Some of us feel as though our fates are guided by the stars in the sky. This week, why not write poems based on your horoscope reading? Or, your friends! You could even make up your own horoscopes in rhyme scheme. The point is to have fun and be outlandish.
Good luck to all who try it, please drop in next Monday for another featured poetry site…
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Diode Open Submissions
These are copied-and-pasted:
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
What is electropositive poetry? It’s poetry that excites and energizes. It’s poetry that uses language that crackles and sparks. We’re looking for poetry from all points on the arc, from formal to experimental (no light verse or erotic poetry, please). Simultaneous submissions are welcomed, but please notify us if they're accepted elsewhere. diode does not accept previously published work.
Please submit 3-5 poems with a cover letter via email to: submit@diodepoetry.com
Please attach poems in either Word (.doc) or Rich Text Format (.rtf).
We read year round and will respond in 4-8 weeks.
For more details check them out at:
http://diodepoetry.com/index.html
Good luck to all who submit, please drop by tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
What is electropositive poetry? It’s poetry that excites and energizes. It’s poetry that uses language that crackles and sparks. We’re looking for poetry from all points on the arc, from formal to experimental (no light verse or erotic poetry, please). Simultaneous submissions are welcomed, but please notify us if they're accepted elsewhere. diode does not accept previously published work.
Please submit 3-5 poems with a cover letter via email to: submit@diodepoetry.com
Please attach poems in either Word (.doc) or Rich Text Format (.rtf).
We read year round and will respond in 4-8 weeks.
For more details check them out at:
http://diodepoetry.com/index.html
Good luck to all who submit, please drop by tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Poems Found by Poet Hound
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15443
“Voyages II” by Hart Crane
http://www.sundress.net/wickedalice/palagi29.html
“Girl On Dock” by Naomi Buck Palagi
Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
“Voyages II” by Hart Crane
http://www.sundress.net/wickedalice/palagi29.html
“Girl On Dock” by Naomi Buck Palagi
Thanks for clicking in, please drop by tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
It's Not You, It's Me by Jerry Williams
Jerry Williams’ anthology, It’s Not You, It’s Me, is a collection of poems published by Overlook Press that covers it all: breaking up, cheating, loneliness, all things heart-wrenching. Mr. Williams’ introduction includes details of all of his failed relationships and clues to how he gathered up the particular poems used in this book. With Valentine’s Day approaching with all of its grandiose expectations I thought this would be a great time to feature an anti-valentine collection of poems. I had quite a list of poems to share and I’ve been approved for five so I hope I can cover all the bases in the following:
The Night Before Leaving
By: Linda Gregg
We sit at the kitchen table
waiting for some opening.
For the proper handling
of goodbye.
Going deeper and deeper
into the hours,
like slow divers
sinking in their heavy gear.
We look at each other, gesturing
which way to go
through the lamplight,
garbage bags, dishes in the sink
and on the table.
We surface in a kind of dream.
The boat touches the ground.
Grinds onto the rocks.
We get out,
and it floats again.
This poem definitely produces the feeling of awkward silence to me. Two people who know their relationship is over are trying to pick up the pieces without speaking any more than necessary—hence the reference to scuba divers descending into the depths using gestures to communicate. The divers are a unique way to provide a pantomime of a relationship, it really brings about vivid ideas to the couple dealing with the mundane parts of parting ways—dishes in the sink, garbage bags. When all is said and done, you see the reference of a boat grinding onto the rocks, the grating emotions at the end before they part ways once and for all.
Home Together
By: Ravi Shankar
Between us the vacuum of early evening,
A pot of rice and beans simmering on the stove.
Between us, for now, an easy domesticity.
The way we move past each other without words,
A thin breeze hitched up to bay windows,
Our footsteps rattling on the hardwood floors.
Words are there though, invisible yet sharp
As incisors pulled from a hound’s drooling jaw,
Words we can never have meant to speak,
But did, recanted, then spoke again.
Such words should have died in our lungs.
They have staked between us a fence of teeth.
The ending line is fabulous, in my opinion. Teeth which form words that create harm and build up the impenetrable wall of silence between the pair in the poem. This poem brings to mind a couple that has been together so long that separation no longer seems possible yet they are miserable in their relationship and remain silent on the subject as a result of all the harmful things that come out when they do attempt to speak.
Minneapolis
By: Patricia Smith
Ouch. The first hurt is when I see you
standing in the lobby of my hotel, pacing,
hands shoved deep in your pockets. I realize then
that it is already too late, that common sense
is no friend of ours, and I consider saying
“I have fallen in love with you” and
touching the flat of my hand against your
grizzled cheek, just to see whether you would
run, or weep. The wine, of course, is desperate
ritual, a last chance to laugh it off and return,
shaky and solemn, to the clutches of home.
