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Never Let Me Go
This quietly heartbreaking and provocative novel is equal parts British boarding-school story, dystopian science fiction, and Kafkaesque fable about conformity. While the premise (human clones harvested for their organs) seems ripped from the headlines, the absence of plausible science in the plot suggests that the clones are a metaphor for the myriad ways we sacrifice our human potential by failing to question authority.
new heat
By Frank Prem
a river of aluminum flowed
beneath the hulk of our car
engine blocks are only alloy
these days
window frames on houses
swam away
and cement sheeting
turned to powder
heat
it's an old word
we need something new
to describe what ran through us
that day
New Kid
By Jerry Craft. In this engaging and important middle-grade graphic novel, Black 7th-grader Jordan Banks is transplanted from his Washington Heights neighborhood to a mostly white and rich prep school in Riverdale, where he uses humor and cartooning to process the challenges of making new friends and coping with microaggressions from students and teachers.
New Letters
Past contributors have included May Sarton, J.D. Salinger, Marianne Moore, Joyce Carol Oates, Tess Gallagher and Richard Wright. See their website for audio archives from their radio program, New Letters on the Air, and rules for their annual writing contests.
New Millennium Writings
"New Millennium Writings is published annually. We accept general submissions January through April of each year. We will consider poetry, for which we pay in two copies, plus fiction, and nonfiction, for which we pay $100, plus two copies, upon acceptance. We're especially interested in interviews and profiles of famous writers or tributes to legendary writers (for our Janus File) who are no longer living but whose influence is still felt."
New Play Exchange
New Play Exchange is a site for playwrights, lyricists, composers, librettists, devising artists, adapters, and translators to read and share scripts. Find your next collaborator or dramatic work to produce at your arts organization, and network with other creators in your genre. Annual fees are just $12 for early-career members and $18 for professionals.
New Plays and the Destructive Cult of Virginity
In this provocative article at the online journal Howlround, lesbian-feminist playwright Carolyn Gage critiques the "previously unpublished/unproduced" requirement in most submission guidelines for contests, magazines, and drama festivals. Gage observes that this system disadvantages writers from less-privileged backgrounds or with radical viewpoints, who may not have access to a high-profile venue for their work's first publication or production, and are then banned from submitting it elsewhere. "I would like to see folks really challenge this obsession with 'purity' as it relates to manuscripts for new work. The protocol is shot-through with patriarchal and deeply classist prerogatives and assumptions about the entire nature of the relationship between the producer/publisher and the playwright. This should be a relationship of equals. I do not demand that they come to my work with no previous experience with producing or publishing, and I find it an insult that they impose a virginity criteria on my work. In their fixation on virginity, these publishers and producers bypass many fresh and innovative plays and they penalize the most entrepreneurial authors."
New World
I crawled for days across the arid Indian plains
until my knee caps bled red and old scars opened
leaving irregular patterns on the hard soil,
seeking the slow flowing Ganges
and searching for silk prayer shawls in the shallow mud.
I dipped my head under the holy waters
looking across to the mouldy green and peeling orange walls
of the eroding temples. Blue saliva stains playing patterns
on the sidewalks seemed to throb and pulse
and the breast pains that I endured pumped up my stomach
into elastic balls that floated with the tides
and currents below, carrying offal and soap suds
that burnt my eyes until I ceased noticing
blank worshippers urinating on banks not so far away.
Holy men limped by and waved with crooked sticks.
Had I transgressed their holy territory and disturbed the calm
as the trees nearby vaguely stirred? I had not seen this sector before
and peeled off my clothes pronouncing that I carried no weapons
nor bibles of the New Testament.
It was only fair that I should float naked.
A holy man with black match stick legs and purple toes
strolled across my wake—the strange strains of sitar rhythms
pierced my ears and deep subterranean tunnel noises
rose to the murky surface in yellow translucent cubes.
My tattered heart tangled in the easy river flow.
My half closed eyes just above the line sought rusty river trams
or logs of debris to help me stay afloat.
But the relentless bloated soap suds burnt my tongue
as I struggled to chant select bible songs.
Laughing filled the blue air and young chocolate coated children
tugged on their garland wreaths, flinging buds and thorns
to where I swam. I choked and coughed
and slowly wore down as the muezzin
from the nearby tower mosque search lighted for
my soul. The high screams of prayers cascaded,
pushing me further down as four black hooded men
dragged me from the flow; I hoped and hoped
they would not sacrifice me in holy flames. I tried to whisper
as they held my arms that I was only looking
for love. Why brand me in sati tradition? I told them,
I know many verses off by heart from the Hindu bible
and the Bhagavad-Gita which is a Song of God. I am untouchable.
I was married to Christ. I was born on a cross.
Does it not count in this new century?
Copyright 2005 by Martin Steele. Mr. Steele was a finalist in our 2003 War Poetry Contest for "Sarel and Samson".
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem, "New World" by Martin Steele, presents an instantly recognizable character: the naive traveler who is seduced and destroyed by a culture he does not understand. This nightmare recurs often in colonial and postcolonial literature, embodying Western fears that our political dominance is neither deserved nor secure. In depicting the alien culture as a primitive destructive force, the writer can suggest both the powerlessness of Western ideals and, paradoxically, their superiority to the natives' barbaric behavior. (This theme was central to the work of 20th-century fiction writer Paul Bowles.)
The narrator of "New World" seems to have come to India on a spiritual pilgrimage. He seeks out extreme experiences that will break down the boundaries of his old self and put him in touch with a deeper reality. To that end, he immerses himself in pain, dirt and decay, violating "civilized" taboos to reach a state where another's bodily fluids are no more alien to him than his own. In his new world, even humble saliva glows in psychedelic colors, and clean and unclean elements commingle shamelessly. A silk scarf could be found in the mud; "offal and soap suds" combine in the holy river.
Yet how real is this oneness? Using the exotic culture as a tool for his own enlightenment, the protagonist fails to comprehend it on its own terms, with fatal consequences. Despite his physical self-abandonment in the first half of the poem, he is in control of the experience. He chose these privations and could turn back if he felt like it.
