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Searching for the Spring: Poetic Reflections of Maine
Plain-spoken, meditative poems bring to life the culture and terrain of rural Maine, and demonstrate the spiritual rewards of love and attention to one's native landscape.
Seaside Writers Conference
The Seaside Writers Conference for poets, fiction writers, and screenwriters is held annually in May in Seaside, FL, an environmentally conscious planned community. Applications are due in February. It features a full week of intensive writing workshops, one-day seminars, school outreach programs, and social events, with well-known authors as headliners.
Seawoman’s Caribbean Writing Opps
Writer Sandra Sealy's blog showcases writers of Caribbean descent and links to publishing opportunities for them.
Self Editing Blog
Brief articles by professional editor John Robert Marlow offer advice on spotting and fixing common problems with your novel, screenplay or nonfiction book. Topics include character names and the proper use of flashbacks and coincidences.
Self-Publish and Be Damned? Not Always
Self-published author Andy Kessler shares secrets of his success in this Wall Street Journal editorial. Kessler took advantage of the speed of self-publishing to get his book into stores while the topic was still newsworthy.
Self-Publishing a Debut Literary Novel
In this 2017 guest post on publishing expert Jane Friedman's blog, Nicole Dieker offers a dollars-and-cents case study of all the marketing strategies she used for her debut literary novel, The Biographies of Ordinary People: Vol. 1: 1989-2000, and their return on investment. A must-read for indie authors on a budget.
Self-Publishing Advice Center
The Self-Publishing Advice Center website is a project of the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi). Features include tech recommendations, author interviews, marketing and editing advice, and scam-busting pages that rate the leading indie book contests and self-publishing service providers based on their price structure and ethics.
Self-Publishing Made Simple with April Cox
Children's book author April Cox offers numerous services for self-published authors, including an indie author interview series on YouTube, an author workgroup with step-by-step advice for creating and launching your book, and online courses. Visit her YouTube channel for book marketing tips and profiles of worthwhile indie books.
Self-Publishing Review
Self-Publishing Review offers book marketing and editing services for indie authors. Their blog features useful articles on book promotion, choosing the best release date for your genre of book, technical advice and recommended apps, and more. Self-published and small press authors can enter their annual awards to win a promotional package. (We do not recommend using paid book review services, which they also offer.)
Self-Publishing School
Self-Publishing School offers intensive, individualized coaching programs to help authors finish, design, and promote their self-published books. With a prize tag of around $6,000 per course, this program is most useful to writers who already know the fundamentals of copyediting and story structure, and who can commit to finishing their book within a few months. It is not an editing or ghostwriting service. Best for authors of commercial nonfiction, genre fiction, and children's books.
SelfMadeHero
UK-based independent literary publisher SelfMadeHero specializes in graphic novels and visual narratives. Their catalog includes graphic novel versions of classics such as Pride and Prejudice, Don Quixote, and Victor Hugo's The Man Who Laughed; graphic biographies of notable figures such as George Orwell and Agatha Christie; and original illustrated fiction and nonfiction.
Send $19.99 for Supplements and Freedom: The Chapbook
By Noah Berlatsky. This satirical chapbook of found-poetry and hybrid texts includes a pantoum based on Joe Rogan's right-wing talk radio rants, absurd diagrams and multiple-choice questions mashing up the Graduate Record Exam with The Artist's Way, and a Swinburne double sestina featuring Jordan Peterson's pronouncements about masculinity and lobsters. It's like scrolling social media while dropping acid.
Send Mail From Desk
An alternative to in-person trips to the post office, Send Mail From Desk allows customers to send documents, letters, and invoices via FedEx Standard Overnight, USPS Priority, Express & First Class Mail, all from your computer dashboard.
Sensory Experience
By Gary Beck
Radio compelled people
to pay attention
to what they heard
and listen carefully.
Movies isolated people
who sat alone in darkness,
glued rapturously
to the silver screen.
TV chained people at home
watching the revealed world,
a paltry substitute
for imagination.
The internet erased
international boundaries,
allowing users
world wide exploration
anonymously,
mostly for trivia,
sometimes for science,
too often for evil,
unleashing new dangers
on the unprepared world.
September 1983
By Lisa Dordal
This should arrive in time; I hope the Post Office doesn't disappoint.
I tried to make the cookies as good as the ones we ate
in Atlantic City, but they aren't.
We had a lovely weekend at the Lake over Labor Day—
grilling steaks, bobbing around on inner tubes.
