Friday, February 18, 2011

Poetry Tips: Food For Thought

I don’t know about you, but I saw plenty of fancy cakes, cookies, brownies, and more around Valentine’s Day. The aroma of fresh pies, croissants, and all kinds of delicacies filled the air as I entered grocery stores and bakeries over the past weekend and it had me thinking of all the while of how often we show love through food. Since we also tend to write loving words in poems or letters why not also combine words and love of food into poetry this week? Write poems of all the things you would cook or bake to increase someone’s romantic love or to increase their comfort in cold weather or loss. What poems would you write as tributes to your favorite foods or wines? Be as sober or as playful as you like!

Have fun, good luck to all who try, please click in again next week…

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Damselfly Open Submissions

Luckily, the editors read year-round. You may send 1-3 poems as a Microsoft word or .rtf attachment, include a bio of less than 50 words, and send it to editor Lesley Dame via e-mail to: LesleyATdamselflypressDOTnet

For more details go to:

http://damselflypress.net/submissions/


Good luck to all who submit, please click in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.octopusmagazine.com/issue14/html/main.html
“Vertigo and Bone Room” by Julie Doxsee


http://www.blossombones.com/summer10/stein_s10.html
“Todestrieb” by Emma Stein

Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

under a bridge by Stephanie Hiteshew

Stephanie Hiteshew has been published by Bone World Publishing, has had poems appear in Poiesis, Beatlick News, The Aurorean, Brevities, and many others. She currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland and her latest collection from Alternating Current’s Propaganda Press is titled under a bridge. The poems are unapologetically raw in their portrayal of homelessness, loss, drugs, and mental illness. I am happy to share the ones that stuck inside my mind long after I set the chapbook down:


Claim

Siren wails
come closer to the city
than cleanliness.
Under a bridge,
pin-eyed,
you narrowly smile.
I hold your hand
coated in bruises,
breathing in a fog
you’d see
over a pier at night.
I sigh and say prayers.
The truth
I can’t turn towards
(or away.)
I leave you
under blankets.
Soul free
to lay its claim.

This poem makes me wonder if the poet is holding the hand of someone dying, especially with the ending lines “Soul free/to lay its claim.” What kind of claim I wonder? Claim to life or death?



Fence

The fence wasn’t built
to keep you safe
but to keep us safe.
Us: the streakers,
manics, schizophrenics.
You: the closed-door
drunks, tax-evaders,
and cheaters.
Main difference:
we were caught.
Besides, we learned
long ago
how to climb that fence.

This poem hits home for me as I used to visit and advocate for residents in certain mental health facilities. There were often times I realized how thin the line really was when it came to who would be living inside such a place and living outside such a place in “normal life.” I think the lines “Main difference:/we were caught” hits the nail on the head as to where that line is drawn.



Doorstep

The empty pull
of disappointment,
children’s balloon popped,
farewell to kite escaping.

How lost in the well
or random traffic accident
has left me at the doorstep,
hesitating.

I like this poem because many of us can relate to such a moment. We arrive at a door that causes us to pause in dread for any number of reasons that are unpleasant. I wonder what the poet’s reasons are for hesitating at this particular doorstep?


If you enjoyed this sample of poems from Ms. Hiteshew’s collection, under a bridge, you may purchase a copy for $5.00 (add $2 for US shipping and handling or $3 for outside-of-US shipping and handling) by visiting this link below:

http://alt-current.com/pp/pp_item.html#under_a_bridge



Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Monday, February 14, 2011

Poetry Dispatch

Henry Denander sent me a link to this website and it is absolutely wonderful. Norbert Blei shares thoughts about publishing presses, shares poems from chapbooks he has received and the quality of the chapbook produced, and so on. It is obvious that Mr. Blei loves and respects poetry so I urge you to check out his website at:

http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/


Thanks for visiting, please drop by tomorrow for another featured poet…

Friday, February 11, 2011

Poetry Tips: Break Away From Words

We are surrounded by words in our everyday lives: Books, newspapers, magazines, internet articles, web-sites, e-mails, text messages, memos, bills, the list goes on and on. There are times when you sit down to write that you are either stumped to find the right word or you are overwhelmed with the variety of them.