The first breath of fear stirs with the line, "Had I transgressed their holy territory...?" The protagonist feels control slipping from his grasp, but still naively hopes that his gesture of good faith will placate whomever he has offended: "[I] peeled off my clothes pronouncing that I carried no weapons/nor bibles of the New Testament./It was only fair that I should float naked." He expects his notions of fair play to be perfectly understood by his mysterious observers. But his gesture of contrition—I am not like those others who imposed upon you with their weapons and their Christianity—may seem to them like weakness and disloyalty to his own kind.
Before he quite understands what has happened, the narrator is fighting for survival: "My half closed eyes just above the line sought rusty river trams/or logs of debris to help me stay afloat." In fear, he reverts to the religion he disavowed: "I struggled to chant select bible songs."
As he endeavors not to drown, he attracts hostile attention from figures who have no comparable doubts about what their faith demands: either convert the infidel ("the muezzin/from the nearby tower mosque search lighted for/my soul") or kill him ("four black hooded men/dragged me from the flow"). Vainly he tries to save himself by offering proof of his good intentions ("I was only looking/for love") and his appreciation of all faiths, veering into delusional overstatement.
The protagonist's cry, "I am untouchable," has a paradoxical double meaning in this context. On one level, it could mean "I cannot be harmed by you" or "How dare you touch me"—an assertion of high status. However, "untouchable" is also the name for the lowest caste in traditional Indian society, a pariah group. Is his choice of words merely another unfortunate misunderstanding, or is he trying to convince his hosts that he is one of them—saying, in effect, "I identify completely with your society, even its lowest members"?
I was somewhat confused by the Muslim characters' appearance on the scene, since the culture that the protagonist had been sampling up to that point seemed Hindu (temples, holy beggars, the Ganges). The confusion is increased by his plea to his (presumably) Muslim captors, "Why brand me in sati tradition," since "sati" is a Hindu ritual in which a widow immolates herself on her husband's funeral pyre.
Perhaps the narrator's fatal mistake was not realizing that India, to him a symbol of cosmic unity, is itself torn by Hindu-Muslim animosity. Thus he unwittingly strays into Muslim territory ("I had not seen this sector before") and is taken for an enemy. While logical, this interpretation diminishes the poem's tragic irony. If the culture that destroyed him is not even the one he idealized and misappropriated, his fate starts to seem more like simple bad luck. On the other hand, if the hooded figures are not Muslim, the muezzin seems out of place in a poem that is otherwise all about a Westerner's encounter with Hinduism.
The last line's rhetorical question was also hard to fit into the story as I understood it. Is the protagonist harking back to the colonial era, when Christians expected to be recognized as bearers of a superior civilization? "I was married to Christ. I was born on a cross," he says, his garbled theology reminiscent of explorers who tried to subdue the natives by claiming to be gods from far-off lands. Still, I would like to know what exactly has changed in this century, and why the unlucky narrator thought it would stay the same.
Where could this poem be submitted? "New World" has more dramatic action in it than the personal lyrics that are standard fare in many literary journals. Some politically correct editors may also have trouble with its depiction of non-Western cultures as less than benign. However, the high quality of its imagery could earn it a place in a major magazine. Some markets to consider:
Sunken Garden Poetry Festival National Poetry Competition
Postmark Deadline: February 1
http://www.hillstead.org/
Prize includes reading at festival in Connecticut in July; no simultaneous submissions
Strokestown International Poetry Competitions
Postmark Deadline: February 15
https://strokestownpoetryfest.ie/poetry-competition/
Irish contest offers a prize of 4,000 euros for poems in English and another 4,000 euros for poems in Irish, Scottish Gaelic or Manx
Florida Review Editors' Awards
Postmark Deadline: March 15
http://floridareview.cah.ucf.edu/submit/annual-editors-awards/
Named for Joseph Campbell, the great scholar of mythology, contest seeks published or unpublished poems that "treat larger themes with lyric intensity"
Robinson Jeffers Tor House Prize for Poetry
Postmark Deadline: March 15
http://www.torhouse.org/prize/
Past winners of this $1,000 prize have been emotionally powerful and rich in imagery (read them on website)
This poem and critique appeared in the January 2005 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter.
New York Foundation for the Arts Database
Large directory of opportunities for visual artists, performers and writers. Search by genre, geographic eligibility, type of funding and more.
New York Shakespeare Exchange: The Sonnet Project
The New York Shakespeare Exchange's mission is to expand the audience for Shakespeare's plays and to support innovative presentations. One of their ventures is The Sonnet Project, a series of short films juxtaposing a Shakespeare sonnet and a vignette set in a distinctive NYC location.
New Zealand Poetry Society
Their website includes numerous listings for literary events, resources and contests for writers in New Zealand and abroad.
NewPages
News, information and guides to independent bookstores, independent publishers, literary periodicals, alternative periodicals, independent record labels, alternative newsweeklies and more. See the Big List of Writing Contests.
NewPages Young Writers Guide
NewPages is a resource site showcasing independent presses, literary magazines, bookstores, and creative writing programs. This page on their site offers a vetted list of publications and contests that accept work from youth and teens.
NewTown Writers
NewTown also offers workshops for local writers and sponsors literary events.
Nick Antosca
"Movies and Kids", winner of the 2004 fiction contest from Painted Bride Quarterly, is a brilliant, disturbing story that could have been written by Shirley Jackson or Patricia Highsmith.
Night Fire
By Sheryl Clough
—inspired by a WWII spotter's cabin at Banba's Crown, Malin Head, County Donegal
The North Atlantic chops at the green shore
with white-edged knife blades. On the grass
far below, remains of chalk spell 'EIRE', marks
left by a hopeful people in that time of bombs.
On this wind strewn cliff still stands a concrete
spotter's hut. Inside the soot-black walls, small
traces remain of those who watched, huddled by night
around a feeble fire, longing for home, steamed
brown bread, flannel sheets. What thoughts chased
them, as engine roars graced the storm clouds?
Imagine a youth in a leather jacket, holding hands
clapped over his ears. So lately he held hands
with a hometown girl, their whispers stretching
long into the night. What plans they made! And
then the War, rending the gossamer dream fabric
as shrapnel rends flesh. He protects his ears, for
what else is under his control, pierced as he is
by shrieking propellers, by fear, by the ultimate
knowledge that only Providence can keep him alive,
suspended above the chalk, below the dark.
This poem first appeared in the anthology Embers and Flames (Outrider Press, 2015).
