Monthly Archives: April 2012

So … What Do I Do in May?

NaPoWriMo is humming along … I can’t believe we’re on day 21 already. Because I’m also doing Robert Brewer’s Poem-a-Day Challenge, this has been a very busy and fun month. I came late to NaPoWriMo, and during the time when I was catching up, I realized that while writing Facebook posts or articles for my real job, I was thinking about things like line breaks and rhyme.

By the end of this month, I will have written 60-some poems that are all posted on blogs — this one and Brewer’s. So … what does that mean? I do like to submit for publication, and editors seem to be all over the map as far as what they consider to be “previously published” and thus, dead on arrival as far as they’re concerned. I knew this. I posted anyway. 

The thing is, posting poems scratches some of the same itches for me as publication does. Some … but not all. In fact, in terms of feedback and connection with other writers and … get this — people who like poetry but don’t write it themselves — posting has proven to be a way more effective itch scratcher than the whole submit-and-wait routine.

But … I do like having the imprimatur of someone else’s approval. I do, I do, I do. “Someone else,” as in an editor who sifts through however many submissions and selects what he or she considers to be the tippy-top, best of the best, creme de la creme, ne plus ultra (or … “This one would go well with that other one we accepted from someone else.” or … “This one’s OK and would fit the funny little space we have on page 5.”). You get the picture. I am an approval hound. I love (LOVE!) blog comments, but I also love (LOVE!) acceptance letters. 

Even if I am, in terms of future publishability, throwing away 60-some poems this month, I would never say that’s a waste. It feels somewhat thrilling, in fact, to gleefully toss out something that is so precious (in terms of the labor that goes into each one, and the fact that each is a singular event that will never happen again).

Also, I have found some editors here and there who don’t consider blog posts to count as publication. In recent months, I’ve submitted some of my November Poem-a-Day efforts, always disclosing that they were posted on Brewer’s blog. Results have been mixed … but then, they always are.

Still, I’m not sure what I’m going to do once this double-challenge month comes to a close. I don’t think I can keep posting as frequently as I have been, but I don’t want to pull way back and stop posting poems altogether, because it has been immensely gratifying to connect with an audience, read other poets’ great work, and feel a lot less isolated as a poet than I did before. 

On a related note, I have a pressing need to get a chapbook published. I’m at a stage where I’m somewhat reliably getting individual poems published here and there — which is so gratifying, but it’s starting to feel a bit scatteredy. And then, on the blessed day when my contributor’s copy arrives in the mail (for most poets, including me, this is also known as “payday”), I look at the other bios, and *everyone else* has a chapbook or two, or a full collection. Or seven of them. 

I wonder … should I put most of my energy in May into pulling together a chapbook? I would still want to submit individual poems here and there, as the spirit moves me, but it might be fun to sloooooow doooooown, take the time to consider past works, and really focus on putting together something cohesive.

On a somewhat related note — because in chapbooks, it’s understood that some/many of the poems will have been previously published — I wonder what makes sense as far as how often to post poems here? I do post each Wednesday at Brewer’s blog, even during non-challenge times. Maybe once a week here, too, and then I’ll hoard any others that I write next month, and thus resume being at least a little bit coy about this whole thing?

Poets, during non-NaPoWriMo times, how often do you post poems on your blog or someone else’s? And how does that compare with the number of poems you hold back? Those of you who are playing the same game of Publication Poker that I am — as opposed to essentially self-publishing everything via your blog — what has your experience been, vis a vis the viability of poems that you’ve posted?

Many thanks to all of you … for all the comments and poems and good times this month, and also for any thoughts regarding your blogging/submitting cycle between one NaPoWriMo and the next!

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NaPoWriMo, Day 20: Notes During Transit

I didn’t play it as straight as I have been with most of these prompts. I had an experience today that I really wanted to write about. In a way, I was traveling, and so was the other person involved …

Detours

Travel through the glass doors
out to the walk that overlooks
the river, in which there are

police boats beginning to
circle, near the water taxi,
which has gamely put down

its ladder and a life ring,
as if whoever is in the river
could grab hold, scramble

aboard, find safety through
the mist and cold, the heavy,
heavy water that called to him

from the bottom, as it has
called me, too, if I’m honest;
I have calculated such things

as how much it would hurt and
for how long, and how long it
would be before anyone knew.