We sip and giggle, our eyes jumping,
and I hungry-stare at your left hand resting
on the table, wondering if it has memorized me.
Ouch. But I am in your arms, pressed against
the door of my room, drinking in all this wrong,
biting and kissing, clutching, but this is not home,
this is not home, this is breath, this is downbeat,
this is, oh my God, forgive me, this is my latest
religion. I fold myself under you, pass through
your skin, introduce my anxious tongues
to the swell of your belly, fill my fists
with soft steel-colored curls. And our kisses
are dirge rhythm then jazz quick, strutting
like bullies on the bass line of us.
My whole body is hurt, then hallelujah,
hurt, then hallelujah again,
regretting then reveling in this deception.
Somewhere it says thou shalt not commit this.
The last thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The next thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The only thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The only thing I want is this stranger.
There are too many of us in this one room. Your wife
stands cool and detached by the window, my husband
sits on the side of the bed with his head in his hands.
We weep and fuck, so sweet slowly, so flustered and
Needing, forgetting to eat or drink, ignoring the screams
from our respective corners. That nagging question,
“What are we doing?” is answered a million and one
times because it is what we keep doing, ouch, it is what
we can’t stop doing, shattering our lives and dancing
barefoot on the shards of glass. When I say I love you
it is the first poem I ever wrote, and when you answer
I love you too, it is the sound that poem makes in the open air.
Ouch. At the sight of us, your wife moans regret.
My husband stops his tears long enough to ask me
how I could do this. I twist my body into goodbye,
squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of you.
Your plane home guns its engines
just outside the window.
If this poem doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you need to read it again. I love that every stanza begins with “Ouch” and instead of titling it what it is: Infidility, it is titled the scene of the crime. Patricia Smith makes me bow my head when reading this, it’s like watching a bad car accident you can’t look away from, it is terrible and hurts and yet you must find out the conclusion. The lovers part knowing they’ve destroyed their relationships at home and the narrator tries her utmost to block out the vision of her infidelity, “squeezing the eyes shut” against him. This poem brings my nerves to a boil, Patricia Smith has done her job well.
The Pure Loneliness
By: Michael Ryan
Late at night, when you’re so lonely,
your shoulders curl toward the center of your body,
you call no one and you don’t call out.
This is dignity. This is the pure loneliness
that made Christ think he was God.
This is why lunatics smile at their thoughts.
Even the best moment, as you slip
half-a-foot deep into someone you like,
sinks through the loneliness in it
to the loneliness that’s not.
If you believe Christ hanging on the cross,
his arms spread as if to embrace
the Father he calls who is somewhere else,
you still might hear your own voice
at your next great embrace, thinking
loneliness in another can’t be touched,
like Christ’s voice at death answering Himself.
This poem has an eerie quality perfect for loneliness. I find it fascinating that he brings Jesus into the poem as a way to illustrate the idea of being and acting alone and feeling lonely in it. The first stanza can make you curl into yourself as you start reading, as if reacting to the poem and the line towards the end “loneliness in another can’t be touched” leaves you nodding to yourself in agreement. Michael Ryan executes the look, the feel, and the thoughts involved in being lonely in a relatively short poem which shows you the power of poetry.
Why I Will Not Get Out Of Bed
By: James Tate
My muscles unravel
like spools of ribbon:
there is not a shadow
of pain. I will pose
like this for the rest
of the afternoon,
for the remainder
of all noons. The rain
is making a valley
of my dim features.
I am in Albania,
I am on the Rhine.
It is autumn,
I smell the rain,
I see children running
through columbine.
I am honey,
I am several winds.
My nerves dissolve,
my limbs wither—
I don’t love you.
I don’t love you.
The idea that muscles unravel like spools is unusual and I like it. It is obvious that the body is being affected by depression and the emotions are dark as “nerves dissolve” and he tells himself “I don’t love you” when it is this love that has brought him to this state. This is the poem I leave you with, a poem that concludes all the negatives that transpire from losing your Love. It is painful and dark, and this poem is perfect for it.
There were several more poems I wanted to post, especially “Fuck You Poem #45” but I can only feature so many. If you enjoyed these sample poems and want to grab a copy for yourself or someone you know, then you may purchase a copy from Overlook Press for $14.95 (not including Shipping & Handling) by using the following link:
http://www.overlookpress.com/it-s-not-you-it-s-me-1.html
Thanks always for reading, may your Valentine’s Day provide a better experience than the poems above, and please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
The Night Before Leaving
By: Linda Gregg
We sit at the kitchen table
waiting for some opening.