Night of Sky and East vs. West
NIGHT OF SKY by Changming Yuan
night of sky in the sea, bursting
with clouds and whales and chrysanthemums
night of sky in my mind—flat
when my meditative spirit stays still
among shapes and sounds, like a lotus-eater
night of sky in the sky, deep night
when my imaginings are starfish finding themselves
swimming closer to the carrel tree, to their nests
Copyright 2010 by Changming Yuan; originally published in Sea Stories
EAST VS. WEST by Changming Yuan
breaking, broken
bare bricks on the Berlin Wall
collected from the ruins
to build a transparent bridge
between the past and the future
broken, breaking
earthen bricks for Badalin Ridge
baked in a dragon fire
to repair and strengthen the long wall
separating the prairies farther from the gobi
Copyright 2010 by Changming Yuan; originally published in Hando No Kuzushi
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
In last month's Critique Corner, I made this fairly audacious statement: "Even more than repetition, rhythm, or rhyme, it is metaphor that distinguishes poetry from every other type of writing." I say audacious because, from the bulk of our mail here at Winning Writers, it is clear that most emerging writers believe that poetry equals repetition, either of sound—in other words, rhyme—or as phrase. This is a misconception.
What is true is that, while metaphor is the logic of poetry—its way of thinking, if you will—repetition is its most powerful device. Surely, that explains why it is immediately noticed and most frequently emulated. But, as with anything powerful, repetition must be handled with care.
One poet who does so artfully is Canadian Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman (Leaf Garden Press, 2009) and Politics and Poetics (Lambert Academic Publishing, 2009), a widely-published writer who, this month, has contributed two poems organized by repetition for us to compare and contrast.
Let's begin with what these poems don't do. They do not repeat the phrase without evolution in meaning. This is the single most common error emerging poets make.
Repetition of a phrase only works when the phrase morphs or takes on shades. This may be achieved as a change in context, as we will see in Yuan's poems, or through grammar, as we saw in Janet Butler's triolet, "Design", featured in the November 2009 Critique Corner. In some cases, the repeated phrase can drive the narrative, as in the "six hundred" from Tennyson's famous poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade" . No matter how it is applied, what is essential to understand is that effective repetition is not static. Misused it can easily overwhelm a poem, render it predictable and soon, dull.
One way that all of these poems evolve their repetitions is through variation. The phrases are not repeated strictly, though enough elements are retained to make the pattern obvious. It is not always necessary to vary the repetition of a phrase, though a great deal—possibly the majority—of well-made, repetition-reliant contemporary poems do. Such variance surprises the ear and holds the reader's interest.
Moving a poem that relies upon strict repetition is much harder to do (and impressive when it happens). One tip: keep the poem short. If you have a many-stanzaed poem built around an exact repetition, consider breaking it into several differently-titled short poems.
Notice the length of Yuan's poems. Notice too, that in "Night of Sky", Yuan does not attempt to extend a single meaning through every repetition of the phrase. Rather, he uses the phrase to organize three distinct metaphors.
Only the initial words are repeated, that is "night of sky in..." Yuan then creates a pattern with the remainder. That is, in the first and third stanzas, the phrase is completed by the definite article "the" followed by a single syllable word beginning with the letter "s". Each is completed by a comma plus a two-syllable word.
The similarity in the construction of these two lines form a bookend surrounding the more greatly varied second stanza in which the phrase is followed by a personal pronoun, a dash (a longer pause than a comma) and a single-syllable word, as if the extra pause given to the dash accounts for the rhythmic beat given to a syllable. Observe that the noun following the phrase in stanzas one and three uses a long vowel, whereas the second stanza uses a soft one.
To further fulfill this graceful balance, Yuan's final repetition of the phrase in stanza three repeats twice within itself by beginning and ending the line with "night", as well as his almost hypnotic use of "sky in the sky". This line is an excellent demonstration of one of the chief functions of repetition—strong emphasis. To modify "night" with "deep night" is simple, stirring, and universally affecting.
Taken as a whole, however, the poem proves the true power of repetition: music. Read the poem aloud and you are practically singing. The ear will always respond to pattern.
I could continue to discuss this fine piece: its careful sound correspondences that lead to more music; the way it moves from its metaphoric framework into the personal, finally bringing the two together in its resolution; how its metaphors are extended through the use of a diction family—but as this is an essay dedicated to the use of repetition, I will instead turn our attention now to "East vs. West".
Here repetition is used to organize a comparison. What one notices first and foremost is the initial phrase and its inversion. However, a bit of deeper analysis reveals that the grammatical structures of the two stanzas are just about identical—a more nuanced method of repetition. Notice that in each stanza the fourth line begins with "to", that "bricks" is the second word of each second line. The effort to parallel the two walls is supported by these choices and made obvious. Too obvious, in my personal opinion. Repetition is, after all, a powerful device—always noticeable. Used here, where it is not meant to "sing", it feels, to me, a bit forced, or at the very least, intellectual as opposed to musical.
That said, creating a parallel grammatical structure is a compelling way to imbue a poem with dignity. Far more subtle than strict phrase repetition, it nevertheless reinforces meaning in much the same way. If you have a poem that uses strict repetition, one way you might consider revising is to create many fewer resoundings of the phrase, and more grammatical parallelism.
In the case of "East vs. West", one revision might be to cut the first line of each stanza or to leave only one of the two closely-related words, perhaps a different one in each. I suspect the poet might believe that much of the art of the piece is bound in the fine distinction between the two forms of the word, but the effect upon the reader is to command so much attention to their parsing that the rest of the poem is slighted.
So strong is repetition that it can easily overpower a poem. Even just the use of the word in a different form is enough to alert the reader to pattern. Respect repetition and your poems will be elegant and memorable.
