Saturday, March 16, 2019

The Owl Isn't There

Image of the day:  Upon pulling up my blinds in my kitchen window, a barred owl sitting in the Asian Dogwood tree, not five feet away, turned its brown head and looked at me.

This wasn't todays image, though, it was last Saturday, but that was so awesome to see that owl and to just stare at each other for a few minutes.  I called my family over and they got to see it to.  The owl could hear us talking--it turned its head as each of us said something and looked at us.  Now, every morning, I'm disappointed because the owl isn't there.

I have a poem up at Mom Egg Review as part of their Mythology Vox Folio.  I'm super excited--this poem is from a series I wrote in February during a Poem A Day thingy.  I was writing poems with the title "Origin Story."  I'm hopeful that more of them will find their way to being published as well.  And now, I'm gearing up for April's Poem a Day, too.  April being National Poetry Month usually brings a lot of chances to find prompts and groups to write with.

There are so many poetry books that I want to read.  It's funny how sometimes, I can't find anything that interests me, and then suddenly, there are way too many books to possibly read.  Looking forward to Ada Limon's The Carrying, Martha Silano's Gravity Assist, and Jennifer Richter's Threshold, which has been out for awhile, but I haven't got it yet.  Soon.



Fascinating, the Parts of Us


that attain immortality before we do,
as if we'd sculpted ourselves into skyline
against the first gasp of night. I want to steal
the hair of everyone I've ever loved, shave it
right onto the pillow from their unsuspecting sleep
and carry it to the top floor of my obsession.
I have trouble letting go, it's true. In an elevator, I'm
the last to push my floor, and I drink five bottles of water
at a time, scattered all over the house, afraid that if I finish
them, I'll die. Same with books. Lately I've been
reading about President Antonio López de Santa Anna,
who ordered a full military burial for his
amputated leg. He dug it up
to transport from one home to another,
paraded it in an ornate, royal coach.
I dream of sparrows lifting the ten pounds
I lost last spring to the sun, pinking the edges of the city
with what I used to be. Body that I can barely keep up with,
you owe me nothing, not even your parts. Yet, I'm so hungry
for the vanishing lamps of your intelligence
I could eat my own tail,
could pull my own lightning from the sky.



Waxwing
XVI Fall 2018
From Poetry Daily
http://poems.com/

Sunday, February 17, 2019

My Four Beating Green Hearts

Image of the day:  Quick bird-shadows skating across the sparkling snow.

It's been awhile since I posted here, but thought I'd try and do so a little more.  I haven't had a lot of poetry acceptances as I took a "Top 25 Challenge," submitting my poems only to the top 25 tiered journals this past year.  A fun challenge but relatively futile.  This year, I'm aiming for 100 rejections again and this article explains the reasoning for attempting to do such an ambitious submissions project.  It certainly does inure one to rejections, which is a good thing when submitting poems.

I do have a poem here at Radar Poetry, with a reading (not my best) that doesn't match up to the published poem. (The art matched with the poem is spectacular, though!) I submitted an early draft of a poem that got accepted, but I had since revised said poem, and when they asked me to record it, used that version instead, by accident.  So here's the revised poem you can read and see what revisions I made:


Self-Portrait as Burgeoning New England Summer





I begin as pine tree rubbing myself against another pine

making noise like an opening of many forest doors



I begin as terra cotta pot of hot-pink impatience petals

            waiting for the hummingbird’s sword-like beak to enter me



I begin as a finely woven trick of web catching the sun’s lit thread

            and the hunting roly-poly bug



I begin as the yellow shooting star of cherry tomato bud

             a promise of juice inside your mouth



I begin as the fledging phoebe begging in the birch tree

            feed me  feed me  feed me



I being as the eager breeze chasing the apocalyptic horse-fly



I begin as the innocence of a pea-pod, ready to be peeled and reveal

            my four beating green hearts





I'm reading Tunsiya / Amerikiya now as well as The Line Becomes a River.  I've just started both so we'll see if I actually finish them.  



Your Quiet Outpost

And here is the sea and the agave already in flower
and along the colorful embankment teeming with life
are thick beehive tombs built into the cliff wall
and I look inside at timeless laughing girls
with dark, damp-stained hair. A similar girl
flanked your Ionian coast (a bee glistening with honey
shone in her eye), and she left
scarcely a trace of her name in the shade
of olive trees. There's no one to save you:
From the look on your face, you know
that one day is the same as others.
A sudden light transfigures
and closes us in this lonely circle
of empty moon—where Hades
rushes past your quiet outpost.

Salvatore Quasimodo
translated from the Italian by Julia Older
Mid-American Review
Volume XXXVIII, Number 2




Monday, March 5, 2018

Heron Tree

I have so enjoyed working as an editor for the Heron Tree volume 5 edition.  I learned so much from reading submitted poems!  And realized what a LOT of work being an editor is for a literary journal.  The people I worked with are such thoughtful, caring readers of poetry.  It really impressed me.  Anyway, as a sort of thank you, the founding editors of Heron Tree, Chris Campolo and Rebecca Resinski published a poem of mine (and Matthew Burns, the other editor for volume 5) and is up right now.  Thank you to these fabulous editors for letting me being an editor for this year and for publishing this poem!

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

A Redheaded Stepchild

I have a new poem published in the fabulous Redheaded Stepchild Magazine, whose mission is to only publish poems that have been rejected before.  I love that concept!  It is such a beautiful journal as well.  This poem of mine had been previously rejected by Thrush Magazine, a journal I hope to get into one day.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

My poem, "Do Not Resuscitate," was the contest runner-up and is up now at the Hospital Drive website.  This poem pretty much wrote itself, as what happens in the poem happened almost exactly in real life.

Friday, August 25, 2017

New Poems

I have two poems up--one about my ovaries--yay!!--and one about a rather feminist Cinderella, at Rag Queen Review.  Be sure to check out the fabulous poems by Alessandra Bava and Sarah Nichols.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

The Indianapolis Review

I've got a poem in the brand spanking new journal The Indianapolis Review.  It's a gorgeous journal with fabulous artwork, a conversation with Adrian Matejka, and other poems by really fantastic poets.  One really nice thing that happened:  someone happened to really like my line "peonies that could fill bras" and drew an amazing and beautiful rendition of that image and shared it with me on Facebook!  How cool is that?!?

The Owl Isn't There

Image of the day:  Upon pulling up my blinds in my kitchen window, a barred owl sitting in the Asian Dogwood tree, not five feet away, turne...