For the proper handling
of goodbye.
Going deeper and deeper
into the hours,
like slow divers
sinking in their heavy gear.
We look at each other, gesturing
which way to go
through the lamplight,
garbage bags, dishes in the sink
and on the table.
We surface in a kind of dream.
The boat touches the ground.
Grinds onto the rocks.
We get out,
and it floats again.
This poem definitely produces the feeling of awkward silence to me. Two people who know their relationship is over are trying to pick up the pieces without speaking any more than necessary—hence the reference to scuba divers descending into the depths using gestures to communicate. The divers are a unique way to provide a pantomime of a relationship, it really brings about vivid ideas to the couple dealing with the mundane parts of parting ways—dishes in the sink, garbage bags. When all is said and done, you see the reference of a boat grinding onto the rocks, the grating emotions at the end before they part ways once and for all.
Home Together
By: Ravi Shankar
Between us the vacuum of early evening,
A pot of rice and beans simmering on the stove.
Between us, for now, an easy domesticity.
The way we move past each other without words,
A thin breeze hitched up to bay windows,
Our footsteps rattling on the hardwood floors.
Words are there though, invisible yet sharp
As incisors pulled from a hound’s drooling jaw,
Words we can never have meant to speak,
But did, recanted, then spoke again.
Such words should have died in our lungs.
They have staked between us a fence of teeth.
The ending line is fabulous, in my opinion. Teeth which form words that create harm and build up the impenetrable wall of silence between the pair in the poem. This poem brings to mind a couple that has been together so long that separation no longer seems possible yet they are miserable in their relationship and remain silent on the subject as a result of all the harmful things that come out when they do attempt to speak.
Minneapolis
By: Patricia Smith
Ouch. The first hurt is when I see you
standing in the lobby of my hotel, pacing,
hands shoved deep in your pockets. I realize then
that it is already too late, that common sense
is no friend of ours, and I consider saying
“I have fallen in love with you” and
touching the flat of my hand against your
grizzled cheek, just to see whether you would
run, or weep. The wine, of course, is desperate
ritual, a last chance to laugh it off and return,
shaky and solemn, to the clutches of home.
We sip and giggle, our eyes jumping,
and I hungry-stare at your left hand resting
on the table, wondering if it has memorized me.
Ouch. But I am in your arms, pressed against
the door of my room, drinking in all this wrong,
biting and kissing, clutching, but this is not home,
this is not home, this is breath, this is downbeat,
this is, oh my God, forgive me, this is my latest
religion. I fold myself under you, pass through
your skin, introduce my anxious tongues
to the swell of your belly, fill my fists
with soft steel-colored curls. And our kisses
are dirge rhythm then jazz quick, strutting
like bullies on the bass line of us.
My whole body is hurt, then hallelujah,
hurt, then hallelujah again,
regretting then reveling in this deception.
Somewhere it says thou shalt not commit this.
The last thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The next thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The only thing I want is this stranger inside me.
The only thing I want is this stranger.
There are too many of us in this one room. Your wife
stands cool and detached by the window, my husband
sits on the side of the bed with his head in his hands.
We weep and fuck, so sweet slowly, so flustered and
Needing, forgetting to eat or drink, ignoring the screams
from our respective corners. That nagging question,
“What are we doing?” is answered a million and one
times because it is what we keep doing, ouch, it is what
we can’t stop doing, shattering our lives and dancing
barefoot on the shards of glass. When I say I love you
it is the first poem I ever wrote, and when you answer
I love you too, it is the sound that poem makes in the open air.
Ouch. At the sight of us, your wife moans regret.
My husband stops his tears long enough to ask me
how I could do this. I twist my body into goodbye,
squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of you.
Your plane home guns its engines
just outside the window.
If this poem doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you need to read it again. I love that every stanza begins with “Ouch” and instead of titling it what it is: Infidility, it is titled the scene of the crime. Patricia Smith makes me bow my head when reading this, it’s like watching a bad car accident you can’t look away from, it is terrible and hurts and yet you must find out the conclusion. The lovers part knowing they’ve destroyed their relationships at home and the narrator tries her utmost to block out the vision of her infidelity, “squeezing the eyes shut” against him. This poem brings my nerves to a boil, Patricia Smith has done her job well.
The Pure Loneliness
By: Michael Ryan
Late at night, when you’re so lonely,
your shoulders curl toward the center of your body,
you call no one and you don’t call out.
This is dignity. This is the pure loneliness
that made Christ think he was God.