Where could poems like "Night of Sky" and "East vs. West" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Wild Leaf Press Annual Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by April 30
Small press based in New Haven offers prizes up to $1,000 and publication in annual anthology for unpublished poems
Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition
Postmark Deadline: May 2
Competitive contest for poetry and several prose genres from Writer's Digest, a leading publisher of directories and advice books for writers; top prize across all genres is $3,000, plus prizes up to $1,000 in each genre
Poetry on the Lake Competition
Postmark Deadline: May 15
Prizes up to $400 for unpublished poems, sponsored by the annual 3-day Poetry on the Lake festival on Lake Orta in Italy; 2011 suggested theme is "Stone"
These poems and critique appeared in the April 2011 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Night Talks
By Terri Kirby Erickson
When one would wake in the night, the other
followed. Then, in their bed, next to their window
that was always open, my mother and father
would talk to the sound of cars going by,
the hum of streetlights, the occasional bark
of a neighbor's dog. They spoke of high school
dances, family vacations, raising children,
being grandparents. And their faces, soft
with age and sleep, were hidden in the dark,
so they could speak at last of their lost son,
without any need to shield each other from
that pain. It must have been a relief to unpack
the shared sadness they courageously carried,
to put it down, if only for an hour. It was like
I could hear them from my own bed
across town, as I slipped into a deeper sleep,
reassured and comforted by their beloved
familiar voices echoing among the stars.
First published in ONE ART Poetry Journal
nighthawks
By Tobey Kaplan
four people in the window corner diner
woman examines a piece of paper in her hand
while a young guy washes dishes
the man she knows smokes a cigarette barely touches her fingers
his right her left
he might want her to meet his mother
he wants to kiss her
the soda jerk tidying up is telling jokes
everything closed the light and air ash
golden glare from the window
one other man wears a darker fedora his back to us
she's looking at the paper in her hand
a green tab scribble indicating how much is owed for coffee
a ticket to the movie down the street torn in half after she entered
the check for the meal paid for by that man
who is afraid to look at her he might be
her estranged lover her mystery father a respected former teacher
who recognized her gifts
or what's on that paper is
the cure for cancer or its unmentionable diagnosis
a misplaced laundry ticket a receipt for luggage long gone
a fortune cookie she found in her pocket telling her that luck comes
to those who have an open heart while everything's closed
on that paper she's staring at
you can find bits and pieces
everything you need to know about
this poem I'm writing
Nixon Under the Bodhi Tree and Other Works of Buddhist Fiction
Innovative collection of short stories that integrate Buddhist precepts into contemporary settings. Some of the pieces use form as well as content to explore Buddhist concerns with present awareness and change.
No Ashes in the Fire
By Darnell L. Moore. This passionate, eye-opening memoir chronicles the author's coming of age as a black gay man in Camden, NJ, his activism with the Movement for Black Lives, and his maturing understanding of his parents' troubled marriage. Moore places his personal story in the context of structural oppression in Camden's history, and shows the extraordinary resilience and devotion of black families under pressure.
No Loneliness
A sacred quiet permeates this debut poetry collection, winner of the 2009 FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize. Abandoned barns are Cone's churches; the steady rhythms of farm work, his liturgy. The birth of a daughter is both miracle and memento mori, a sweet paradox held together in an extended lyric poem that envisions poetry as a transmission of love across generations.
No RSVP
He won't worry about how to help,
what tie to wear with which shirt color,
how center pieces fit with dishware,
if gifts might be necessary. She
doesn't care in which chair he may sit,
should a gravy spill blot his clothing,
if such worry's worth it. Thoughtlessly
guests resume games throughout the evening,
take dessert, crumbs dropping to carpet,
during her home vigil. Still she
did plan space for him in an event
knocks upon her door materialize,
should it freeze in hell. He looked a damn fool
lying in sand without a face, breath-
less, with arm and leg remaining, no,
not even requesting vacation,
leaving quite unannounced. What matters
to anybody; who now could care?
In spite, he should've shown! For she, sweet
hostess, shall greet no gentle-caller,
table-head, soldier, friend nor lover.
Copyright 2006 by Ron Dean
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem, Ron Dean's "No RSVP", subtly employs irony and misdirection to channel our outrage at the intrusion of violent death into our carefully constructed lives. By pretending that a dinner-party faux pas is the most important thing about this soldier's absence, the poem mocks the narcissism and misplaced priorities that permit war to continue.
"No RSVP" reminded me of a famous war poem, Arthur Rimbaud's "Le Dormeur du Val" (English translation). Both poems set a scene that initially appears benign, to heighten the reader's shock and sense of wrongness when death breaks in. We're tricked into complaining against the writer for ruining a pretty picture, only to realize that we may be perpetuating ugliness by refusing to see it.
Social conventions in "No RSVP" are untrustworthy, inadequate to bear direct conversation about the hostess' loss. At first, we think we're hearing about a well-adjusted couple who are above arguing about trivia such as place settings and gravy spills. How gracious they are to one another, we might say. But these opening lines were meant sarcastically, and like strangers at a party, we were not "insiders" enough to understand the story beneath the story. Of course they can't worry about these things—he is dead, and she will never see him at her table again. What seemed like evidence of their freedom is actually a sign of their powerlessness.
The poem mocks human attempts at graciousness and order, even going so far as to call the young man undignified in death ("He looked a damn fool/lying in sand without a face")—perhaps a dark pun on "loss of face" as a term for a social gaffe. Yet I never felt the author was being mean-spirited. Rather, he gives voice to our feelings of frustration, humiliation and helplessness before death's lack of care for what we treasure.
Whether or not the guests are truly thoughtless, the bereaved hostess cannot help resenting them for being absorbed in life's ordinary details, which the soldier's death has put into such stark perspective for her. She is angry at him, too, for dying without even a chance to say goodbye. As a description of this lack of closure, the ironic understatement of the phrase "no RSVP" harshly reminds us that we are not entitled to any advance notice from the Grim Reaper. On one level, we know it is absurd to be offended that death sets no value on our lives and loves, but on another level, we cannot shake the feeling that they nonetheless have infinite value. "What matters/to anybody; who now could care?//In spite, he should've shown!"
I liked the courtly, old-fashioned cadence and vocabulary of the last lines ("sweet hostess"... "gentle-caller"... "friend nor lover"). It was like an acknowledgment that the rituals of civilization, however insufficient to save our lives, are still worthwhile to help us make sense of our losses. The tenderness of these lines also softened what could otherwise have been too cynical a poem.
Where could a poem like "No RSVP" be submitted? These upcoming contests may be of interest:
GSU Review Annual Writing Contest
Postmark Deadline: March 4
Recommended contest from Georgia State University offers $1,000 each for poetry and fiction; prestigious judges. Email Jody Brooks for details
Florida Review Editors' Awards
Postmark Deadline: March 15
Prizes of $1,000 each for poetry, fiction and essays from a well-regarded journal; note new deadline (formerly February 15)
National Federation of State Poetry Societies Awards
Postmark Deadline: March 15
Prizes from $25 to $1,500 in 50 contest categories, including open-theme awards
This poem and critique appeared in the February 2006 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
No Salvage
The first time I married
we lived in the woods,
a spot clear enough
for a sixty foot trailer.
