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