Poetry Tips: Ghostwriting Poems for Valentine's Day

I saw this in a Writer’s Digest magazine and it suggested that if you are a poet and want to make a little money that you could send a mass e-mail to potential interested friends and family offering to help them ghostwrite a Valentine’s Day poem for a small fee. Ghostwriting means that you would help them come up with the poem but the person asking for the service would be listed as the author. I thought this was a great idea and hope we all might make a little extra money for Valentine’s Day with this tip.

May your creative juices flow with this one, thanks for reading, please drop in on Monday…

Fragile Arts Quarterly Open Submissions

I copy-and-pasted the guidelines because it was easier that way:

“(well, we want to expose your work anyway)

Fragile Arts Quarterly accepts submissions throughout the year for publication in the next available issue.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES:

All submissions should be sent via email to: moongazepub@myway.com

POETRY - Up to 10 poems may be submitted for consideration.

PROSE - Fiction or non-fiction up to 5 pages in length.”

Check out more details at:
http://fragile-arts-quarterly.blogspot.com/

Good luck to all who submit! Please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=173526
“Dust of Snow” by Robert Frost

http://arseniclobster.magere.com/210201.html
“Summer of Hammers and Whiskey” by Sara Tracey


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Meg Kearney's Home By Now

Meg Kearney not only publishes poetry collections such as An Unkindness of Ravens, but she has also published a novel for teens, and a picture book titled Trouper the Three-Legged Dog, that is due out soon from Scholastic. She’s been featured in Garrison Keillor’s “A Writer’s Almanac” and been in quite a few well-know poetry publications. Meg Kearney’s collection of poems, Home By Now, is published by Four Way Books and is a straightforward and uncompromising look at the realities of life. The poems are hardheaded and clever; I found Meg Kearney’s writing to be a real page-turner. In fact, just about every poem is marked as a poem I’d like to share but I can only reveal a few to you:


Socks

My father’s body has ceased to shock me.
His skin runs over his bones like a slow
river, rippling where belly meets hip. We’ve
learned how to hold him: one arm each around
his back, one hand under each thigh; Mom
and I stand on opposite sides of his
bed and, on the count of three, lift him
onto the bedpan. We close our eyes—
Dad, then me. Oh, he pants, it’s so damn cold
as I tell myself I am not the first
daughter to do this. Afterward, Mom pulls
his gown down over the stones of his hips
while I train my eyes on the Gold Toe socks
I’ll later steal, when Mom gives away his suits.

I like this poem’s hard-hitting view of life in a family dealing with fragility and illness. The ending lines reveal that her father doesn’t make it since his clothes are eventually given away but it is the touching move of the daughter to take the socks from which she trained her eyes to look for during the more vulnerable moments that strikes me in the heart.



House For Sale
After the divorce: for P.W.

I buried Saint Joseph headfirst
in the yard. Anointed with perfume,
wrapped in an old handkerchief,

he must have heard my supplications
as I dug the hole, lowered him down,
packed the dirt, begged forgiveness.

Victim of faith or superstition,
Saint Joseph bears the dignity
of mud, the vulgarity of worms,

but this house will not sell. The realtor
flashes his wily grin at the next
newlywed couple; suggests, arching

one eyebrow, the potential
of the spare bedroom. I hide
in my car praying to Saint Joseph

to let some other woman stuff peppers
at the kitchen counter; let that
woman cry out, for whatever reason,

in the bedroom. I even wish her joy
here: garden flowers on the sill,
birthday cake cooling on a rack,

a man in the backyard, building
a swing set. Just make her want this
house, please. Let me dig up

my plastic saint, snap the mud
from his little blanket, and ditch this ring
where dogs are sure to piss.

This poem shows off the anger and bitterness of failed dreams of a woman who must sell her house full of memories, eager to shed the burden and start over. I like that she employs her religious and, perhaps superstitious, beliefs in installing the plastic saint as a hopeful good luck charm in the selling. I think it’s an interesting spin that she even wishes the next couple good luck and happiness, adding depth of character to the woman at the heart of the poem.