At night, we heard
bobcats scream. Our lab,
Sonia, whimpered, took refuge
in a break in the underpinning.
My husband shot targets
from the back door. I tried once,
the recoil of the .357 magnum
pushing my arm past my ear
like a starting gun.
Later, ducking thrown dishes, I ran,
watched from the Home Stretch Inn
as a wrecker hauled the steel trap away,
the frame sprung in the middle,
both sides pulled apart.
Copyright 2010 by Barb McMakin
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
"If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are," wrote that famous poet from Kentucky, the conservationist and contemporary transcendentalist, Wendell Berry. He was referring to the powerfully—even viscerally—expressive, if hard to define, quality that poets refer to as "a sense of place."
This month Critique Corner will look at a fine example of how a new Kentucky poet, Barb McMakin, has evoked that quality in "No Salvage", part of her just-released collection Digging Bones from Finishing Line Press.
"No Salvage" is a compact piece, fewer than a hundred words. From them, three images evoke a sense of place. Each earns its keep.
Most of the first stanza is given to "woods/a spot clear enough/ for a sixty foot trailer" establishing the importance of place in this poem. It is a pellucid description. It gives enough information for almost any reader to conjure a picture. For an American, the word "trailer" carries connotations of class and transience. It is a laden word.
Later she uses the proper noun, "The Home Stretch Inn". This is a clearly readable regionalism for a certain sort of roadside bar/motel near a woods in that part of the U.S.A. But this is a poem, so diction counts more than specifics. McMakin could have chosen any name. With "Home Stretch Inn" she contrasts "home" to "trailer", while at the same time, the phrase "home stretch"—the last leg of a race—makes a sort of witty rejoinder to the starting gun in the previous stanza.
Bobcat is another regionalism; the same cat is called wildcat or lynx elsewhere. While Kentucky's "Bob" screams, the more exotically named "Sonia" whimpers, providing an audio track for the reader's sense of place. Sonia is a symbol for what this couple shares, as she seeks safety within this frightening setting beneath the "break in the underpinning".
This is muscular writing: words chosen to do more than one thing. McMakin has multiple reasons to support every detail selected that also pertains to scene. Each contributes thematically. Each contributes to the poem's coherence. There is nothing esoteric about them; they are not named flora or proper nouns. She does not list. Her choices are more subtle and far more integral to the poem as a whole.
Toward revision I would suggest a reconsideration of the line breaking. One method to test whether a poem might not be achieving its most effective line breaks is to look at the words that begin all the lines and also those that end them. Are all the power words—the verbs and nouns—at one end or the other? Same question for the supporting words, prepositions, for example.
"No Salvage" provides a strong model of diction chosen to operate on a number of levels. Perhaps there are some line breaks that might do the same.
Take line seven. If it ended with "in," McMakin could underscore the repetition of two final lines of the second stanza. The refrain of "in, in, in" is already present. Reinforcing it could be a choice.
More importantly though, line breaks can be exploited to heighten drama or suspense. What if the line ended with "shot"? Or "ducking"? Then, for the briefest pause, the reader would ask, "Shot what?" "Ducked what?" This is the suspension and resolution discussed in the April 15, 2010 Critique Corner as the function of the third line of a haiku.
Another way a line break can operate expressively is by changing the tone. If line ten ended in "tried", you might not only have suspense as in the previous examples, but also the emotional implication of resignation.
While these might or might not affect one's reading, what is indisputable is that this author was able to make every word count in this unsettling poem.
Where could a poem like "No Salvage" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Kentucky State Poetry Society Contests
Postmark Deadline: June 30
Local poetry society offers prizes up to $100 in open category, plus smaller prizes for poems with various themes and styles, including formal poetry and humor
Narrative Magazine Annual Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by July 18
Competitive award offers prizes up to $1,500 plus publication in this high-profile print and online journal of narrative poetry and prose
Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest
Entries must be received by September 1; don't enter before July 1
Well-regarded journal of narrative poetry offers prizes up to $1,000 plus publication for winner and numerous runners-up; enter online only
These poems and critique appeared in the June 2010 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
No Sweeter Fat
The briny tastes and stormy weathers of the Pacific Northwest permeate this first poetry collection, voiced by a woman whose appetites for food and love are more than the world allows. These poems speak honestly of loneliness and pleasure. Winner of the 2006 Autumn House Press Poetry Contest.
Nobody’s Mother
This award-winning author's autobiography in verse is narrated in a likeable voice that will resonate with a wide audience. Themes include feminism, aging, the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, and nostalgia for Jewish culture along with a critique of its patriarchal and warlike aspects. Along the way, Newman offers such delights as an ode to the now-shuttered Second Avenue Deli, and a playfully erotic exploration of middle-aged love.
Nolo Press Information on Trademarks & Copyrights
Articles on copyright basics, plus how to get maximum protection from the federal copyright laws. Learn the difference between trademarks and copyrights.
Noname Book Club
Noname Book Club is an online and in-person community dedicated to uplifting POC voices. Each month they discuss two books written by authors of color, and send copies to incarcerated comrades through their Prison Program. They make their book picks available to local libraries so that the club can be financially accessible.
Nonsense Lit
Portal devoted to nonsense literature includes links to classic humor from Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, and Punch magazine, as well as contemporary work.
North Central Review
Deadlines are February 15 and October 15 annually. Students may submit up to 5 poems and 2 pieces of prose per issue. No piece should exceed 5,000 words in length. Include proof of undergraduate status (.edu email address or photocopied student ID without number). Online entries accepted.
Northern Public Radio Book Series
This book review series is broadcast on WNIJ and WNIU, the public radio station affiliated with Northern Illinois University. The website includes book reviews and audio clips of author readings and interviews.