This is why lunatics smile at their thoughts.
Even the best moment, as you slip
half-a-foot deep into someone you like,
sinks through the loneliness in it
to the loneliness that’s not.
If you believe Christ hanging on the cross,
his arms spread as if to embrace
the Father he calls who is somewhere else,
you still might hear your own voice
at your next great embrace, thinking
loneliness in another can’t be touched,
like Christ’s voice at death answering Himself.
This poem has an eerie quality perfect for loneliness. I find it fascinating that he brings Jesus into the poem as a way to illustrate the idea of being and acting alone and feeling lonely in it. The first stanza can make you curl into yourself as you start reading, as if reacting to the poem and the line towards the end “loneliness in another can’t be touched” leaves you nodding to yourself in agreement. Michael Ryan executes the look, the feel, and the thoughts involved in being lonely in a relatively short poem which shows you the power of poetry.
Why I Will Not Get Out Of Bed
By: James Tate
My muscles unravel
like spools of ribbon:
there is not a shadow
of pain. I will pose
like this for the rest
of the afternoon,
for the remainder
of all noons. The rain
is making a valley
of my dim features.
I am in Albania,
I am on the Rhine.
It is autumn,
I smell the rain,
I see children running
through columbine.
I am honey,
I am several winds.
My nerves dissolve,
my limbs wither—
I don’t love you.
I don’t love you.
The idea that muscles unravel like spools is unusual and I like it. It is obvious that the body is being affected by depression and the emotions are dark as “nerves dissolve” and he tells himself “I don’t love you” when it is this love that has brought him to this state. This is the poem I leave you with, a poem that concludes all the negatives that transpire from losing your Love. It is painful and dark, and this poem is perfect for it.
There were several more poems I wanted to post, especially “Fuck You Poem #45” but I can only feature so many. If you enjoyed these sample poems and want to grab a copy for yourself or someone you know, then you may purchase a copy from Overlook Press for $14.95 (not including Shipping & Handling) by using the following link:
http://www.overlookpress.com/it-s-not-you-it-s-me-1.html
Thanks always for reading, may your Valentine’s Day provide a better experience than the poems above, and please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Monday, February 8, 2010
Poems Out Loud
An intelligent site where you can listen to a variety of poets and their poems with details on the poets’ backgrounds… thoroughly enjoyable, check it out at:
http://www.poemsoutloud.net/
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured poet…
http://www.poemsoutloud.net/
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured poet…
Friday, February 5, 2010
Poetry Tips: Just Do It
Sometimes we fear rejection so much that we don’t want to try, but try we must. Maybe you haven’t sent out that first poem, uncertain whether your poem fits a journal’s or e-zine’s style. Maybe you have a chapbook collection that you’re not sure will win the contest. I encourage you to send your best efforts into the world and “just do it.” As I read in a magazine this past week: do it afraid, the courage will come later. If the rejection does come, at least you know you tried and can try elsewhere. There are countless opportunities to present yourself whether you’re a poet or trying to gain employment, so why not try? Courage is pursuing your passions despite the fear.
Good luck to all of you, thanks for dropping in. Please drop in next Monday for another featured site…
Good luck to all of you, thanks for dropping in. Please drop in next Monday for another featured site…
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Open Submissions The Chattahoochee Review
Send three to five unpublished poems along with a cover letter (it’s encouraged but you don’t absolutely have to) through snail mail with an SASE or via e-mail to:
Mail or e-mail submissions to:
The Chattahoochee Review
2101 Womack Road
Dunwoody, Georgia 30338-4497
gpccr@gpc.edu
For more information, use the link below:
http://www.gpc.edu/~gpccr/submissions.php
Good luck to all who submit, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Mail or e-mail submissions to:
The Chattahoochee Review
2101 Womack Road
Dunwoody, Georgia 30338-4497
gpccr@gpc.edu
For more information, use the link below:
http://www.gpc.edu/~gpccr/submissions.php
Good luck to all who submit, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Poems Found by Poet Hound
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=175758
“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert E. Hayden
http://www.juked.com/2010/01/bonnieprincebilly.asp
“Letter to the Bonnie “Prince Billy” by Taylor McMahon
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert E. Hayden
http://www.juked.com/2010/01/bonnieprincebilly.asp
“Letter to the Bonnie “Prince Billy” by Taylor McMahon
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Lilliput Review #171
Don Wentworth at Lilliput Review has put together another riveting issue in #171 which is filled with poems about the ends of fall and the beginning of spring and the wellsprings of creative impulses of ink and paper. The first dozen poems I quickly claimed as favorites and then decided the whole issue is one of my favorite issues I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. Quite frankly I feel like posting the whole gosh-darned issue right here! However, that would not be practical or fair. So I will provide a small sample here…
4 A.M.
Spring cracks the sky and ink runs out.
