Thursday, September 19, 2013

Read Here

Image of the Day:  Dappled sunlight checkerboarding the asphalt on a side road in Boston.

Lots of rejections lately.  Lots.  And I'm pretty sure more to come!  But I've been trying to just shove those rejections right back out the door, so to speak, to different places.  At least plenty of journals are open and available to submissions. 

But on a very happy note, Kathleen Kirk, editor at Escape Into Life, has a very nice review of my chapbook, Her Vena Amoris, that you can read here

Also, I have some poems here at IthacaLit you can read, if you'd like. 



The Performance
         by Sarah Rose Nordgren

It's not right that she should do this
to her body as she speaks,


but it's the only way we can understand her.
We who weren't raised on sand


and cherry-pits. Whose stepfathers
held their tempers.


The South is a mean place
we forget about. The windows


boarded up all over town. She says,
dogs chased her down the tar-


soaked road like devils. Each dog with three
heads, three tails. She says,


we might've mocked her story,
but never now. First, she strikes nails


against her chest like matches.
Then, when we think we can't


take more from her, she eats
her own hands. Who are we now


to say that art should not destroy us?

From Verse Daily

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Renewed Energy

Image of the Day:  Man working in a bucket truck high over Route 9 on telephone wires, running the thick black ropes through his bare hands. 

Laura Davis, over at Dear Outer Space, has an interview with me on my writing process.  She asks some very unique questions!  Laura is the editor at Weave Magazine, a fabulous journal with great art.  Go check it out here.

I found out recently that my poetry manuscript was a finalist in a contest!  Very exciting.  It's still out at a few places so I'm crossing my fingers with renewed energy. 

Also, if you're interested in finding out more about chapbooks and what they are, this article has all your answers. 


The Heart of a Woman
 
by Georgia Douglas Johnson                                                                   
The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,
As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,
Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam
In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.

The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Writer Friendly

Image of the day:  Early morning fog lingering over the threshed meadow. 

So last month, or maybe it was in July--what month are we in again?-- we went to the Shedd Museum in Chicago.  One of the exhibits was of the Lascaux paintings.  They had built up the rooms so that it resembled the caves and it was darkly lit and just fascinating.  I actually became rather emotional in there which I hate when in public.  I mean, I held it all in, but I was surprised at myself.  Anyway, I managed to get some poems out about that--well, more like self-portrait poems of the Lascaux Woman.  One of them has been accepted which I am very pleased about and others are in the submissions process.  I wish I could have gotten more but that's how the writing goes, I guess.

And we are in yet again a poem a day thingy.  I've been using Diane Lockward's book, The Crafty Poet, and managed to get two poems just today from her book.  I just started the month today, as things haven't been writer-friendly before.  Diane's book is so helpful--I highly recommend you purchasing it. 

Also, since it's September, submissions are open for many many journals.  Go submit something to, say, Heron Tree.  And speaking of which, the print volume of Heron Tree is now available.  Go help out this journal and buy it here.  It's only like five bucks and worth every penny. 

It's a bit longer than I usually post, but you should read this poem.  I wish I had written it!!!

Diagnosis: Birds in the Blood

The hummingbird's nervous embroidery
through beach fog by our back

patio's potato vine
reminds me of my mother's southern

drawl from the kitchen: She's flying,
flying like a bird!
I've heard that

as a child I involuntarily flapped my hands
at my side during moments

of intense concentration. I'd flutter
over a drawing, a doll, a blond hamster

in a shoebox maze. There are ways
to keep from breaking

apart. My guardians. My avian
blood. I believed

birds bubbled inside me—my own
diagnosis—though the doctors called it

something else: a harmless
twitch. A body's

crossed wires. The lost
birds of my childhood

nerves have never
returned. But when you held

my elbow as we walked the four
blocks to the boardwalk,

we saw the brief
dazzle of a black-

chinned hummingbird—the first
I'd ever seen. It sheened

and tried to sip
from my sizzled wrists'

vanilla perfume. I knew
a single one

from the magic
flock had finally found me.


Anna Journey

Vulgar Remedies
Louisiana State University Press



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 conver...