Not Akhmatova
By Noah Berlatsky. Playful and musical, yet weighty with paradox, this collection pairs freewheeling translations of Russian-Jewish poet Anna Akhmatova and original poems that respond to the fraught question of Jewish loyalties in the diaspora. Berlatsky shows that one doesn't have to believe in God to argue with Him. In these pages, Akhmatova is both present and absent, a figure who epitomizes her people's persecuted dead. The shape of that absence has sometimes seemed to bend Jewish identity around it like a black hole. Berlatsky recognizes that gravitational pull even as he resists it. This serious project is leavened by wry aphorisms about the ephemeral nature of poetry, and indeed life itself—a pessimistic, wisecracking sense of humor that situates Berlatsky firmly within the Judaism with which he wrestles.
Notable Online at The Rumpus
Due to the coronavirus, most literary events and book launches moved online in 2020. Literary journal The Rumpus now offers this weekly calendar of noteworthy online literary events. To submit your event for consideration, contact notableNYC@therumpus.net. In the subject line of the email, please include the event's date. Please include the virtual platform, time zone, and a link to the event information in the body of your email.
Note to Self III
Why does the sky steal
my grave mood
like a copycat?
Like a confused maiden that gets all heedless
it loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth.
With same look as beauteously sparkling diamonds
but all useless still—
for when I stretch out my hand they melt on the surface
like common water.
So, tell me sky:
you, that you are our guardian,
did you come to scorn mankind?
The
tip-tip-tapping
of its precious tears
erodes my mind.
There I see them—
they crash against the ground just like
a shy devotee would do against its crush
to have a chance to touch them and be noticed.
How foolish those raindrops are!
Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,
as though they want to say
"take me, take me"
—reminding of a whore.
Why do I seek their company still?
That they are a dear companion to my teardrops
—is not the reason.
But that I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence.
Yes, we are far apart.
But we breathe
under the same sky—
it's mere an effort to have you physically.
All day I hear your voice—
oh, may those raindrops bring me the feeling of your skin
and the wild wind present me your smell!
I understand that I am as silly as the raindrops.
But at least
this way
I'll never forget that I wait for you.
Copyright 2008 by A.J.R. Hewitt
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem comes to us from German poet A.J.R. Hewitt. I chose "Note to Self III" for its apt metaphors and gentle lyricism. The restrained pacing of this wistful love poem allows Hewitt to succeed with a theme that could easily shade into sentimentality.
Hewitt piques the reader's interest by posing a question ("Why does the sky steal/my grave mood/like a copycat?") and reveals the answer gradually, through images of loss and transient beauty that awaken a sympathetic recognition in the reader long before the narrator reveals her own story. This is in contrast to a mistake often made by beginning lyric poets, who state their emotions at the outset as a substitute for creating a common ground of feeling with the reader. We can be moved by a poem about a familiar experience, even one that uses well-worn comparisons (raindrops/romantic tears), to the extent that the imagery stirs our own memories of such an experience before the author tells us how to feel.
Hewitt accomplishes this with two winsome extended metaphors. First she compares the sky to a "confused maiden" that "loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth". Her jewels, perhaps her beauty and purity, vanish like raindrops. One sympathizes with the artlessness and lost innocence of this character, more than if the narrator identified it as herself from the beginning, because the "maiden's" lack of self-awareness contrasts poignantly with the tragedy we foresee. In the next stanza, Hewitt compares the rain to a "shy devotee" losing herself in an attempt to touch her beloved, the earth.
The poem counterbalances this pathos with the narrator's self-criticism, preempting the reader's potential mockery of her romantic melodrama. The same sensations are replayed with a wiser, more cynical interpretation. Perhaps seeing herself through the eyes of the lover who rejected her, she suddenly disdains the persistent rain: "Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,/as though they want to say/'take me, take me'/—reminding of a whore."
In the next stanza, whether wisely or unwisely, the narrator is able to integrate even this negative judgment into a love that continues unabated. At last revealing her reason for identifying with the rainy weather, she says of the raindrops, "I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence". The word "slaps" introduces a darker note, suggesting to me that an infatuation like this can slide into the dangerous self-delusion that prefers abusive contact to none at all. Hewitt leaves that potentiality unrealized, but lingering, at the end of the poem, where the narrator is still dreaming that her beloved will acknowledge the connection they share.
Thus, what seems like a simple traditional love poem is actually a subtle and concise depiction of the psychology of love, with its many contradictory moods following in quick succession, like clouds across a stormy sky.
Considering that English is not Hewitt's first language, she has a fine ear for its rhythms and nuances. I have left the poem as she submitted it, but would suggest the following grammatical changes: In the second stanza, add "the" before "same look", and eliminate the second "you" in the penultimate line. In the sixth stanza, change "mere" to "merely" before "an effort". The phrase "gets all heedless" sounds more like street slang than its author probably intended. I would change the line to "Like a confused maiden becoming all heedless" so that the verb can apply to both the maiden and the "it" (the sky) of the next line.
In the fourth stanza, it would be technically correct to add "me" before "a whore", though not necessary for the poetic flow. I rather like the ambiguity and universality of the line without the pronoun, which is why I did not correct it before publishing. At this point in the poem, the narrator is looking at herself through another's eyes, internalizing their negative judgments. Her real fear is not her own self-criticism but the likelihood that her beloved or other onlookers would have contempt for her devotion.
Finally, I would like to see a more interesting title than "Note to Self III", which sounds more like a writing exercise in a notebook than a title in which the author had real confidence. It is also not really accurate, since the narrator is addressing her beloved throughout, not herself. With these changes, this well-written and affecting poem would do well in independent, small-press and local poetry society contests, though it might be considered too traditional for the university-run publications.
Where could a poem like "Note to Self III" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Franklin-Christoph Poetry Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Free contest from seller of luxury pens and desk accessories offers $1,000 for unpublished poems up to 100 lines, plus fountain pens for runners-up
Writer's Digest Poetry Awards
Postmark Deadline: December 19
National writers' magazine offers $500 and self-publishing package, good exposure for emerging writers; open to unpublished poems, 32 lines maximum
Poetry Society of Virginia (Adult Categories)
Postmark Deadline: January 19
Prizes of $50-$125 for poems in over two dozen categories including humor, nature, and a variety of traditional forms; top prize in 2009 is $250 for a sonnet or other traditional form
This poem and critique appeared in the November 2008 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Note to Van Helsing
Seduction is an art,
And so is death.
To fan the spark of life,
Until raging flames consume the body.
She died in ecstasy you know.
Sobbing her thanks,
As her soul burned away like a wick.