Dr. Frankenstein Learns The Mother He Never Met Is Dead

I hunted down love with a bone saw,
a threaded needle between
my teeth. Scavenger of blood
and resemblance, I slaughtered
my siblings for body parts,
vowing, We’ll never be orphans
again.
Then I retreated
to a mother’s dirty work:
sawing, stitching, scanning the sky
for lightning. My creation
was born to disappoint: she is so
unlovable. Now she’s on the lam
again—shrieking, slobbering,
smashing everything.

I love the unusual perspective of this poem, the take on Dr. Frankenstein’s madness and dysfunction within his own family relations, the violence of slaughtering his “siblings for body parts” yet carefully reassembling as though with care when exposed by the line “a mother’s dirty work.” The ending in which his creation is unlovable and acting out is a superb representation of all the actions that came before it, the dysfunction and violence in building such a creature only to have it act in the way it was created to begin with. As for the title, it’s as though the whole point of his creation is as a reaction to his discovery of his mother’s death, what an interesting insight and take on Dr. Frankenstein’s life’s work.


Meg Kearney’s poems are hard-hitting yet tender, and if you enjoyed the poems you’ve seen here, you can purchase this collection for $15.95 (not including shipping & handling) directly from Four Way Books using this link below:

http://www.fourwaybooks.com/books/kearney/index.php?PHPSESSID=22ce3e90760712ad52ac9f3668f71783


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

The Wooden Spoon

Literary tools, articles, etc. run by Dan Pritch who is also a member of the Boston Poetry Union, check it out at:

http://danpritch.blogspot.com/


Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for our featured poet, Meg Kearney…

Poetry Tips: Requesting a Review

For those of us not lucky enough to have a publicist touting our creative accomplishments there is always the fall back of promoting ourselves. However, as you can imagine, there is a right way and wrong way to do it. As a poet, or a writer, if you are hoping to ask for someone to review your work and post it in a printed publication or on-line then there are certain rules you should follow:

1.) Be familiar with the publication or web-site you are approaching, i.e., do your research. Make sure that the editor or reviewer you are approaching has regular features/reviews of your genre and that their reviews match what you are looking for. I have had poets approach me asking for much more than what I typically provide on my blog and have had to explain that I produce relatively short, concise features rather than in-depth reviews that might be published in a magazine such as Poetry from the Poetry Foundation. Tailor your request and expectations to the publication or web-site you are approaching.

2.) Be humble and polite. When requesting to be reviewed simply include a brief introduction such as your name, the title of your chapbook or book, what your collection of work is about and that you would like to be featured in the publication or web-site. It also doesn’t hurt to explain why you’ve picked this reviewer’s publication or web-site—do you admire the writers they’ve featured in the past? Do you enjoy reading their reviews and hope to be included among them? Compliments and research go a long way to scoring a review. Please wait for a response from the reviewer before placing restraints, recommendations, or links to other reviews you’ve enjoyed hoping that the reviewer will emulate those reviews when they begin to read your work. The more restraints and requests you make the less eager the reviewer will be to accept your request.

3.) If you do not hear anything in return, wait a couple of weeks to follow-up on your request. Include a reminder that you had sent an e-mail or letter a couple of weeks ago and have not heard a response, would the reviewer mind taking a look?

4.) Also, if you are politely declined do not assume that it is because you are not good enough. It may simply be that the reviewer is currently overwhelmed and you can try approaching the reviewer again in another several months to a year.

5.) Once you have been reviewed, please send a thank you note of some sort—e-mail or hand-written. The reviewer took time out of their busy schedule to read your work and review it so be sure to thank them, especially before requesting another review for another collection of work. Also, do not expect the reviewer to automatically say yes to reviewing another collection unless they have specifically indicated they are willing to do so. If you would like another review and have not had an invitation to send more of your writing then you may need to wait three or more months before asking again. Remember, reviewers have quite a few chapbooks/books to review and may want some time before featuring the same poet or writer again to catch up on other requests or to keep their publication/web-site “fresh.”


I hope this advice is helpful, we are all in this together and I wish you all courage and success in asking for reviews and getting your words published and featured.