That’s when it is time to take a break and get away from all the words swimming around in our line of sight. I myself enjoy going to a bookstore or library and finding books filled with pictures: Architecture, interior design, comic books, as well as children’s books. Anything that is primarily made up of pictures and diagrams help free the imagination. I also enjoy going into museums, state parks, or furniture stores to look at beautiful things and breathtaking scenery.

This week I urge you to try breaking away from words and find inspiration through other visual arts, have fun with it! Bring a camera or a sketchbook, even if you’re not adept at photography or drawing, and break away from words for a short time to refresh yourself before sitting down to write again.

Thanks for dropping in, please stop by again next week…

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Juked Open Submissions

I have copy-and-pasted guidelines below:

Submissions

If you like what you read here, and you have something that's more or less up our alley, send it to submissions@juked.com. Be sure to indicate Submission: (genre) by (your name) in the subject line, or it could very well end up bundled with the rest of our junk mail.

There are no limits on word count for prose submissions—we like stories of all sizes, so long as the colors fit. (These days, though, we tend to favor stories running longer than so-called "flash fiction.") Send us just one piece at a time, regardless of length. For poetry, send a maximum of five poems.

In all instances we prefer Rich Text Format files (.rtf), but won't begrudge old Word (.doc) documents. Do not use new Word documents (.docx), as many of us are still living in the 1997-2003 years.

We encourage simultaneous submissions, but let us know immediately if your work has been accepted elsewhere. Previously published material, we are sorry to say, will not be considered.

Your work will always remain yours—we ask only for first- and one-time and archival rights. That means we use your work once, and then we place it lovingly into our archive.

If you don't hear back within four months write us with Query in the subject line and we'll see if it was misplaced.

We do not yet pay our contributors with hard currency, but are hopeful that will change sometime in the future.

Visit the Print page for information regarding print submissions.

For more details go to:
http://www.juked.com/info/index.asp

Good luck to all who submit, please stop by tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Poems Found by Poet Hound

https://sites.google.com/site/rhpissue39/colin-dardis
“Breathless” by Colin Dardis


https://sites.google.com/site/rhpissue39/david-kinsey
“Tick” by David Kinsey

Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Rhymes of a Red Cross Man by Robert W. Service

This is an extraordinary book of poems originally published by Barse and Hopkins in 1916 and the copy I have really is published in 1916. My mother-in-law is letting me borrow Rhymes of a Red Cross Man and inside is a message dated 2/13/17 that says “To my Good Friend George Rummey with best regards” and I’m guessing the initials read “U.V. B.” The poet, Mr. Service, was born Jan. 16th 1874 and passed away Sept. 11, 1958. His book is dedicated “To the Memory of My Brother, Lieutenant Albert Service Canadian Infantry Killed In Action, France, August 1916.”

Robert W. Service describes war and takes on various view points. It may be an old man eager to fight again, a worried young soldier, a dying wounded man, all are represented. For this collection I will simply post his poems as I do not feel they need any further comments on my part, but any comments you have I am very interested in so please feel free to add your comments in the comments section:


The Call
(France, August first, 1914)

Far and near, high and clear
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!

High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A saber instead of a scythe to wield:
War! Red War!

Rich and poor, lord and boor,
Hark to the blast of War!
Tinker and tailor and millionaire,
Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,
Comrades now in the hell out there,
Sweep to the fire of War!

Prince and page, sot and sage,
Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o’ the town,
Into the pot and be melted down:
Into the pot of War!

Women all, hear the call,
The pitiless call of War!
Look your last on your dearest ones,
Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:
Swift they go to the ravenous guns,
The gluttonous guns of War.

