Pandora poems on the sofa

I've added a few more Pandora poems to the sofa, including A Letter to the Gods, Epimetheus, and A Brief Consideration of Physics.

Feel free to stop by and make yourself comfortable.

In Our Own Words

The new volume of In Our Own Words - A Generation Defining Itself is out.

I received my contributor copy in the mail yesterday. It's pink!



I have a poem on page 40, called "That Grand Address."

For a teaser, here's a picture of my first husband and I on our wedding day in front of the Jersey City Jail. (Perfect pic to send the parents.)

I said I wouldn't

But I did.

Only once.

Will power?

Don't ask.

Today, I submitted poems to Painted Bride Quarterly's upcoming food issue.

After my week of 10 rejections, I was going to wait until May, but I happened to check another esteemed journal's submission manager and found out that the poems I submitted more than a year had, who knows when, been declined. Including a food poem.

I caved.

Feel free to join me: Three-five poems, and you can submit them here.

Now I'll get back on the wagon until the end of the month.

Spring must be here

Bike race Saturday!

Here they come...

and there they go!

I wasn't able to get any good shots of Jamie. The cyclists go by seriously fast, and both my camera and my reflexes are considerably slower.

But it was a sunny day, with loud music and fast bikes.

More poems on the sofa

Amid the furious flurry of rejections this week, I posted a couple more poems online, one send-up to my discouraging workshop teacher in college and one about flying, as in the fear of.

Enjoy!

Number nine...number nine...

...and then number ten.

In the words of Lou Reed, "Ten is for everything."

And this one made me laugh!

Number 8 for the week.

Tom is my husband. How did this happen? I don't know.

The Queen of...Rejections!

Yes, I know it comes with the territory, but I've had seven so far this week. And it's only Wednesday. And today's mail hasn't even come yet?

Lately, my husband's response to my lamenting is, "Don't send stuff out." But, I think, how will my work have a home? How will I be part of the community, the club? (Whatever that is; it always starts to sound suspiciously like high school, and I should hope I'd gotten over that, but apparently it's my recurring issue.)

But maybe I'm burning up too much energy here, churning up too much anxiety. Finding the right home for a poem is like looking for a needle in a haystack of other needles. Lots of pokes, and it's hard to find the right one.

Yes, I've had a head cold for three days now. Yes, I'm being (self-indulgently) morose. Yes, I do get my work accepted sometimes, too (and I am so grateful for those opportunities). Yes, it's poetry month and I should be celebrating.

So here's my deal (that I just thought of): For the remainder of poetry month, I shall not send out any unsolicited submissions. Sure, if you come knocking at my door, virtual or real, I'll give it my best shot. But otherwise, no envelopes until May. Just reading and writing.

Three cheers for Poetry Month!

April, with its reputation for cruelty and taxes. What better time to celebrate poetry?

The month is chalk-full of events, including readings galore. On the Poetic Asides blog, Robert Lee Brewer again hosts the Poem-a-Day challenge. And Michael Spence has a lovely, taut poem in today's Seattle Times.

Over on Facebook, Dana Guthrie Martin is again hosting FaBoStaMe (Facebook Status Message), in which one writes a poem by updating the Facebook status every minute for 30 minutes. Without being able to back and revise.

My minutes got a little stretchy (I think I'd get so excited about writing the next line that I'd forget to click Condividi--which I think means Share). But here in its rough, raw status state is my effort:

How bridal the veils that rain silver out of today’s gray sky,
water slim as feathers from some slender bird
migrating, shreds shed from the clouds that shelve the sky
a book of words for weather, a mirror of the lake, and the lake’s name,
a reign of cormorants and coots, wings folded
in April’s sodden grace, proof that floating
between worlds marries them both, the deep air, the cool waves
a green beatitude--
When you dream of birds, the night swims around you.
I wake to the sound of horses, hooves pounding away from the morning,
silver bridles jangling back through vales of sleep.
Thin whicker, the splash in a stream,
mist coating the minutes softly, the dapple of water on water,
a galloping as April thickens its cloak
and the fat robins wake us before dawn opens its throat.
Take the reins
down the scattered shore
and feel the stones, the young blades of grass,
the willow’s skirt sweeping, a green shower.
Erasing, drawing again,
the rain writes its history and the lake
is a palimpsest, a shifting parchment
making its stories up as this low-pressure front
shatters in the west. You can’t count
on anything today, not even a storm
can linger long enough for coffee.
From the sea of our bed we can see four panes
of weather hemmed by old lace
and the neighbors’ birch that dances
without being asked. Lean in
and let the rain river on alone.

Every month can be poetry month, but let's live it large this month.

Cheers to you!