I can still feel her now.
A heartbeat unique among millions.
Within the heated flow of her veins,
Had lain the throbbing birth of womanhood.
Untouched!
An unmarked page,
Floating in the rain.
She danced between the drops,
Waiting for my pen to make its mark.
How could I resist,
This island of purity,
In a sea of sin?
The deep longing within her loins,
Given voice through quickened pulse.
It cried out for me,
And I raged in turn,
To cleanse my soul in the waters of this untapped well,
To douse damnation's fires in this virgin's red fount.
Gentle, so gentle the pursuit.
A soft smile to mask my fangs,
A caress like silk from razor-ed nails,
A knowing look with earthy promise,
And suddenly, so suddenly,
She was mine!
Fragile little leaf,
Twirling in the wind,
Crying on the edge of eternity,
For the thunderous release of the storm.
Within shadows her flower opened,
Within whispers her petals fell,
Within shivers her womb curdled,
To the cold offal of a dead man's seed.
Fruitless rite, empty husk, innocent damned.
She seemed familiar,
Did you know her Abe?
Perhaps your other lambs will bring me peace.
Copyright 2009 by Brian Donaghy
This poem was first published on MicroHorror.com in April 2009.
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Just in time for Hallowe'en, this month's critique poem by Brian Donaghy is based on characters from Bram Stoker's Dracula. In style and tone, "Note to Van Helsing" is a straightforward entry in the erotic-horror genre that Dracula exemplifies, rather than a critical reinterpretation or ironic pastiche, of which there have been many in modern times.
Vampires are the superstars of the monster world because they represent the unholy marriage of our two great preoccupations, Eros and Thanatos. In the Victorian era, arguably the heyday of the Gothic romance, sexual taboos could be explored more freely if the literal storyline was about violence rather than sex. The tragic outcome of uncontrolled passions in the horror novel could redeem a sensual story from charges of immorality.
To some extent this dynamic is still at work in the immensely popular Twilight novels, where the decision to transition from human to vampire is a powerful metaphor for adolescent girls' anxieties about their sexual awakening and the attendant risks of peer-group ostracism and family estrangement. Similarly, one could argue that Anne Rice's elegantly tragic, polyamorous vampires reflected the conflicted emotions of the gay community during the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 1990s. Does the sublimation of erotica into horror reflect the misplaced priorities of a culture that finds violence less obscene than sex, or does it defend the sacred mystery and momentousness of sex in the age of casual hook-ups?
The Romantic poets wrote some of the greatest classics of erotic horror. Among them are Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee", John Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Christabel", "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and others. (Read about Coleridge and see more sample poems here.)
A victim of its own popularity, the Gothic poetic style that was so groundbreaking in its own day has become overly predictable in ours. Because "Note to Van Helsing" doesn't reinterpret those conventions, some mainstream literary journals might reject it as "genre" work. However, I admired its lyricism and emotional range, which make it a fine example of its genre.
The narrator speaks with bold assurance from the beginning, as befits a seducer. Even the title is cheeky, calling this elegantly worded challenge to his opponent a tossed-off "Note" rather than a letter. He can spin out verses without even trying, as smoothly as he weaves an irresistible web around his victims.
The vampire-hunter Van Helsing, like the readers of Dracula, wants to believe in his own basic decency, in flattering contrast to the vampire's boundless self-indulgence. The narrator of this poem mocks that self-image by asserting the universality of his dark impulses. Despite himself, the reader becomes aroused by the images of the girl's ravishment, and discovers within himself what the vampire has always known: that sex is dangerous, and death is sexy.
I particularly liked the passages in this poem where Donaghy reaches beyond the stock imagery of blood, sin and purity (is the vampire myth Catholicism-as-fetish?), such as the stanza beginning "An unmarked page, floating in the rain". This cooler and more contemplative moment provides a refreshing pause between scenes of overheated blood-lust. As the tension builds, the water imagery identified with the girl changes from a tranquil baptismal pool to a torrent of orgasmic release: "Crying on the edge of eternity,/For the thunderous release of the storm." She claims sexual agency, it seems, at the price of her life.
This coyness about female desire is a common and, to my feminist mind, disturbing convention of romance writing. The woman must be overpowered, either literally, as in the vampire scenario or other rape/seduction fantasies, or psychologically, by the man's charisma, in order to yield while retaining her virtue. Her flipping back and forth between the roles of victim and enthusiastic participant absolves both parties in the seduction drama.
But these strategies of self-preservation are all in vain, in the world of the poem. Between "her flower opened" and "her womb curdled" there is scarcely a breath. Meanwhile, once the narrator's thirst is sated, his coldness and emptiness return. Whereas before, the girl appeared uniquely desirable and important ("A heartbeat unique among millions"), she is now only another notch on the bedpost ("She seemed familiar,/Did you know her, Abe?"). The nickname, used here for the first time, could be another sign of the narrator's contempt for Van Helsing, but it could also be an invitation to bond over the shared experience of sexual conquest. The two are not mutually exclusive, since male friends often express their affection through teasing insults.
This emotional shift improves the poem, saving it from becoming a cliché erotic fantasy. In real life, coming down from the high of sexual union can stir up feelings of sadness, emptiness, even disgust for one's self or one's partner, as blissful self-forgetfulness is edged out by the self-conscious and separate ego once again. Sex reminds us of death because it makes us notice our embodiment, and bodies perish. What then does it mean that even immortals experience this sense of loss? Perhaps the source of our post-coital suffering is the changeableness of our own moods. We can't sustain the peak experience. The dead girl, alone, never has to face the morning after. That may be why she is such an enduring figure in Romantic literature.
For more reflections on the cultural meanings of the Gothic, check out Golem: A Journal of Religion and Monsters.
Where could a poem like "Note to Van Helsing" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Poetry Society of South Carolina Contests
Entries must be received by November 15
Twice-yearly contest offers prizes up to $500 for PSSC members, $200 for nonmembers, for poems on various themes; no simultaneous submissions
Abilene Writers Guild Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Texas writers' group offers prizes up to $100 in a number of genres including rhymed and unrhymed poetry, short stories, articles, children's literature, and novel excerpts
Wild Violet Writing Contests
Postmark Deadline: December 18
Prizes up to $100 and online publication for short fiction and poetry; longer poems accepted, up to 200 lines
Another publication that appreciates "genre" writing includes:
This poem and critique appeared in the October 2009 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Nothing Changes
By Gary Beck
I sit at my desk
with my iPad,
send an email
to a friend in France.
