Bio-Profile
Why read Aamie Burnley?
You will find yourself in my words, which reflect the joys and struggles of an ordinary woman who has lived avidly, loved passionately, and lost and found hope repeatedly. Though I have known the joys of lovers, I have always been alone in the task of living. My work is the product of an open-hearted attempt to understand the human condition in all it’s brave and terrible aspects, and a profound respect for this wondrous and fragile universe we inhabit.
More about ME!
I grew up in the rural south, the middle child of middle class working people. In my family, boredom was not allowed, and in a world before the advent of television and the onslaught of digital entertainment, I turned to the woods and streams, where I was alternately a daring explorer or a forest nymph. You will feel this close to nature connection in many of my poems.
My family operated a funeral establishment out of our home, and I learned early that life is short and there are many ways to die besides growing old and giving up the ghost. These observations slowly shaped my worldview into something of an eclectic existentialist, and much of my work is tempered with a deep loneliness of heart and longing for rational answers to what Albert Camus calls ‘the unreasonable silence of the world’*.
In the same vein, my life has often fallen into the category of the ‘absurd’, and writing satisfies my need to make sense and give meaning to the unconscionable and ridiculous aspects of the climb. The existentialist view is a universe without intrinsic meaning in which individuals must struggle to create meaning for themselves. It is my belief, and you may quote me, that “Art is born from our labors to confront and rectify the “ambiguity and uncertainty of human existence”.” [The Book of Ideas by C. Roman]
Although you will find works of prose within, in the “Sisyphian”* sense, poetry is my rock, and the muse of poetry has always been close at hand. I was trained in the classical art of elocution, and was encouraged to ‘live within poetry’ from the time I was eight years old. Poetry was my refuge during the long hours of quiet required of a mortician’s child, and the memories of those hours spent with Stephenson and Raleigh in my little cubby between the cola-oil stove and the overhang of the stairwell still rest my soul. Now, as an overeducated dabbler, I can resolve all the loves and losses of life as I condemn them to that peaceful grave of the page.
My work is published in several journals, and the process of finding publication is a top priority after my family, my job and my writing. I am single parent of four boys, and a third generation funeral director. Since the death of my parents, I operate the family business, a short string of funeral homes.
I hope you enjoy the reads and that you will leave a little of yourself in the comment section.
* The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus declares life to be a struggle akin to the labor of a man, whom upon rising each day must push a large rock to the top of a hill, and whom upon rising each day finds the rock, not where he left it, but back at the bottom of the hill.