Leah's sister was in town. Have you ever met her? She's pretty
but in a colder, more sophisticated way. I like Leah's prettiness better.
Just now, WFMT played "Blue Skies" by Irving Berlin—
his songs were what I grew up with. Happy songs
in Depression America. Yes, I attended Alfred's funeral.
He was twenty-five. There was a bouquet from his fiancée.
I appreciate the letter you sent. You were ten when I started drinking,
maybe nine. I've put you through a lot of pain.
The dried blossoms are from the mock orange tree in our yard.
I carry your letter in my purse.
September’s First Monday
By Charlotte Mandel
Careful not to stumble on thick green sod, I stop and slowly bend to pluck a dandelion still yellow among dozens with globes of blow-away seeds. Holding the rubbery thread of stem between thumb and forefinger, I inhale scents of grass and earth cleansed by last night's rain. Sun-warmed downy petals stroke my cheek. The flower's crown wobbles.
fontanel pulse
in the cup of my hand
once
Serial Box
Launched in 2018, Serial Box is an app delivering specially-written novels in installments that take about 40 minutes to read. Rather than chopping up existing full-length works, Serial Box features fiction that was designed for the serial format, like episodes of a TV show. Their catalogue of diverse and best-selling authors includes Mary Robinette Kowal, Michael Swanwick, Malinda Lo, Barbara Samuel, Ellen Kushner, and Delia Sherman.
Set Free
Sparks a volley of abuse, and lights the shortened fuse,
From prisoners soft and hard.
Our prison van moves off, It's human cargo seated
With toughened hides, we sway and slide,
On seats of steel—butt heated.
Some sit silent, some converse, some talk of sentences far worse.
While I am frightened, others scorn, some make fun, some look forlorn.
Each one is tagged: "Society's curse."
We dwell upon our morbid fate, our future home ahead:
Our enemies, and mental state, the prison staff, the bars, the gates—
...A place of living dead.
Then huge steel gates, like giant Jaws, swing open at our sight
Then swiftly they enclose their prey, before the darkness swamps the day,
And some give thought to flight.
Heads down we shuffle from the van, in single line we go.
Names are called, numbers given, no offence is deemed forgiven,
and then the nudist show!
Naked and bent over, our rear ends are displayed,
and inspected for the drugs they bring, and many an unlawful thing,
inserted in that way.
They march us off in single line, to yellow-lighted cells,
Where sweat & odours fill the air, and peep-holed doors have eyes that stare,
And mouths that yell & yell.
A talking door with puckered mouth, whispers for a smoke,
And sneakily I offer one: the guard explodes and spoils my fun,
... The Con thinks it’s a joke.
Then comes the clash of steel on steel, as my cell is unlocked.
I see a bed but little more: a toilet pan, a stony floor.
The walls close in and mock.
The lonely cell exudes, a heightened sense of woe.
Barred windows cast their shadows in, reminding me that crime can't win,
And youth is my real foe.
Dazed, I sit and contemplate, my thoughts escape the bars.
I dream of things that could have been, of sights and sounds that are unseen,
of women and fast cars.
As darkness falls, I hear the steps of guards that walk on by,
The jangle of their keys resound, and echo through the prison ground,
And slap against their thighs.
The clang and squeak of opened cells, announce the morning's noise.
My eyes are jolted wide awake...I give my head a final shake...
Breathe deep to regain poise.
Tier upon tier of human flesh, like ants descend on down,
My feet clang on the catwalk, my ears feed on the small talk,
The violent wear the crown.
In shower blocks the weak look scared, afraid of being groped.
My soap brings forth a crimson flood, that looks suspiciously like blood,
…A blade is in my soap!
Then someone grabs and mauls me, you can't believe the fear.
I scream, I punch, and then I kick, I feel so helpless and so sick.
No one to help me here
In fear I grab an offered knife; though weak and short of breath,
I strike until I make a kill, then dazed they march me to a cell,
And charge me with the death.
It was cold and awful damp when my body hit the floor,
And I felt the hot tears drop, and I wept and couldn't stop,
Though I'd never cried before.
Then blood-guilt came in horror waves, condemning all I'd done,
Hell flashed before my sleepless eyes; I agonised with sobs and sighs,
And cried out to God’s Son.
"I don't deserve your mercy, Lord, do with me what You will."
The anguish almost crushed my heart, I felt like someone torn apart,
How could I maim and kill?
A voice inside said: "Peace, be still. My blood was shed for you.