And what happens then? Now,
there is a diver with something
in his arms, something draped

across the front of his wetsuit.
Something becomes the jumper,
dragged onto the deck of the

police boat, where an officer
leans over him, up and down
on his chest, the unmistakable

rhythm of CPR. Ten minutes, or
fifteen, since I first came out here,
stopped on my way between one

thing and another, lower level
to twentieth floor, cut through
the lobby. But I took a detour

today, to go out to the river,
wrap my sweater around me,
wonder how cold the water is,

how this will end, what it means
that I came out here instead of
continuing on and up. The man,

in black clothes, is wrapped in
a white blanket, hauled onto a
yellow stretcher for a journey

I’m guessing he didn’t want.
He’s taking a detour between
his plan and its end; whatever

else happens, he won’t die
this morning at the bottom of
the river while all of us watch.

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NaPoWriMo, Day 18: A Lullaby

I think I’ve written more rhyming poems in the past couple of weeks than in the past couple of decades before that. I don’t think it’ll ever be my mainstay, but it’s fun now and then — and probably good exercise, too.

Hush Me

hush the earth
hush the pond
hush each stem
and each frond

hush the sky
hush the road
hush each frog
and each toad

dim the lights
close the blinds
hush my heart
hush my mind

 

 

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NaPoWriMo, Day 17: Epistolary Letter Involving Many, Many Elements

Episiotomy? No, epistolary. Meaning, in the form of a letter to someone. Or in this case, to something. I was supposed to write a letter to an inanimate object and incorporate at least four of these elements: 

1) a song lyric
2) a historical fact
3) an oddball adjective-noun combination (like red grass or loud silence)
4) a fruit
5) the name of a street in your neighborhood
6) a measure of distance

If you’re not from around here (the U.S., that is), you might not immediately know what object I’m addressing. Also, I tried this again tonight and enjoyed the results. I actually prefer the chicks (maybe because they’re, I don’t know, more iconic?), and I think the heat should be low, not high. Just like when you toast marshmallows, you want more of a slow, controlled burn — unless you happen to like a totally charred outside and solid inside (and if you do, hey, that’s none of my business). Anyway … here’s the poem already.

 

The Thrill is Gone

Dear Marshmallow Peep,
I used to love to skewer and roast you
over the flame of our gas range.

But this year, you taste too sweet.
The thrill is gone, baby. The thrill is gone away.
You’re like a rotten apple: Cloying. Sick.

I bought fifteen of you at the CVS
a block from where I work; I’m glad I didn’t
go all the way to the one on Kenwood.

I wouldn’t walk a mile for you, Peep—
not even the long-short miles that make up
my shaggy orbit. People used to believe the sun

orbited the Earth. I no longer revolve around you,
Peep. Not that I ever did, but still, there was 
something about you as you sizzled and melted,

gnarled and charred, something about your
crispy shell, creamy inside, something about
post-Easter chicks pierced and flambéed.

I don’t know what happened. If I could reignite
the fire inside me, I would. It was nice to desire
something so small, so attainable as you.

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NaPoWriMo, Day 16: Writing from a Photo

At Least I Can Walk

I do all the work around here,
but I don’t even have a name.
Not that I need one, but it does
rankle when my roommates, who
are total freeloaders, by the way,
do have names, and apparently
have very fancy fins and tails,
which, OK, yeah yeah yeah,
I do see them—I do have eyes,
you know—and I guess those
things are very nice, but if you
ask me, I’d rather have this
muscular foot. It gets me
zero attention, but at least
I can walk, you know? And
I can climb up the side when
I need to be alone for a while
to think. To chew. To feel
good again, solid as
my shell.

 

 

OK, now that you’ve read this far, here’s the photo (the first one of the three).

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NaPoWriMo, Day 15: A Parody

The Pancayke

(after William Blake’s The Tyger)

Pancayke! Pancayke! Newly born
In the griddle of the morn,
What immortal hand and plate
Could prepare thee to meet thy fate?

In what distant bowl or dish
Did thy flour and eggs first squish?
With what spoon dare he to stir?
What the mixer dare to whirr?

And what slow and steady man
Could pour thee in the frying pan?
And when thy dough began to firm,
What bold spatula gave thee a turn?

What the flipper? What the fork?
And dost thou go well with pork?
Where’s the bacon? Or the links?
Did we eat them, quick as a wink?

When we all threw down our knives
And got up to resume our lives,
Did he smile our mess to clean?
Did he yell or make a big Scene?

Pancayke! Pancayke! Newly born
In the griddle of the morn,
What immortal hand and plate
Could prepare thee to meet thy fate?

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