Please drop by again on Monday for another featured site…

Nerve Cowboy Chapbook Contest

Get your pens and computers in gear, the deadline is January 31st, 2010! You will need a $10 entry fee (address your check to Nerve Cowboy) and submit 24-40 pages of poetry along with a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope (make sure you have enough postage to ensure return of your manuscript) and don’t forget to include your contact information.
1st prize winners will receive $200 and 50 copies of their published chapbook
2nd prize winners will receive $100 and 30 copies of their published chapbook

Please send your entry fee and manuscript to:

Nerve Cowboy
PO Box 4973
Austin, TX 78765

Good luck to all of you who enter, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.angelicdynamo.com/issues/06/flood.php
“Taken At The Flood” by Richard Epstein


http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15292
“Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

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

Nerve Cowboy Fall 2009 Issue 28

Nerve Cowboy publishes poems that are gritty, witty, and sometimes downright disturbing. If you recall, I interviewed the editors at Nerve Cowboy a while back and if you’d like to read the interview, please use the link below:

http://poethound.blogspot.com/search?q=nerve+cowboy

The most recent issue is full of interesting and enlightening poems with which I am delighted to share several with you:


Beauty Mark

Wedged underneath his widow’s-peak,
It’s a brown boulder poised to fall and crush his nose.
It’s a slow-motion bullet to his brain –
An unexploded cancer-bomb – a ship-gutting rock
That juts from a pale, wrinkled sea.

Like Navajos who let Grandmother Spider share their homes,
Does he respect the mole’s right to be
Loathsome? Does he think it lends character
To his hangdog mug? Is he imprisoned by the male mentality
That calls cosmetic concerns pussifeid?

Is the thing a wit? A sorcerer? A seer?
Has he insured it? Set up its college fund?
What gall to gripe, I can’t get laid,
With that turn-off knob shadowing his bed.
“I don’t trust it,” a woman told me. “It looks too well-fed.”

It’s a great conversation piece – when he can’t hear.
(Who’d dare ask, “How’s it hangin’?” when he’s near?)
Sometimes I fear it’s speaking straight to me:
You bedded Pam, and never called.
You let Mom die miserably in a nursing home.

I stay as far away as I can get,
As if it might leap onto my chin and burn,
Or hiss, “I see you when you think you’re most alone” –
As if its small cask holds the secret of grief
To which my heart, that hopeless drunk, always returns.

By: Charles Harper Webb of Glendale, CA

Isn’t this a funny and gruesome poem? Mr. Webb brings the gruesomeness to life with lines such as “a ship-gutting rock/that juts from a pale, wrinkled sea,” “shadowing his bed,” and “I stay as far away as I can get,/As if it might leap onto my chin an burn,” which causes me to protect my own chin from this large and scary mole on another man’s head. What an entertaining poem about a subject that is loathsome for most of us to endure for ourselves and witness in others.



Mark Weber-Type Poem

So my latest rejection comes from Iowa,
about a week before Christmas:
Thank you for allowing us
to consider your work…”
I picture the writer
at a desk overlooking a corn field.
There’s a droopy plant
on the windowsill
and a volume of Yeats or Keats
nearby.
It has been a tough day,
and here I come,
galloping into that landscape
with my palm trees and deserts,
coyotes and surfers.

By: Dorothea Grossman of Albuquerque, NM

I like this poem because I write and submit poems, too, just like many of you who read this blog. The ending lines are my favorite, “here I come,/galloping into that landscape” as though the writer had the audacity to interrupt the scene of the editor’s desk by brining “palm trees and deserts,/coyotes and surfers” in direct juxtaposition of Iowa cornfields. These lines also hint that the juxtaposition may be what leads to the rejection notice. Either way, as writers we comfort ourselves with any means available in the face of rejection and this poem is demonstrative of this.



