When the English department judges at her first poetry slam told her "your politics overwhelmed your art", Elyse founded her own slam in London, Ontario, and hasn’t looked back since. Elyse now resides in Toronto, ON, and in addition to her own poetry, acts as National Director for spoken word Canada. It's been said about Elyse that "she's got hair most people would kill for, a voice that everyone stops to listen to, and more things to say than a monk coming off a vow of silence." Elyse has featured at events across Ontario and in Vancouver, and is a member of the outspoken duo The Queens of Inappropriate, whose toured this summer with a show whose aim was to make space for women to speak about bodies, love, and sex openly and without shame. Elyse's work is often passionately political, and her current focus is on creating inspiring works based on Tantric philosophy.  

armistice

i have seen the ways you have waged war with your body.
this battlefield of mirrors strewn with weapons
turned on yourself in shame and longing
and your wounds that fester in forgetfulness.

i have seen your regimens of counted calories
seen the criss-crossed scars across your slender wrists
and emaciated cheeks under stark hospital fluorescents
seen the endless mill of workouts headed nowhere fast
more strong less weak
more fast less slow
more hard less soft
more less more less more less more less more less
until you are cowering in fear of your self-made army
your constant condemnations building layers in the armour ‘round your heart
that leave you hard and hungry.

listen.
pause in your mutterings, your war plans and strategies,
softly bend your ear this way
and i will share with you a secret:
i, too, have made my uneasy home on this front
crumbled before mirrors in pools of sorrow
after breaking myself down piece by hated piece
these thighs, these hips, these handles made
for anything but love
you are not alone.
i, too, have known the pain of being blind to this gift
of steeling myself against the ache in my chest
where theoretically my heart should be;
you are not the only one
who has anesthetized your instincts
and gotten lost
undone by your belief in your unworthiness

your body is not a defective lump of clay
to be molded to perfection by sheer will
and discarded upon death like so much waste.
this body is not sin, not torture
is nothing but salvation
the whole universe in contracted form.
listen. please.
uncurl yourself from your clenched fist,
dig out the white flag of compassion
from somewhere deep inside of your ribcage
wave it high.
hang it round your neck like an amulet if you must,
just lay down your weapons.
sign the treaty.
if you were meant to be anything other
than what you are right now,
you would be.

step off your battlefield and into the temple.
i know you are not accustomed to seeing yourself this way,
so start small.
make an offering of peace
like the tiny key to your colossal armour
shed first the layers round your feet and hands
rejoice in holy fingers, toes
tapping the first tentative notes
next, uncase your arms and legs
savour strong and graceful bones
vibrating to the tune of freedom
your head, so busy with its machinations
breathes deep its pores upon release
and adds the trill of harmony
and last, unmask your heart
pulsing sacred beat
until your whole miracle body sings
this vital hymn of peace
surrendering to the freely given gift of grace

i promise you,
we will forget.
the war is cunning
and will draw us back into its blindness.
your pinkie toe will not always seem the holy thing it is today
this armistice takes practice
these wounds will take long work to heal
but though you may forget the tune, the way,
your heart remembers, always.
your body is an instrument.
listen:
you are already whole.
you are already home.