Runcible

come, charming spoon,

so thin & elegant,

silver thrilling,

cold and brimming

with sea cockles

from warm plush

cream and green

bits of moss

scrubbed clean.

and butterfly

do we then

their shells

that wing

our lips

supping

blue.

who then is the pussycat

who then is the owl

who?

Golden

On your way home,

on the wooded,

hidden path

to your door,

where flagstones jut,

tectonic,

you told me,

in that careless mess,

where that rod of re-bar

sprouts menacingly

for no reason,

you saw the sudden yellow

of an aspen leaf

fallen

in the last light,

indescribable.

Nonetheless, 

in your breathless,

in your silence,

that golden

I knew.

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

no cigarettes at all, no champagne on your birthday

For Stacy

My dear girl,

I don’t know any prayers for the dead.

I can only burn the cedar wood

as the arbor vitae is engulfed in the last light,

then blow out the candles,

exhaling your name.

Osiris resisted you once before

as you were lying intubated

and mummified after your accident,

but now he sucks the lime

and bleeds green for you.

Sweet stalks of wheat

line your vessel for the other side.

Moss roses crown your curls.

The Mourning Cloak butterfly,

in clinging ink shadows,

falls from its fluttering sky

as I place loosestrife

and hyssop

and the last of the warm day

lilies by your pink bauble face,

kissing you good-bye.

Contests & Competition

I took the big (for me) step of submitting a few poems to a contest and a few more to an open call for submissions to a small press.  I haven't submitted anything for publication in 30 years or so when I had the temerity to send my works to Poetry and American Poetry Review.  My rejection notices commented that my style was clever, but scattered, or some such.

Yesterday I was jumping around like a bug on a hot rock, hastily editing and formatting poems to email by deadlines of August 1st.  I felt as though I were submitting tax forms.  I crossed my fingers and hoped that I had "done it right."  Today I wonder what all my anxiety was about.  I felt the fear of judgment, that my work wouldn't be "good enough."  I felt the fear of finality--is this the final edit, or could this poem use more polishing?  So, I'm left with questions about what I want, why am I doing what I do.  I don't have high hopes of "winning."  It was important for me to just take this step and see what happens. 

I was pushed into doing this by a friend who is always telling me to submit my work, that my imagistic style is what the market wants.  I don't know.  What is the market?  Is it a closed system of incestuous MFA logrolling?    I think online blogging has changed my market.  I enjoy reading and following blogs.  Small press and self-publishing seem to make sense.  If you have an online following, why not sell them your chapbook?  Why not find a like-minded soul who can illustrate it?  

Anyway, curious about other's thoughts on this.  Yesterday, I felt as though I were sending my children off into the netherworld without sweaters or galoshes, but today I am thinking, "What's the big deal?"  Either I get published by a small press or a magazine, or I don't.  Does that change what I want to do?
I still want to work on my craft.  Posting online and getting feedback and support and reading other blogs is the most helpful poetry workshop I've been in.  
I'll be pulling some poems from my blog that I've submitted.  Thank you all for reading and commenting.