An immense rom
rises around us
A wave of birdsong
breaks slowly across the continent.
Jim Ellis of Auburn, NY
Isn’t this a beautiful vision of spring and sunrise? It makes me want to step outside and breathe in deep the fresh air…
The sidewalks have disappeared.
I walk out into blank thought. The hinges
of the mailbox frozen over; the news,
small though it may seem, has traveled
whole lifetimes to reach us.
Greg Watson of St. Paul, MN
This is a nice contrast to the first poem, both make me want to breathe in fresh air. I love the idea of the mailbox being frozen over containing news that has “traveled whole lifetimes” and I am always a romantic about mailboxes and letters.
From the bridge I watch rust-colored barges
pushing pyramids of gravel up the river.
There is no Egypt here, no mystery;
only the earth shifting its weight, sun blazing,
the small indifferent birds who do not
sing. Not even for you.
Greg Watson of St. Paul, MN
I know we’ve already featured Greg Watson but his visuals are so crisp! Pyramids of gravel being pushed up river, how can you not picture it clearly in your mind’s eye? And then the emotions are brought forth by the last lines of birds who do not sing, “not even for you.” Who, exactly, is he naming? I’m dying to know! It’s a great way to create intrigue, don’t you think?
Going nowhere.
Always packed and ready.
Charlie Mehrhoff of Oakland, ME
Such a short poem loaded with any and all ideas you can bring to it. Personally, I wonder if he also means “having nothing” and therefore even more ready to just pick up and go where the winds may take him.
If you enjoyed these poems you can purchase Issue #171 for a whopping $1.00 bill or you can subscribe to six issues for $5 or 15 issues for $10.00 by sending a check made out to “Don Wentworth” and mail it to:
Lilliput Review
Don Wentworth
282 Main Street
Pittsburgh PA 15201
Being a subscriber of Lilliput Review, I can tell you that each envelope that arrives in the mail with the latest issues is always jam packed and colorful with book-mark sized flyers for new chapbooks, and I do use them as bookmarks, each issue arrives on colored paper and the illustrations are just as entertaining as the poems within the pages and on the cover. I always think of it as a present to receive the latest issues in the mail.
You can also learn more about Lilliput Review and its submissions guidelines at:
http://lilliputreview.googlepages.com/home
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
4 A.M.
Spring cracks the sky and ink runs out.
An immense rom
rises around us
A wave of birdsong
breaks slowly across the continent.
Jim Ellis of Auburn, NY
Isn’t this a beautiful vision of spring and sunrise? It makes me want to step outside and breathe in deep the fresh air…
The sidewalks have disappeared.
I walk out into blank thought. The hinges
of the mailbox frozen over; the news,
small though it may seem, has traveled
whole lifetimes to reach us.
Greg Watson of St. Paul, MN
This is a nice contrast to the first poem, both make me want to breathe in fresh air. I love the idea of the mailbox being frozen over containing news that has “traveled whole lifetimes” and I am always a romantic about mailboxes and letters.
From the bridge I watch rust-colored barges
pushing pyramids of gravel up the river.
There is no Egypt here, no mystery;
only the earth shifting its weight, sun blazing,
the small indifferent birds who do not
sing. Not even for you.
Greg Watson of St. Paul, MN
I know we’ve already featured Greg Watson but his visuals are so crisp! Pyramids of gravel being pushed up river, how can you not picture it clearly in your mind’s eye? And then the emotions are brought forth by the last lines of birds who do not sing, “not even for you.” Who, exactly, is he naming? I’m dying to know! It’s a great way to create intrigue, don’t you think?
Going nowhere.
Always packed and ready.
Charlie Mehrhoff of Oakland, ME
Such a short poem loaded with any and all ideas you can bring to it. Personally, I wonder if he also means “having nothing” and therefore even more ready to just pick up and go where the winds may take him.
If you enjoyed these poems you can purchase Issue #171 for a whopping $1.00 bill or you can subscribe to six issues for $5 or 15 issues for $10.00 by sending a check made out to “Don Wentworth” and mail it to:
Lilliput Review
Don Wentworth
282 Main Street
Pittsburgh PA 15201
Being a subscriber of Lilliput Review, I can tell you that each envelope that arrives in the mail with the latest issues is always jam packed and colorful with book-mark sized flyers for new chapbooks, and I do use them as bookmarks, each issue arrives on colored paper and the illustrations are just as entertaining as the poems within the pages and on the cover. I always think of it as a present to receive the latest issues in the mail.
