bathroom mirror, the soft configuration of her face. Toweling off my hair or brushing my teeth, it knows to startle, offering itself nightly in the surest flashes through mine. Eye through eye, light through light, is this mercy or a muddle of stars? A flicker of my girl-life's apocalypse. I want to say I don't care what my mother thinks of me now nor ever, but how could this be true when our mothers are the only real gods? Even now at the sink, she resists my every attempt to steady her, yet there she is looking back at me, warped to impossible perfection like one of Dali's ticking clocks. What is it I have been waiting for from this part ghost of a woman who insists on tangling the th-reads? Until, in turning from the mirror, I see my mother, seeing me as I have so badly wanted to be seen. ORA CHE MIA MADRE HA CHIESTO SCUSA SUSAN L. LEARY (trad. it di Matteo Fais) Nello specchio del bagno, i delicati lineamenti del suo volto. Asciugandomi i capelli o lavandomi i denti, sa come sorprendermi, offrendosi ogni sera in apparizioni troppo forti perché io le possa rifiutare. Occhio nell'occhio, luce nella luce: questa è misericordia o un groviglio di stelle? Uno sfarfallio dell'apocalisse della mia vita di ragazza.Vorrei dire che non mi importa di ciò che mia madre pensa di me, né ora né mai, ma come potrebbe essere vero, quando le nostre madri sono gli unici dei reali? Anche adesso, al lavandino, lei resiste a ogni mio tentativo di metterla a fuoco, eppure eccola lì che mi guarda, deformata fino a un'impossibile perfezione come uno degli orologi molli di Dalí. Che cosa stavo aspettando da questa donna, in parte fantasma, che insiste nell'aggrovigliare i fili? Finché, voltandomi dallo specchio, vedo mia madre che mi guarda, come ho desiderato così disperatamente di essere vista.
February 5, 2026 at 2:50 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
"It is sheer childbirth,
loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia."

'A Dress For All Oceans'

One of two poems alongside a biographical essay on my mother in the beautiful Through The Looking Glass anthology - An International Portraiture of Mothers by Ballerini Book Press 🤍
A DRESS FOR ALL OCEANS Mother fell from the sky dressed in white and the scent of hibiscus and empathy as if she knew the devil’s plan before my birth. Traversing ancestry, even the rain splays like Adam’s rib. I tuck myself behind its curve, wishing for a straight path to heaven. Everything falls where Mother came from— a small empire, a vase of peonies whose heads were too heavy for another coastal storm. Everywhere, there is food we can never catch, like rice scattered in a war imitating snow on silk roads. Because the way a dress falls shifts over continents, like the shade of burning waters. The bays, small wombs — never idle, even in a bleak trade. It is sheer childbirth, loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia. En route, I inherit things she couldn’t catch on her way down: language, babies, grand pianos. Chopin’s nocturne spanning every generation of mourners. I play until windows shatter — free nightingales from their cage. Because Mother taught me how women always fit into the shape of girls. The tailor adjusting the seams until we shrink —become the wound itself. The motif fading in a foreign tongue. A body, left to occupy another unsung legend.
February 1, 2026 at 12:20 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
icefloepress.bsky.social
Sarah Raybould at PROCESS/ MARGINALIA / OTHERWOR(L)(D)S @sarahraybould.bsky.social
A beautiful 3-part vision of creativity, process, convergence, in internal/exterior struggle and realization. #video #music #poem #painting #collage #artonbsky

icefloepress.net/2026/02/02/c...
Cantus Cordis Mei (A Poem, Video Poem, Art & Music) – Sarah Raybould
Cantus Cordis Mei On paper she has feathers, brittle hairpins that become ledgers for minor scales, her fury boils in chambers where fire and water cannot mix. If you are discerning, you may notice…
icefloepress.net
February 3, 2026 at 1:56 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
litbowl.bsky.social
If this doesn't say it...

From @kaysarahsera.bsky.social's book, No Matter the Wreckage.

#poem #books #writing
February 2, 2026 at 6:18 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
upthestaircase.bsky.social
Issue #72 has dropped over at www.upthestaircase.org ❄️

New poetry by Oliver Brooks, Emma Bolden, Kelli Dianne Rule, Alex Turissini, Angelique Zobitz, Meia Geddes, Angie Macri, Nicole Dufalla, Anya Kirshbaum, Aditi Bhattacharjee, Pamela Manche Pearce, and Natalie Zhang.
Up the Staircase Quarterly
a journal of poetry and art
www.upthestaircase.org
February 1, 2026 at 3:38 PM
Reposted by Vikki C.
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Morning recital colours 🎼

"Thankful for niche spaces which are, in my mind, poetry adjacent. It's a very private matter held in private rooms. At least the process of making it.

And in rare dreams, sometimes, someone likes the sound of it enough to hand you a bouquet." 💐🎹

#poetrycommunity
February 2, 2026 at 7:45 AM
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
Morning recital colours 🎼

"Thankful for niche spaces which are, in my mind, poetry adjacent. It's a very private matter held in private rooms. At least the process of making it.

And in rare dreams, sometimes, someone likes the sound of it enough to hand you a bouquet." 💐🎹

#poetrycommunity
February 2, 2026 at 7:45 AM
Reposted by Vikki C.
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
🔥In the Blueprint of Her Iris by Vikki C. & Robert Frede Kenter

40% off – sale extended until 2nd February🔥

"a rich experience of eco-human landscapes and otherworldly realism" - Jaclyn Piudik, The Dark Oar, Celan Translations

Credit and debit card as well as PayPal accepted. Order below⬇️
January 30, 2026 at 7:26 PM
vikkicwrites.bsky.social
"It is sheer childbirth,
loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia."

'A Dress For All Oceans'

One of two poems alongside a biographical essay on my mother in the beautiful Through The Looking Glass anthology - An International Portraiture of Mothers by Ballerini Book Press 🤍
A DRESS FOR ALL OCEANS Mother fell from the sky dressed in white and the scent of hibiscus and empathy as if she knew the devil’s plan before my birth. Traversing ancestry, even the rain splays like Adam’s rib. I tuck myself behind its curve, wishing for a straight path to heaven. Everything falls where Mother came from— a small empire, a vase of peonies whose heads were too heavy for another coastal storm. Everywhere, there is food we can never catch, like rice scattered in a war imitating snow on silk roads. Because the way a dress falls shifts over continents, like the shade of burning waters. The bays, small wombs — never idle, even in a bleak trade. It is sheer childbirth, loving two sides—continents and cultures split under anaesthesia. En route, I inherit things she couldn’t catch on her way down: language, babies, grand pianos. Chopin’s nocturne spanning every generation of mourners. I play until windows shatter — free nightingales from their cage. Because Mother taught me how women always fit into the shape of girls. The tailor adjusting the seams until we shrink —become the wound itself. The motif fading in a foreign tongue. A body, left to occupy another unsung legend.
February 1, 2026 at 12:20 PM