Ink

Debra Nordyke's INK is the definition of poetry that matters. Her exquisite ability to convey the most horrific of experiences and the rawest of emotions is nothing short of masterful. INK is not an easy read, but tomes bearing the raw experience of the soul never are. Nordyke transforms the trauma of her past into an unignorable scream for justice. This is a book that the world needs, and everyone needs to read.

-James Benger, author, Rust Stain Reality

INK is a tough read but not because Debra Nordyke fails in any way to convey the darkness of abuse in her poems. INK is a tough read because the monsters she writes about defiantly lurk in our minutes, our headlines. Walk our streets. Inhabit debate. Scandalize our homes. Scar our kids.

"Grandpa's hands ... slice me open. His tongue ... plucks out my voice. Iron fist, he holds up his prize ... my silence" ("Escaping Mist"). "I morph into a ragdoll. No mouth to scream. Blank eyes stare" ("Ambush: Haibun"). "Behind my eyes, it sits, it gathers" ("Liquid Pain").

INK is a disturbing read but sadly, a necessary disturbance. If you fall asleep reading this one, prepare yourself for nightmares. Nightmares that enlighten and reveal. Nightmares that somehow, someway, lead to the light, "If I could paint me upon this canvas too, I imagine yellow, like a field of wild buttercups swaying with happy blooms in the wind" ("A New Hue").

-Mike Jurkovic, 2025-2027 Poet Laureate of Ulster County, NY and author, Circling Planes