I died the death that you deserve, and I forgive without reserve,
My peace I leave with you."
Next morning when they saw me; they marveled at the sight:
For there I was, down on my knees, cleansed of sins that tortured me,
My face was bathed with light.
Yes, even though I'm still in jail, the jail is not in me,
My chains have all been snapped, Jesus Christ has borne my rap,
And I have been "Set Free"
Copyright 2003 by Barry Goode
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Barry Goode's "Set Free" is a compelling prison ballad that reminds me of the songs of Johnny Cash. The swift-moving rhythm and rhyme propel the story along. I especially like the interior rhymes within the second line of each stanza, and the fact that each stanza ends on a shorter, punchy line. These choices add variety to the sound of the poem. However, Goode should revise the third stanza to bring it into line with the pattern he has chosen. The first and third lines are too long. For instance, consider changing the last line to "Each tagged: Society's curse" to eliminate extra syllables.
The poet Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) was a master of this type of melodramatic story-poem, a genre that nowadays has taken a back seat to the modernist free-verse lyric. Read Robinson's poems at Bartleby.
The strong point of "Set Free" is its detailed evocation of prison life. Goode takes the reader through the gamut of emotions experienced by these imprisoned men: sullenness, humiliation, escapist fantasy, the violence of caged animals turning against one another, and finally contrition. The stanza beginning "Tier upon tier" is especially powerful, in terms of both imagery and sound.
The poem brings to life the prison's nightmarish daily routine, showing how the prisoners' cruelty to one another and the dehumanizing constraints of captivity are mutually reinforcing. While the poem clearly has a moral, Goode allows the message to arise implicitly from the facts he relates— at least until the conversion scene, which I think is weaker to the extent that it follows a formulaic script.
Goode makes effective use of metaphor to show how the protagonist of "Set Free" moves from passivity to moral agency, and from a hellish state to a heavenly one. The prisoners at first are undifferentiated "human cargo," tagged and numbered, shuffling like zombies. In a rape-like scenario, they are strip-searched for contraband. Then a first-person voice emerges. At the outset, the narrator is trapped within himself, escaping into fantasy as a way to avoid the solitude of his own thoughts.
He is galvanized into action by the blade in his soap, but the action is still unreflective, an animal lashing out in self-defense. The people around him are impersonal forces, not other selves. "I strike until I make a kill," he says, identifying neither his victim/attacker nor the person who hands him the knife. Finally, when he is able to confront and feel remorse for his act of violence, he breaks the cycle and is "set free" from the dehumanizing effects of his surroundings.
Images such as "a place of living dead" and "huge steel gates, like giant jaws" create a picture of damned souls filing through the gates to Hell. This sets up a contrast with the protagonist's vision of Christ later on.
While the conversion scene provides dramatic resolution, making this more than just a depressing snapshot of prison life, it doesn't ring as true as the earlier scenes of the poem. I'm not really concerned about the storyline's lack of originality. Ballads are all about retelling some archetypal human story (a tragic love affair, a criminal's repentance) in a catchy, melodic way. There's just something formulaic about the last two stanzas that comes as a letdown after the gritty realistic detail of the preceding verses. Perhaps the shift from natural to supernatural is too unexpected.
It's hard to quarrel with the stanza beginning "A voice inside," which elegantly translates a familiar Biblical text into the poem's rhyme-scheme. My biggest problem is with the penultimate stanza. "My face was bathed with light" is a cliche from sentimental "inspirational" literature. And who are "they" who "marveled at the sight"? It's hard to believe that the rough guards and prisoners we met in the beginning of the poem would have the sensitivity to notice the narrator's change of heart. It no longer feels like we're in the same setting, but rather in a much tamer and more generic one. I also find "Jesus Christ has borne my rap" in the last stanza a little too glib.
Overall, to be more believable, the protagonist's spiritual change of heart needs to be slower-paced and display more of the psychological complexity that makes the first part of the poem so dramatic. We move too quickly from Christ's reassurance to "my face was bathed with light." We don't know what the narrator was in jail for originally, but by the end of the poem, he's killed a man, albeit in self-defense. He's a mass of conflicting emotions, fear and rage contending with pangs of conscience. Wouldn't the miracle of divine forgiveness be harder for him to comprehend all at once? Perhaps, for one more stanza, he should wrestle with feelings of unworthiness or disbelief that things can change for him.
