The Searing Poetry of Debra J. Nordyke
- FLAPPER PRESS
- Feb 19
- 8 min read
By Elizabeth Gracen:
It's a new year at the The Flapper Press Poetry Café, where we continue to feature the work of poets from around the globe. It is an honor to share their work and learn more about their lives, influences, and love of poetry.
This week, we are honored to feature the work of poet Debra J. Nordyke.
Debra J. Nordyke is a retired office manager for a small family law firm in rural Missouri, United States. She lives on 80 acres of fields and timber where her neighbors are owls, eagles, and blue herons. She enjoys running 5K, 10K, and half-marathon races as well as tennis, pickleball, and hiking.
Publications:
“Darkness of the Soul” published 2/19/25, Oddball Magazine.
"Convex Mirror" published in The Writers Place Yearbook, Vol. 4 (2024) available through Amazon.
"Synchronicity" published May 2025 in Stone Poetry Quarterly.
“Not Anything at All,” “Black Hole of the Soul,” “Dark Place” published May 2025, Lowlife Lit Press.
“Ghosts of the Hawk,” “Veins” published April 2025 for the annual Poetry Walk in downtown Rutland, VT, organized by Bianca Amira Zanella, The Paper Poet
“A New Hue” published in Summer 2025/Issue 3: "Love and Hate" from Penstricken Press.
“Wine Moon,” “Escaping Mist,” “Ambush” published by Asemana Magazine September 2025.
“Ocean” upcoming publication in The Amphibian Literary & Art Journal, 2025.
I reached out to Ms. Nordyke to talk about her influences, passions, and her beautiful poetry.
Please meet Debra J. Nordyke!
Elizabeth Gracen: Thank you so much for your submission to Flapper Press. Could you tell our readers a little bit about yourself and when/why you started writing poetry?
Debra Nordyke: To have a dream peeking around the corners, lingering in the shadows, poking its way into your conscious thought, saying, “I am still here.” From a young girl of 8, I had one dream, to be a published author—I suppose as many authors do. Yet, life often gets in our own way: work, marriage, children. I, too, tucked my dream away for another day. In March of 2023, at 66 years old, I ran across an email detailing a poetry book contest—sparks flew, and a fire ignited instantly. I made a vow that day that next year, when this contest opens again for submissions, I would enter my book. Over the years, I have collected numerous notebooks of writing projects, from essays, short stories, memoir notes, and poetry. I thought originally I would write a hybrid memoir/poetry book, but the words and the page directed me to write poetry. Poetry became my vehicle to tell my story.
EG: I sense that being able to write poetry affords you a great opportunity to process trauma and personal issues that have impacted your life. How does poetry "set you free" to explore these depths?
DN: Because my trauma of childhood sexual abuse started at a young age, healing was a vague, wispy mist I found myself longing for in perpetual pursuit. Language and words became my “candle in the dark,” giving me knowledge and understanding, which was my pathway to healing. The greatest loss from trauma for me, and I believe many victims, is the loss of one’s voice. Poetry "set me free" in a way that restored my voice. It is my belief that through the artistic apparatus of poetry, we can more clearly understand trauma’s depth, can lead to greater empathy, and ultimately lead to societal change.
EG: I'm curious about your influences across the board—poets, writers, music, etc. Please elaborate on why these artists appeal to you and how their work has touched your life.
DN: The most influential poets currently for me and my writing are Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Alan Parry, Dorianne Laux, Kim Addonizio, Rick Christiansen and Maria Nazos. Brigit Pegeen Kelly’s book The Orchard shows her vivid use of imagery, as she uses language like a paintbrush, creating a gallery of scenes in her work. Alan Parry’s brilliant work Twenty Seven showed me brevity at it’s best. He explores big ideas with the fewest words, doing what poetry does best. Rick Christiansen’s work in Bone Fragments and Not a Hero [demonstrates] an exceptional poet who can distill trauma and pain into its purest form, allowing the reader to understand trauma more deeply yet allowing the reader the freedom to interpret. Maria Nazos’s book Pulse, coming out in 2026, has shown me how to dig deep. And then deeper still. As poets, we are called to dig deep into all life’s ugliness, and by doing so, we bring exposure and voice to the atrocities of the human condition. One of my favorite quotes comes from Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich, “art destroys silence.” Poetry destroys the silence of trauma and lifts the broken to be seen.
EG: The world has become a much scarier place in the last couple years. The Arts and freedom of speech have come under fire. Why do you think poetry is important? Why should people care about poetry?
DN: Poetry is voice. Poetry is light that shatters darkness. Poetry can be about beautiful things that are important to the human condition and experience too. But, if one stops to read poetry from a voice depicting a moment of violence in Ukraine or any war zone, one sees a more detailed account than any journalistic news story could report. Poetry works the same as a powerful photograph that shows the lines upon a human face in anguish, effectively saying volumes with few words. Poetry shows the world using well-crafted artistic techniques depicting truths and informing readers yet allowing the reader to interpret and proceed forward in their own way. When we acquiesce, stay silent, we are giving our power over to those who will use it to manipulate and control others. Every voice should be heard. Every voice should be challenged. Poetry is voice.
EG: What do you hope readers come away with when they read your poems? What do you hope is revealed or unearthed by your words?