You can also learn more about Lilliput Review and its submissions guidelines at:
http://lilliputreview.googlepages.com/home
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Monday, February 1, 2010
Hokku Site
Wonderful and informative site about Hokku and its history, please check it out at:
http://hokku.wordpress.com/
Thanks for dropping in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
P.S. I am always interested in feedback so always feel free to leave comments. I’ve received some wonderful e-mails but would love to see some dialogue in the comments section as well, so please don’t be shy about sharing your thoughts.
http://hokku.wordpress.com/
Thanks for dropping in, please stop by tomorrow for another featured poet…
P.S. I am always interested in feedback so always feel free to leave comments. I’ve received some wonderful e-mails but would love to see some dialogue in the comments section as well, so please don’t be shy about sharing your thoughts.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Poetry Tips: Scrap Paper Poems
There are plenty of web-sites that seem to post scraps of paper they find from their ventures out into the world on-line, notes scrawled to roommates, lovers, etc. If you stumble upon any of these they could be excellent fodder for a poem. This week, see what you find on the streets, in the parking lots, on the floor in your offices and see what kind of poems they may inspire.
Good luck to all who try it, please stop in next week for Monday’s featured site…
Good luck to all who try it, please stop in next week for Monday’s featured site…
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Four Way Books Open Submissions
If you have yet to publish a full-length book of poems and are wanting to try it this year, you have until March 31st to polish and bring together a book-length manuscript of poems, between 48-80 pages not including title pages to submit.
There is a $25.00 entry fee but the prize is $1000 for the winning manuscript. If you have published any chapbooks or if you’ve published in quite a few journals and/or anthologies and believe you have enough related poems to fill the manuscript guidelines then I believe you have reason enough to try your hand at submitting a full-length manuscript.
You can submit on-line (preferred by Four Way Books) or via snail mail but you must go to their web-site and follow the instructions listed there which includes filling out or down-loading and filling out their form to mail with your manuscript at:
http://www.fourwaybooks.com/guidelines.php
Please also see their note that if you are in any way related to or working with Alan Shapiro that you may not be eligible to submit your manuscript this time around.
Good luck to all of you who submit!
Thanks for checking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
There is a $25.00 entry fee but the prize is $1000 for the winning manuscript. If you have published any chapbooks or if you’ve published in quite a few journals and/or anthologies and believe you have enough related poems to fill the manuscript guidelines then I believe you have reason enough to try your hand at submitting a full-length manuscript.
You can submit on-line (preferred by Four Way Books) or via snail mail but you must go to their web-site and follow the instructions listed there which includes filling out or down-loading and filling out their form to mail with your manuscript at:
http://www.fourwaybooks.com/guidelines.php
Please also see their note that if you are in any way related to or working with Alan Shapiro that you may not be eligible to submit your manuscript this time around.
Good luck to all of you who submit!
Thanks for checking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Poetry Tips…
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Poems Found By Poet Hound
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16138
“The World” by George Herbert
http://arseniclobster.magere.com/210302.html
“Gary, Indiana” by Matt Gillespie
Thanks always for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
“The World” by George Herbert
http://arseniclobster.magere.com/210302.html
“Gary, Indiana” by Matt Gillespie
Thanks always for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for more Open Submissions…
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Sagging: Spirits and Skin by Jason Fisk
Jason Fisk hails from Chicago and his latest collection of poems is published by Alternating Current’s Propaganda Press. The Sagging: Spirits and Skin is filled with the encounters of city and rural life, family revelations and the everyday conversations that send you reeling:
The Farm
A preteen summer
spent on my uncle’s farm
Hay bail hallways created to guide
the pigs from one barn to the other
I waited, leaning over the hay bails
watching intently
The pigs finally came
pissed as hell
my uncle chased after them
with the handle of a hoe
beating them if they stopped.
The irate pigs demolished
the hay bail hallway.
Pushing through it
jumping over it
Here – he handed me
the hoe handle
What am I supposed to do with this?
Hit ‘em in the fuck’n face like this
He hit one squarely in the snout, and it released
a sound between a scream and a squeal
We gotta get ‘em into the barn.
I took the hoe handle and watched
as the pig’s snout bled.
Don’t worry ‘bout it
they don’t have feelings
I was a grown man
the summer night he called
and asked me to hurry over
when he answered the door
a waft of whisky
flooded my nostrils
I saw a blood soaked rag
in the bottom of the deep sink
in the mudroom
his speech slurred
his voice was in pain
as his tongue rolled around
in his numb mouth
She just got on my nerves
said the wrong thing…
He guided me to the bathroom
where she was crumpled
on the floor
with bloody bath towels
What the fuck did you do?
