I woke up this morning, rather amazed that it's August already. Have I sent poetry packets to all the places where I hoped to submit this summer? No I have not.
Once upon a time I chafed when summer came, and so many journals shut down. I hated losing momentum.
Once upon a time, I would have had packets ready to go for the September submissions.
Well, those days are not these days.
Today, I am tired of thinking about practical matters, like whether or not the economy is imploding or what my next career should be or where to submit. Today, I am inspired by the otherworldly postings of others.
I love the photos and the poems at this posting at Escape into Life. Kathleen Kirk always creates such fascinating pairings, and this time is no exception. I particularly love the first photo, the one which looks like a boy has captured stars with his face (even though I suspect it's glitter).
Speaking of stars, I love the astronomy information in this post. Sherry O'Keefe talks about how stars lose their twinkle. Naked stars without a twinkle. I'll probably think about this all day.
Over at Dave Bonta's blog, there's a fascinating exchange about ghosts, and much of that exchange is in poem form. Make sure to read the comment section.
So, I decided to try my hand. I think what I have here are seeds for 3 separate poems, but I'm going to post this, even though it feels profoundly unfinished with no title.
Our ghosts surround
us. They stitch shrouds
of lost dreams upon our skin,
a lacy spiderweb of stretch marks.
A sturdy scar tissue of scratches
surrounds the legs of every chair.
We know the ghosts of long dead
cats must visit us.
How else to explain new marks?
And some mornings, I am sure I sense
you, returned to visit all your cookware.
Your bread bowl longs for the feathery
scent of yeast, and your cast iron skillet
wonders when it will cook a pork chop
again. The canning jars sit empty;
doleful glares surround me every day.
Flypaper in The Comstock Review
2 months ago