DN: If the reader can come away with a deeper understanding of how trauma feels to a child or woman; if the reader can feel a deeper empathy for victims of trauma; if the reader can employ softer judgment of victims of trauma, then my purpose of writing my poetry would be fulfilled. I believe trauma victims hide their pain, try to go about living their lives weighed down by suffering and pain, many times go forward in life making bad decisions and poor choices. We tend to judge the bad decisions, the consequences of trauma, seldom looking deeper to ask the question why. If, through poetry, we can become enlightened to the effects of trauma, we are better equipped to address these atrocities as a society.
EG: Debra, thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me about your work. Please let our readers know where they can find out more about you and your work.
DN: Readers can find me on Facebook, Bluesky, or by email deb@nordyke.net.
Stairs
Haibun
Railing of splintered wood, grip of tiny fingers. Angst filled eyes glance upward, cavernous stairway, airless, smelling of stale, moldy earth. Terror-filled shoes climb worn crude steps, shadows of greyish paint long ago applied. One more step, limbs laden, dread clings, like Spanish moss to the cypress tree. Robin’s song through the open door below tickles my ear. Warm honeysuckle summer. Fear constricts breath like the tightening of a noose, as wind catches the door above. Creaks open slightly; eyes fixed on the cold silver knob. Tears breach, slide down, slight quiver of cheekbone. Miniature hand speaks with stubborn grit, swipes liquid pain away. Grandpa sits upon chrome dinette chair, unseeing eyes stare. Lips part, time stops, tip of moist tongue appears. Grandpa rises from shiny chrome throne; sex smeared across stubbled jaw like raspberry jam. Room narrows, focus dims, snuffed out like a cigarette butt.
Stairs easy transport,
predator silently feeds,
each step I spill out.
This poem shows the internal fear and the explicable truth of powerlessness of a child who is the victim of sexual abuse by a family member. “Stairs” factually happened as written, and my intent was to show this fear yet the tenacious courage of a child stripped of power.
The Day I Held a Mannequin’s Hand
a pinky rose from its grave
beneath a box of mac- n- cheese.
Halting the steel bucket of teeth,
swallowing orange peels, coffee grounds,
brush away remnants, saturated diapers
clear plastic bottles, I discover an arm
attached to a mannequin, perfect pink lips,
doe eyes, soft blond hair. Torso
matted with moist earth, legs askew.
I prop her atop a worn tire, carefully
align limbs. Removing my glove, I trace
her jaw, smooth her hair in place.
Reaching inside the excavator cab,
I grab my seat cushion and jacket.
Warily, I drape her, plush black fleece
hug stiff shoulders. I lift her as air
onto my pillow, settle myself beside,
place her hand on my knee,
cup my hand over hers, I gaze.
Wonder fills me, puzzles me, I ask,
Why are you here? Turning her face,
I look into eyes dripping with
dust of beaten roads. I see
stories piercing her memory,
like long needles driven
through voodoo doll. Child
left alone, empty house,
as she danced deep into the night.
Child asleep backseat while
she lay drunk in front. Past photos
flip like a rolodex inside
her maggot mind. I held
her hand, she wept silently.
Buried alive, landfill
of volition. Once she dreamt,
walking the summit, breathing
fragrance of new air like
fresh sun. Muddy ruts, memories
locks her own cage. Searing
whistle, workday done,
I rise to return home.
Rearview mirror, she returns,
slinks under earth, broken
flowers, shattered blooms.
This poem shows the devastation on the mind of a woman living with trauma whose poor behavior and decisions leads her to increased pain and suffering. She cannot find the pathway to rise above the weight of guilt of her “sins” and throws herself in the landfill of garbage, where she believes she belongs. I believe victims of trauma without a hand to hold, a support system to assist, fall victim to this same self-mutilating condemnation.
Candy Land
I like tossing my dreams up into sparkling air
and watching one fall into my palm.
I like dreaming of maybe—
Eyes waking to the sun, choosing who to be.
Should I write golden words, hike a golden
path, bake a golden cake, plant a golden seed.
Too many parts of me, I cannot choose one.
Like a child’s dream of, President, Olympic Swimmer, or a unicorn.
Like playing dress-up, I dream to wear the fairy costume,
fly with butterfly wings, dance in pink glitter heels.
I like skipping off with a friend,
to laugh, be silly, be loud, just be.
A child at play, the wonder, the awe,
eyes filled with rainbows and stars.
I like doing my own thing,
whatever thing I choose.
I like dreaming, blooming, emerging,
becoming, opening, me.
In Candy Land, one player wins.
One makes the rules. One controls the board.
Words twist in the air, in my head too,
gnarled truth tethers me to Candy Land.
I start to veer off, to play my own sport,
vast shades of colors in other games.
Rope tightens to keep my feet near.
Path must be followed in Candy Land.
My favorite color is yellow,
but someone else’s is blue. No space for green.
“Candy Land” shows the restraints of a woman living in a domestic relationship constructed using tools of power and control. She dreams of playfulness, of choosing what to do and who to be on any given day. Yet, in the end, she is tethered to play his game, abiding by his rules, effectively having choice and freedom removed. I believe this type of domestic abuse is hard for many people to understand, it is pervasive in a way that people cannot readily see, like the presence of a bruise from physical abuse. I worked in a domestic violence outreach office for a few years, and I saw the devastation upon the psyche of women in controlling, manipulating, domineering relationships.
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