6:24 AM

One day I got up
I put on a fresh pot of coffee
And as it began to brew
At 6:24am
I picked up the old New York Times
That I had collected throughout the week to read
And threw them out
I took out a fresh clean sheet of white paper
And wrote a letter
To my old friend
I addressed it to her parent’s house
In Connecticut
She’s married now
Somewhere in Massachusetts
When the coffee was done
I opened up my fridge
I put the milk on the counter
And I threw out all the old Chinese take-out boxes
I threw out the glass container of left over asparagus
Then I poured my coffee and went outside
I lit a fresh cigarette
The ash stood out
As it fell on yellow and red leaves
On my small stone patio

By: Writer Unknown

What a shame that there’s no writer to name! The editors include a note in their introduction that if this writer reads their journal to please give their name and I am asking the same if the writer happens to read this blog. This poem is a lovely snapshot of daily morning ritual and reminiscing. While it is simple it is also endearing as the poet foregoes reading the collected newspapers to write a letter to an old friend instead. I long to hear more of the story—does the married friend write back? Perhaps there will be a sequel to the poem and perhaps it will be accompanied by the writer’s name.


If you enjoyed this sample of poems, you can find more information about Nerve Cowboy with details how to subscribe ($22 for two years, four issues) and submission guidelines, by checking out their site:

http://www.jwhagins.com/nervecowboy.html

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

Sturgeon's Law Site

Steve Schroeder is a poet who provides news on poetry, poets, and general news and goings-on in his life. I found it kept my attention and kept me scrolling downward for more, so please check his site out at:

http://www.steveschroeder.info/news.html

Thanks for dropping in, please stop in tomorrow for a featured poetry journal…

Poetry Tips: Your 2010 Poetic Resolutions

This year, I aim to submit more poems, more often. What are yours? My resolution last year was to finally see a poem published by a literary journal and I made it! However, I didn’t submit poems very often so this year I’m hoping to get more of my poems out there.

I’d be interested to hear/see what your resolutions are, please feel free to use the comments feature to share your successes from your 2009 resolutions and what you hope to accomplish this year.

Thanks for stopping in, please check in on Monday for another poetry site…

The Adirondack Review Open Submissions

You may send between 2-5 single spaced poems with a brief bio via e-mail to editorsATtheadirondackreviewDOTcom with your poems pasted into the e-mail, please make sure they are previously unpublished poems. In the heading of your e-mail include your Last Name, date of submission, and “POETRY.”

For more details, use the link below:

http://adirondackreview.homestead.com/submissions.html

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

Poems Found by Poet Hound

http://www.blossombones.com/summer09/weaver_s09.html
“I Don’t Want to Write a Poem About Costco” by Julene Tripp Weaver

http://apt.aforementionedproductions.com/twentytwo/halston.htm
“After You’d Gone” by Carrissa Halston

Thanks for clicking in, please click in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…

Tom Healy's What The Right Hand Knows

Four Way Books has introduced me to two wonderful collections of poetry and today I will feature Tom Healy’s What The Right Hand Knows, published by Four Way Books. Tom Healy lives in New York and Miami and has appeared in The Tin House, BOMB, and other journals. This collection of poems is edgy, full of wit, surprise, tragedy and was a thoroughly enjoyable read. I have countless poems I’d love to share with you but I will narrow it down to a few and hope that you will look for this book in stores or use the link below to capture a copy for yourself:


Oh, Hi Dad

I thought I had killed him.
But here he is,

come to life so quickly,
despite the scarce crop

of talk, how long
words went hungry,

the distance I’d driven
to dump his memory.

But here he is,
the fruit of famine,

an alphabet emptied
of ice or apology.

Look where it comes!
Here he is.

Taste and eat.
Smile and wave.


This poem is the way I imagine it to be when you cut ties with someone close to you and that person then returns to your life unexpectedly and inexplicably. It is obvious that the poet didn’t actually kill his father but perhaps all memory had been carefully blocked out of mind only to have to confront the father face to face. The ending is what intrigues me most. Despite “killing him” the ending portrays trying to put on a happy face with the ending line of “Smile and wave”, trying to bury the negative thoughts when confronted with the very person he had tried to bury away in his mind and instead showing off a smile. Isn’t that just the way of human nature? Torn between putting on the “happy face” or the “angry scowl” when confronted with someone you had long since abandoned on purpose?