It gets there in seconds.
Across the street
at a construction site,
immigrant laborers
who can't speak English
put up a scaffold,
the same way they did
in ancient Egypt.
Down the block,
four large men
carry a heavy rug,
just the way they did
in ancient Persia.
At the corner,
two men load a truck
the exact same way
two men loaded a cart
in the Middle Ages.
The progress of civilization
has given us
powerful machines,
electronic devices,
yet everywhere I look
we still do things by hand.
Nothing in the Rulebook
Nothing in the Rulebook is a UK-based online magazine that includes competitions listings, writing news, and feature articles about literature and culture.
Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market 40th Edition
From Writer's Digest, "the 40th edition of NSSWM features hundreds of updated listings for book publishers, literary agents, fiction publications, contests, and more." Includes interviews with bestselling authors and tips for fiction writers.
Novel Writing Advice from Caro Clarke
Fiction writer Clarke offers helpful tips on plotting, pacing, revising, and other nuts-and-bolts aspects of creating a novel, in a series of 30 articles originally written for the online magazine NovelAdvice.
Now What? The Creative Writer’s Guide to Success After the MFA
Published by Fairfield University's MFA Program, this multi-genre writer's guide features essays from numerous published authors about their postgraduate career paths.
NPR Poetry Games
In honor of the 2012 Olympics, National Public Radio features contemporary poems that honor the ancient connection between the arts and athletics. The website includes the text of the poems plus audio of the authors reading them. Contributors from around the world include Kazim Ali, Monica de la Torre, and Mbali Vilakazi.
Nullipara
By A.M. Thompson
nul·lip·a·ra (noun) A woman who has never given birth.
I am gill-less in a sea of the alive,
an ocean of female forces, dark and green.
This deprivation is ancient, biblical,
back to the days of fire pillars, ashes.
I feel too modern to be sistered back
to Sarah, to Elizabeth to time...
yet time is the deep that drowns the heart:
I see a burgeoning belly and cannot breathe.
Too basic to explain or understand,
I can only strive not to inhale the sea
then struggle up to gasp unholy air
and catch lost lullabies above the surf,
A primal music sorrowing this loss:
My songs of unforming—
ungrowing, and unborn.
Numinous: Spiritual Poetry
This online journal based in New Zealand publishes poems of a spiritual nature written in any style. Contributors have included such well-known authors as Annie Finch, Barry Spacks, and Martin Willitts Jr. Authors may submit one group of 4-6 unpublished poems per year.
NY Book Editors
NY Book Editors matches authors with experienced publishing professionals for manuscript critiques, from developmental to line editing. Initial fee is refundable if author is not satisfied with sample critique. Their blog features articles about the basics of writing and publishing.
NY Times: Rise in Self-Publishing Opens the Door for Aspiring Writers
This New York Times article from July 2011 discusses trends in self-publishing and how to choose the right publishing package.
NYC Midnight
Founded in 2002, NYC Midnight is a writers' forum that offers free writing challenges with themes and time limits to hone your skills. Each competition begins at 11:59 PM New York time, hence the title, and can range from 24 hours to 8 days to complete. Authors must use the writing prompt and submit a polished piece with a maximum word/page count by the deadline. Winners are published on the site (with their permission). Genres include flash fiction, short stories, and screenwriting. Sign up for their e-newsletter to be notified of the current challenge.
Objective Correlative
By David Holper
"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion." T.S. Eliot
Imagine a poem about the old Germany
the one in which you had to pass to through
Checkpoints A, B, C to travel
from West Germany to East Berlin:
it would by necessity be an act of faith,
dividing what we remember with what you feel obligated to tell:
it would require, too, a certain anxiety: the clock's hands frozen
just past midnight, a scene replete with klieglights, razor wire, guard towers,
armed Russian guards just barely old enough
to shave, or kill. Being young yourself, you would
remain stoic. Dignity is required in transit out of the known world
into the wintery ice fog. With your orders in hand,
you must enter the little green hut, just beyond
your car, slide the paperwork under the mirrored glass
and wait in the silence, with Joe and Vladimir
frowning at you.
No one will speak,
whether you say something in Russian or not,
whether, as you go out, you wish the guard a good evening
or offer to trade the open Playboy on the dash
for a belt buckle or a fur hat. Afterwards, you must drive directly
110 km from A to B: until you enter Berlin, you cannot leave your car,
whether you break down or run out of gas. At that point,
the poem must advance the alphabet in its proper order,
the landscape undoing all that you think of civilization
so that, if the poem does not confound us
with anything that challenges our faith in the world we know,
then and only then, the car will pass into the city—and beyond
Checkpoint Charlie, through the last barrier, and you will discover yourself
in East Berlin, the dirty fog drenching everything in doubt.
Once there, you'll find a troubling belief will manifest in the lines
of wet laundry strung outside the windows, the raw bullet holes
from decades before, the anxious gray faces. If you hear anything
resembling a scream, do your best to ignore it. Tell yourself it is only
your imagination. Maybe later you will stop at the Alexanderplatz for a souvenir,
(though aside from the vodka and the Cuban cigars, there will be nothing worth buying)
and watch the snow pile up in gray slush, effacing everything,
everyone. If you notice the man following you in the charcoal colored suit,
you must not make a scene. He will not bother you,
as long as you don't ask about what is torturing you. Keep moving, keep pretending
that the dead are not following you with every step. Only in this way
will we ever believe this nightmare to have been true.
Originally published in Third Wednesday, Spring 2012
Obscura
Obscura, the literary journal of Lehman College in the Bronx, publishes poetry, fiction, artwork, and drama that reflects their community's vibrant multicultural and Latinx influences. Open to submissions from current students and alumni.
Observatory
Clear-sighted, modest and wise, the narrator of these poems takes us to London, China, Japan, and post-Katrina New Orleans, always with an eye for the moments of common humanity that open up intimacy between strangers.
Obsession
By Janet Ruth Heller
I walk down the hall at work
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I go to his office to ask a question
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I speak up at a committee meeting
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I teach a composition class in front of him
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I submit my letter of resignation
and my boss stares at my breasts.