She and I were arguing…
I ran to the phone
and dialed 911
he tried to push me away
I hit him squarely in the nose
with the palm of my hand
he fell/nose bleeding
to the floor
I looked at his pig face
and wondered
if he felt that
This poem is heavy in its weight and ends with a retort that travels across time. Mr. Fisk keeps us riveted in our seats and gives us what we crave—justice—at the end and for all the best reasons.
The Rosebud
I hadn’t seen you
since the day you told
me you were pregnant,
in that café. It was
a September day,
filled with a cold fall rain.
I remember thinking
that I could smell the rain
on people as they passed our table.
There was an unopened
rosebud in a simple
glass vase on our table.
What am I going to do?
You asked
over and over.
Today we stood in the aisle
between the cards
and the candles
at Target, small talk
our armor. I looked
at your empty belly.
You pulled your jacket closed.
“Well, it sure is good to see you,
we’ll have to get together sometime,”
you lied. I wanted to tell you
that I had learned
in a poem
that the Japanese
prefer the rose bud
to the rose blossom,
but how do you fit
that into conversation?
There are so many layers to this poem. You wonder what the relationship is between the poet and the woman—were they dating? Were they friends? With ground breaking news comes the hyper-awareness of your surroundings, the unopened rose on the table, could it have represented the unborn child? Could it have been just a simple part seared into the mind so that the poet latches onto a new meaning for an unopened rose in a Japanese poem? There are so many questions and layers and such a brief and loaded encounter in which all of us, including the poet, are left without answers. We never find out what happened to the child and we never find out the relationship between the two but this poem moves the reader in the way it moves the poet.
Summer – 1985
Duct taping the garden hose
to the exhaust of his car
reminded him
of the days of Erector Sets,
Lincoln Logs and cardboard boxes.
The satisfaction
of having built something,
As he unwound
the new green hose,
the smell reminded him
of summer days,
and that terrible rubbery taste
that lingers after sipping.
He pulled it around
and set the metal hose end
in the driver’s seat window
He sealed the gap
with more gray tape.
He started the car.
The old engine roared to life
and the exhaust sputtered.
He got in his metal coffin
and pulled the door shut.
He watched the exhaust
spill in and fall downward.
He coughed and quickly exited
the passenger side
and scrambled
out of the garage.
From the garage window
he watched the car fill
with exhaust.
That’s exactly how I feel
he thought and leaned his head
against the window frame.
He watched the car fill
as the sun set. It reminded him
of watching fireworks
when he was a kid,
but he didn’t know why.
This is another heavy-weight poem and while it can seem depressing at first with the visual descriptions so vivid I can almost hear the duct tape in this piece it ultimately ends hopeful—the man does not complete the act we are led to visualize in horror. Instead, he watches its progression as an outsider, as if picturing himself going through suicide without completing it and relieving himself of the pain in this way. It’s an unusual and oddly inspiring poem, the note on the fireworks is a surprise which adds another exotic layer to the visual already in our minds. I find this poem as one of the most exceptional ones in Mr. Fisk’s collection.
If these sample poems moved you from Jason Fisk you can visit his web-site:
www.jasonfisk.com
and then you can purchase this collection from Alternating Current for $5.00 (plus $2 US shipping or $3 out-of-US shipping) by clicking the link below:
http://alt-current.blogspot.com/
Or you can send check or money order to: Alternating Current, PO Box 398058, Cambridge MA 02139
*Remember, Alternating Current is one of the small presses where poets can be paid for their work so please support small presses such as this one, there are plenty of wonderful writers for you to peruse at Alternating Current and I am sure you will find someone whose work you enjoy.
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
The Farm
A preteen summer
spent on my uncle’s farm
Hay bail hallways created to guide
the pigs from one barn to the other
I waited, leaning over the hay bails
watching intently
The pigs finally came
pissed as hell
my uncle chased after them
with the handle of a hoe
beating them if they stopped.
The irate pigs demolished
the hay bail hallway.
Pushing through it
jumping over it
Here – he handed me
the hoe handle
What am I supposed to do with this?
Hit ‘em in the fuck’n face like this
He hit one squarely in the snout, and it released
a sound between a scream and a squeal
We gotta get ‘em into the barn.
I took the hoe handle and watched
as the pig’s snout bled.