What The Right Hand Knows

I am not in stereo.
Deaf in one ear,

I am unable
with any accuracy

to pinpoint clamor
and quiet.

Argument reaches me
only on my left or

marching down
the center of the street

cleared
of other traffic.

I lose the background,
the sotto voce.

I lose scratch,
whisper, rain,

white noise, color
if it’s muted,

the good gossip
unless I turn to it.

Stories must
circle west

toward twilight.
I have no east.

I learned this
on an ordinary afternoon,

my parents fighting,
torching one another,

and the only place
to run for cover

was standing there,
covering my ears.

But my right hand slipped—
to nothing.

Nothing?
I rolled up the gates,

brought my fingers
flat again, lifted

one, then the other.
Both hands. Neither.

I don’t know why I didn’t
cry or

tell anyone
the sound wasn’t working.

Suddenly strange,
hearing and not—

I kept the sugar taste
of that secrecy

well-hidden
until eventually

Armstrong
landed on the moon

and our family’s first
color console

broadcast the Earth
reflected in the bubble

over the astronaut’s face—
itself another

television
attached to the body

of the best father
of all possible worlds.

Did you know,
I said to my mother,

that the moon’s dark side
has no sound?


I love the eeriness of this poem, the rude awakening of discovering you have no hearing in one ear and then not speaking a word of it. There are wonderful lines that bring to life the absence of sound, how “Stories must/circle west/toward twilight./I have no east.” The parents, distracted: “torching one another” do not notice their son testing out his ears by placing one hand alternately over and then away from his ear and never do notice as time goes by with the poem. I love the ending, a child’s imagination of the “moon’s dark side” having no sound and pairing it with the idea of his own hearing loss. I think this is a beautiful poem that brings out the innocence of a child’s perspective in such a discovery.



An Act of Forbearance

i.

You’re the type
who’d murder.
I’m the one
who eyes
his own wrists.
Should we shed
and spend life
thwarting
one another?

ii.

Compare apples
and oranges.

Compare fiction
and breathing.

One peeled,
one bitten.

Which, my spider,
is which?

We swing
in the threads

of this web
waiting

for sting,
for struggle.

iii.

Consider this.
Consider clay
where there
was once a field.

Consider
what it would
have been for us
to flower—

or stealing
the work
of another verb,
to weed.

iv.

I have my doubts
about the alphabet
bending to our will
like spoons.

We’re the ones
always following
like dogs
and their tongues,

fetching for letters,
playing dead
across sentences,
working sad eyes.

Pity me
in the pound.

This poem, although not necessarily joyful, introduces some playfulness in comparing the writer to his companion. One being the type who’d murder vs. one who would murder him/herself, the idea that the other version is a spider and they are both tangled in the same web makes me wonder what the relationship is? The last section makes me wonder if they are both writers as the poet introduces the idea of “the alphabet/bending to our will/like spoons” (an imaginative visual) and the idea of “fetching for letters/playing dead/across sentences.” The ending lines are an interesting metaphor, referring to being the dog mentioned earlier, and I am dying to know what form this particular “pound” takes? Is it the writing desk? The poet’s home? What do you think? Either way it brings out the idea that the poet and his companion are opposites, one being perhaps stronger than the other.

As I said before, there are countless poems I’d love to share with you but narrowed it down to just a few. All of them are interesting and this collection held my interest through the entire 88 pages. You may be able to find Tom Healy’s book, What The Right Hand Knows, in your local book-store or to purchase a copy for yourself for $15.95, not including shipping, use the link below:

http://www.fourwaybooks.com/books/healy/index.php?PHPSESSID=1f484dd61c16c0dd2a69d43f6f13dab0

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

The Best Selling Poetry of 2009

I thought you might like to see which poetry books made the best seller’s list last year according to Small Press Distribution. Check them out at:

http://spdtoday.blogspot.com/2009/12/spds-best-selling-poetry-2009.html

Perhaps you and I will check out one or two or more of the best sellers to prepare for a new year of best sellers?

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