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Insights of an Eco Artist

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Creative Studio

Magazine - Art and Culture

Sea, Solitude

Joana Alarcão

An Anthology of the Ocean and Those Who Call it Home
- project by Meg Peters

Meg Peters is a poet, human rights activist, writer, and former sailor. Born and raised in Connecticut, she has called many places home from Massachusetts to Italy. With an academic background in international law and global affairs, her poetry reflects changing global environments and the interpersonal experiences that occur in settings from the sea to large metropolitan cities. With a specialization in poetry, prose, and mixed media art, she has works that reflect on the intersectionality of identity and self, and pushes to ask who we are without the social or language structures that uphold these beliefs. Through moments of traveling throughout regions in Europe and Asia and from working on a schooner in New England, her work challenges traditional poetic thought and societal structures while highlighting the process of a changing identity and self. In her most recent collection of poetry and photographs, capturing the environment of the ocean and the modern experience of sailing a historical vessel, she speaks to the development of the self in the highly dynamic social and natural world.

Falling through the Castle  

And then, he read to me,  

down below  

filled with my own sorrow,  

afraid of where the pain  

would take me  

 or maybe the happiness  

 or maybe the numb feeling of floating in-between;  

Lost on shorelines, or lost at sea  

drifting coasts between us,  

wider now,  

the words still linger,  

sting deeper,  

between our silence,  

our distance,  

my body drifts,  

sometimes I hear your breathing,  

a partnered dance or a low drum beat,  

 over waters passage  

 over unseen weather;  

Self portraits in jet streams,  

a tangible likeness,  

my stationary being  

further into the sun,  

we dance during our karma.  

The chem trails dilute you,  

shades of black, grabbling identity.  

A foggy morning in July is what I have left here,  

and we move forward, still. 

The Shores of Fuller Street  

Life passes in seasons  

(staying is never easy)  

Yet the ocean surrounds me, still  

I journey at midnight,  

With high prices of artwork  

engulfed with outlines,  

Shutter at shotguns, or maybe  

at seagulls, who move with the  

currents, do not fear the movement.  

I am no longer swimming,  

rather, I am  



it depends on the weather  

and I the language I am using.  

I hope you can see me,  

one impossible boundary  


I am afraid of the changes,  

long walks on dull concrete,  

will you remember this,  

bitter taste, homegrown orange.  

Breezed, From Maine  

Literary illusions,  

chased, I bite my tongue.  

The phonograph is still,  

listen close, lean in now  

the past sounds like an interstate,  

a fog horn or a window  

city traffic hums.  

I wonder what you think about,  

things have been quiet, here,  

maybe one day we will drive,  

past falling leaves, August rain  

and we will listen,  

we will pray,  

and we will see it,  

we will pass ourselves looking in. 

Bombay/Barcelona, We Push Forward 

Translucent skylines, 

Endless currents, 

Fabricated warmth & 

Pale blue jackets 

For a moment, 

I am alone, (lonely) 

Distant voices, 

Numbered suites 

Will this moment 

Last me forever? 

If only a dream, 

Not but mine, 

But yours 

Warm skies and 

Cool coffee,  

Heaven was never a place, 

But a feeling.

Titled for the Con  

Not for Phoenix, for you  

fear follows the goldmine  


Outlines of creative disbelief  

a bite out of a nectarine,  

dripping desire,  

summer fruit, golden blonde  

breaking down brave sands.  


A closed script,  

my part was already played,  

lost insecurities,  

sun-bleached war.  

I know I will find you here,  

in soul or swaddle,  

drink the summer,  

drowning deeply.  


I must have miss one,  

the nonsense surrounds me,  

(Showing off)  

please know you did  

the best you could,  

let’s eat now,  

you are home. 

Atlantic Crop Circles  

How can I  

leave this home,  

this floating world  

With brown sugar for breakfast,  

yearning for dinner.  

It's always there,  

It was never mine,  

never yours to have.  

We feast. 

Read Interview with the artist here.

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