Everywhere thrill the air
The maniac bells of War.
There will be little of sleeping to-night;
There will be waiting and weeping to-night;
Death’s red sickle is reaping to-night:
War! War! War!




The Fool

“But it isn’t playing the game,” he said,
And he slammed his books away;
“The Latin and Greek I’ve got in my head
Will do for a duller day.”
“Rubbish!” I cried; “The bugle’s call
Isn’t for lads from school.”
D’ye thin he’d listen? Oh, not at all:
So I called him a fool, a fool.

Now there’s his dog by his empty bed,
And the flute he used to play,
And his favourite bat…but Dick he’s dead,
Somewhere in France they say:
Dick with his rapture of song and sun,
Dick of the yellow hair,
Dicky whose life had but begun,
Carrion-cold out there.

Look at his prizes all in a row:
Surely a hint of fame.
Now he’s finished with,--nothing to show:
Doesn’t it seem a shame?
Look from the window! All you see
Was to be his one day:
Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,
And he goes and chucks it away.

Chucks it away to die in the dark:
Somebody saw him fall,
Part of him mud, part of him blood,
The rest of him—not at all.
And yet I’ll bet he was never afraid,
And he went as the best of ‘em go,
For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,
And his face was turned to the foe.

And I called him a fool…oh how blind was I!
And the cup of my grief’s abrim.
Will Glory o’ England ever die
So long as we’ve lads like him?
So long as we’ve fond and fearless fools,
Who, spurning fortune and fame,
Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,
Just bent on playing the game.

A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.
His was the proudest part.
He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there’s never a grave to tell,
Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he “batted well”
In the last great Game of all.




The Convalescent

. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night...
. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night;
There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight;
There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree,
And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me.

Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone;
And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan;
Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red:
I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead.
Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore;
But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar.
Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer,
And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there.
Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal,
And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all;
I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead,
Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red.

Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew:
Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true.
Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . .
But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps -- a silver cross.



The Lark


From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn,
The guns have brayed without abate;
And now the sick sun looks upon
The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate
As if it loathed to rise again.
How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark!
From yon down-trodden gold of grain,
The leaping rapture of a lark.
A fusillade of melody,
That sprays us from yon trench of sky;
A new amazing enemy
We cannot silence though we try;
A battery on radiant wings,
That from yon gap of golden fleece
Hurls at us hopes of such strange things
As joy and home and love and peace.
Pure heart of song! do you not know
That we are making earth a hell?
Or is it that you try to show
Life still is joy and all is well?
Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain
You beat into that bit of blue:
Lo! we who pant in war's red rain
Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too.



A Song of Winter Weather

It isn't the foe that we fear;
It isn't the bullets that whine;
It isn't the business career
Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
It isn't the snipers who seek
To nip our young hopes in the bud:
No, it isn't the guns,
And it isn't the Huns —
It's the mud,
mud,
mud.
It isn't the mêlée we mind.
That often is rather good fun.
It isn't the shrapnel we find
Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
It isn't the bounce of the bombs
That gives us a positive pain:
It's the strafing we get
When the weather is wet —
It's the rain,
rain,
rain.
It isn't because we lack grit
We shrink from the horrors of war.
We don't mind the battle a bit;
In fact that is what we are for;
It isn't the rum-jars and things
Make us wish we were back in the fold:
It's the fingers that freeze
In the boreal breeze —
It's the cold,
cold,
cold.
Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
The cold, the mud, and the rain;
With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
From language that's rude to refrain.
With porridgy muck to the knees,
With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
Sure the worst of our foes
Are the pains and the woes
Of the rain,
the cold,
and the mud.