Don’t worry ‘bout it
they don’t have feelings
I was a grown man
the summer night he called
and asked me to hurry over
when he answered the door
a waft of whisky
flooded my nostrils
I saw a blood soaked rag
in the bottom of the deep sink
in the mudroom
his speech slurred
his voice was in pain
as his tongue rolled around
in his numb mouth
She just got on my nerves
said the wrong thing…
He guided me to the bathroom
where she was crumpled
on the floor
with bloody bath towels
What the fuck did you do?
She and I were arguing…
I ran to the phone
and dialed 911
he tried to push me away
I hit him squarely in the nose
with the palm of my hand
he fell/nose bleeding
to the floor
I looked at his pig face
and wondered
if he felt that
This poem is heavy in its weight and ends with a retort that travels across time. Mr. Fisk keeps us riveted in our seats and gives us what we crave—justice—at the end and for all the best reasons.
The Rosebud
I hadn’t seen you
since the day you told
me you were pregnant,
in that café. It was
a September day,
filled with a cold fall rain.
I remember thinking
that I could smell the rain
on people as they passed our table.
There was an unopened
rosebud in a simple
glass vase on our table.
What am I going to do?
You asked
over and over.
Today we stood in the aisle
between the cards
and the candles
at Target, small talk
our armor. I looked
at your empty belly.
You pulled your jacket closed.
“Well, it sure is good to see you,
we’ll have to get together sometime,”
you lied. I wanted to tell you
that I had learned
in a poem
that the Japanese
prefer the rose bud
to the rose blossom,
but how do you fit
that into conversation?
There are so many layers to this poem. You wonder what the relationship is between the poet and the woman—were they dating? Were they friends? With ground breaking news comes the hyper-awareness of your surroundings, the unopened rose on the table, could it have represented the unborn child? Could it have been just a simple part seared into the mind so that the poet latches onto a new meaning for an unopened rose in a Japanese poem? There are so many questions and layers and such a brief and loaded encounter in which all of us, including the poet, are left without answers. We never find out what happened to the child and we never find out the relationship between the two but this poem moves the reader in the way it moves the poet.
Summer – 1985
Duct taping the garden hose
to the exhaust of his car
reminded him
of the days of Erector Sets,
Lincoln Logs and cardboard boxes.
The satisfaction
of having built something,
As he unwound
the new green hose,
the smell reminded him
of summer days,
and that terrible rubbery taste
that lingers after sipping.
He pulled it around
and set the metal hose end
in the driver’s seat window
He sealed the gap
with more gray tape.
He started the car.
The old engine roared to life
and the exhaust sputtered.
He got in his metal coffin
and pulled the door shut.
He watched the exhaust
spill in and fall downward.
He coughed and quickly exited
the passenger side
and scrambled
out of the garage.
From the garage window
he watched the car fill
with exhaust.
That’s exactly how I feel
he thought and leaned his head
against the window frame.
He watched the car fill
as the sun set. It reminded him
of watching fireworks
when he was a kid,
but he didn’t know why.
This is another heavy-weight poem and while it can seem depressing at first with the visual descriptions so vivid I can almost hear the duct tape in this piece it ultimately ends hopeful—the man does not complete the act we are led to visualize in horror. Instead, he watches its progression as an outsider, as if picturing himself going through suicide without completing it and relieving himself of the pain in this way. It’s an unusual and oddly inspiring poem, the note on the fireworks is a surprise which adds another exotic layer to the visual already in our minds. I find this poem as one of the most exceptional ones in Mr. Fisk’s collection.
If these sample poems moved you from Jason Fisk you can visit his web-site:
www.jasonfisk.com
and then you can purchase this collection from Alternating Current for $5.00 (plus $2 US shipping or $3 out-of-US shipping) by clicking the link below:
http://alt-current.blogspot.com/
Or you can send check or money order to: Alternating Current, PO Box 398058, Cambridge MA 02139
*Remember, Alternating Current is one of the small presses where poets can be paid for their work so please support small presses such as this one, there are plenty of wonderful writers for you to peruse at Alternating Current and I am sure you will find someone whose work you enjoy.
Thanks always for reading, please click in tomorrow for more Poems Found by Poet Hound…
Monday, January 25, 2010
92nd Street Y
Whether you live in the area or not, it’s an excellent site to explore for poetry and all the other nooks and crannies…
http://www.92y.org/shop/category.asp?category=Tisch+Center+for+the+Arts888Unterberg+Poetry+Center888
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured journal or poet…
http://www.92y.org/shop/category.asp?category=Tisch+Center+for+the+Arts888Unterberg+Poetry+Center888
Thanks for clicking in, please drop in tomorrow for another featured journal or poet…
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