Accepted Rejected

 

Jimmy Page

Well, so, uhm, I'm published, I think, and also not.
My entries into the Rattle Poetry Contest were all rejected, but something I sent to Unadorned Press was accepted for publication.  I took the Rattle rejection rather hard.  I had lots of support (and one guy at work who said, "What, do you think you are that good?"  To which I got to reply simply, "Yes.") from you all here and in FBlandia and my local writer's group.  One person in my group had been a reader for a small press.  He told me that it was easy to discard the stuff that was poor, but among the good works the decision process of what made the cut was more arbitrary.  Often times pieces he would champion wouldn't make it.
The Unadorned Press situation is cloudy.  I had sent them two poems and was informed of acceptance by being tagged in a photo on Facebook.  No email message,  no indication of which poems were accepted.  I have a feeling that this is a very small press, maybe just one guy in New Hampshire who, if I send him $5, will send me what looks like a plastic file folder for a term paper with my work and about ten other poets.

So, the question remains:  What do I want?
And that is where I am right now.  I was reminded by my writer's group that I do have an audience, I have readers already.  And for that I am grateful.  What would being published or not being published change about that?  I still feel this sort of desire to be acknowledged and given a stamp of approval by some unknown "them."  Meh. 
And, why the picture of Jimmy Page?
It's a fairly arbitrary addition to this post, but when I was trolling around the interweb, I came across this picture on someone's page of "Things I Like" or some such, and I thought,  "Yeah, I like that, too."  So,  just a random picture of Jimmy Page reading someone's horoscope in a random world.

in that bed with Dena

There where you stir the sugar insufferable,

incessant, you stir it.  Hard crystals dissolve,

handfuls of blazing white go milky and soft,

hot blue lips lovingly kiss and sing radiantly under

your copper.   Your ping hammered kettle turns solid

to liquid.  Melting chains form as you work

the Rosary {Sotto Voce} Queen of Heaven

The Mysteries                            Joy & Pain        

                        slowly added,

washing down gems, precious blessings

And the turmoil slows, bubbles slack and link,

dragging like school-less summer days, shoe-less

in hot amber.  Sticking all the little tics,

once thrown high as branches,     hair whips

               rain sheets and lung-lust cries,     

                        click clipped as

                   errant bugs and bees.

You are on the fault line.           Plates are shifting.

Under the sweet bunch grass, a Vireo gray and small,

secretive you whistle          then listen.

The colors change        The desert painted

               Tongues of flame

    waver in your wild white eyes:

                    You hold

                        Waiting waiting

                  suspended

                   Pinching the grain

                       The salt

                   The pink rose

                       Essential

                   The tiny blade

                       The straw

              The stone

                               You drop

      

Marigold Garland for my Sister