Fleurette
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)


My leg? It's off at the knee...
My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.)
But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place;
Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress . . .
Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
But I wasn't a while ago.
If you'd seen me even to-day,
The darndest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall -- in fine,
Wishing that I was dead. . . .
What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men?
Listen! I'll tell you all.
That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound in his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret:
"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"
Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet,
The softest, tenderest sigh,
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"
So over the blanket's rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw -- how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.
Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see),
And I thought with a bitter pain:
"Such visions are not for me."
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say:
"Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh --
But I wouldn't just swear to that.
And maybe she wasn't so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.
And at last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him!
So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I'm a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss,
The thrill of a woman's kiss."
Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light shone in her eyes;
And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
"May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.
Then she kissed my burning lips
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I hadn't even the power
To say: "God bless you, dear!"
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it! I couldn't speak.
And so she went sadly away,
And I knew that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?
God bless her, that little Fleurette!


I realize this is probably the longest post I’ve done in quite a while but the book is such a remarkable one that I felt it was important to share the poems with you all.
To learn more about Mr. Service and to read more of his poems on-line, go to:
http://www.robertwservice.com/


Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Monday, February 7, 2011

Hosho McCreesh's Web-Site

Hosho McCreesh has been featured several times on Poet Hound and he has alerted me to his new web-site which links up to poetry—even the free on-line digital books, along with links to interviews about his work. Mr. McCreesh hails from New Mexico and has published many wonderful poems that I’m sure you’ve read here before and many more that you haven’t read yet, so please check out his new web-site!

Check it out at:

http://www.hoshomccreesh.com/hoshomccreesh.com/Home.html

Thanks for clicking in, please stop in tomorrow for another featured poet…

Friday, February 4, 2011

Poetry Tips: Valentines

You can’t tell me you didn’t see this idea coming! With all the department stores and candy shops filled with heart-shaped everything, it is hard to miss this romance filled holiday. However, there are also those who would rather duck and cover from the whole event. So I dare you to try both a Valentine Poem and an Anti-Valentine poem. Whichever perspective you have on the holiday also try the opposite.

Plus, it never hurts to spread a little love by writing compliment filled poems to anyone you’d like to “butter up” so you may want to try some thank-you based poems to hand out on Valentine’s day as a way to sweeten just about anyone’s day.

Good luck to all who try it, please drop in again next week…

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The American Poetry Review Open Submissions

I have copied-and-pasted the guidelines below:

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
The American Poetry Review publishes original poetry, literary criticism, interviews, and essays. Please observe the following guidelines when submitting manuscripts for consideration.
o If possible, manuscripts should be typewritten or computer-printed, on white, 8 ½ ” x 11” paper. Prose should be double-spaced.
o Manuscripts should be addressed to “The Editors” and mailed to APR, 1700 Sansom Street, Suite 800, Philadelphia, PA 19103. Do not send manuscripts by fax or e-mail.
o Please do not send previously published material.
o Each submission must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope for our reply. (International submissions should be accompanied by Universal Postal Union International Response Coupons.) No reply will be made to unaccepted manuscripts that are not accompanied by a SASE. We will not respond via e-mail.
o Keep a copy of your manuscript and record the date you sent it.
o Our reporting time is approximately three months. We will inform you of our decision. Please do not inquire about the status of your submission unless more than three months have passed.
o Copyright: APR holds first serial rights for material that we publish. The copyright automatically reverts to the author upon publication. We do not require that material be copyrighted prior to submission.




For more details and to check out their web-site, go to:

https://www.aprweb.org/about


Good luck to all who submit! Please stop in again tomorrow…

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179284
“A un desconcido” by Lorna Dee Cervantes

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19904
“He would not stay for me and who could wonder” by A.E. Housman


Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Service Delay

Today’s post is delayed because I am waiting to hear from whoever answers e-mail at Robert W. Service’s webpage as to whether I can feature poems from the book Rhymes of a Red Cross Man in their entirety or not.
My deepest apologies, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…

Monday, January 31, 2011

The Perpetual Bird

Thought provoking posts about poetry by Joseph Hutchinson, I urge you to learn more about poetry through him by visiting:

http://perpetualbird.blogspot.com/


Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for another featured book…