We don't hear anything about the narrator's spiritual beliefs until suddenly, when he's thrown in solitary for killing the other prisoner, he "crie[s] out to God's Son." The poem leaves us unprepared for this moment. What was his spiritual state before this? If raised a Christian, why did he fall away from it? Why, at this moment, does he turn to Jesus, when he seemed to be without a spiritual compass during the first part of the poem? A few clues to this aspect of his personality would make this poem stronger.
Where could this poem be submitted? Most mainstream literary journals would find it too sentimental. It's more likely to find a home in a Christian-themed magazine (pick up the latest volume of the Poet's Market from Writer's Digest for a list of these).
I imagine that "Set Free" would make an effective performance piece at open mike nights, storytelling contests and poetry slams, if the author has any inclinations in that direction.
This poem and critique appeared in the September 2003 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Seven Miles of Steel Thistles
Literary scholar and fantasy novelist Katherine Langrish blogs about folklore, fantasy, and ballads from an academic perspective. Topics include C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Hans Christian Andersen, and contemporary authors such as Terry Pratchett and Ursula K. LeGuin. Her book Seven Miles of Steel Thistles: Reflections on Fairy Tales (Greystones Press, 2016) collects some of the top essays from this site. In addition to providing insight about beloved classics, the site is a good resource for fantasy authors wishing to think critically about problematic tropes in their genre.
Sezer Raises His Open Hands
By Carey Link
inspired by Leyla Emektar's photograph, Sezer's Diary
In the twilight of afternoon sun,
Sezer sits in his wheelchair,
and waits to catch a basketball—
as it glides
back-and-forth—forth-and-back—
between earth and sky.
Shadow Black
By Naima Yael Tokunow. Winner of the 2019 Frontier Poetry Digital Chapbook Contest, this powerful, image-rich collection is free to read online. Tokunow combines body horror, sensual pleasure, and political urgency in these poems that rebel against the violent erasure of black female bodies.
Shaping Your Manuscript
Mr. Levine reads 4,000 fiction and poetry manuscripts each year for Tupelo Press, one of America's most acclaimed independent literary publishers. He shares his advice on what editors like to see.
- Use 11 or 12 point Times Roman or other clean serif (Garamond or Palatino, for example), nothing smaller or larger.
- Beware the frontispiece poem (that poem of yours that you might have elected to place before your numbered pages, or before your table of contents). This practice draws far too much attention to a single poem and, in my experience, the selected poem more often than not (80% of the time?) turns out to be one of the weakest poems in the collection.
- When ordering poems in your manuscript, pay no attention to which poems have been published (and where), and which poems not. At the conclusion of contests, I often (call me perverse) go back and look at the acknowledgment pages. I find that most poets place an inordinate (and mistaken) reliance on their publishing history in ordering poems, assuming that because such-and-such a journal took a poem it must be better than the poems not taken, or that a poem taken by Poetry or The Paris Review must be better than one taken by a lesser known print or online publication. I am almost always amazed—amazed—by which poems have been taken and which not (and by whom). Believe in all your poems, and order them according to your sense of where they belong. Period.
- When organizing the manuscript, think about each poem according to: mood / tone; dominant images, characters/speaker, setting/season; chronology, and whatever other categories you deem important to your own work. However you organize your collection, keep in mind that you are creating a book, and you cannot really know how the poems interact with each other unless you've done this work.
- Make sure the poems that begin your collection establish the voice and credibility of the manuscript. They should introduce the questions, issues, characters, images, sources of conflict/tension, etc., that concern you and that will be explored in the book. Think about the trajectory of the manuscript: you want to set the reader off on a journey, a path toward some (even if undisclosed) destination.
- Find an effective title: from the title of a significant poem in your collection, or from a line in your poem, or (perhaps to create some tension or mystery) it may not appear in your collection at all. That said, create about 20 contrasting titles and live with each for a while. Print out a title page for each possibility and look at them early and often. Obviously, you'll have ample opportunity to re-title your work after it's accepted by a publisher, but so many titles (of even terrific manuscripts) are so ill-thought out or just plain bad that I find I have to get over that initial reaction in order to give a collection its due.
- Other considerations:
a) don't send in a photocopy that's been copied so many, many times that it has inherited smudges or the type has faded;
b) send a cover letter if you like, but never a resume, and if you do send a cover letter, make sure it's addressed to the intended press and not some other press (you'd be surprised!), and don't address your cover letter to the contest judge (you'd be surprised!), and don't say you're in the process of a complete revision and will be sending the revised manuscript in a week or two (you'd be surprised!);
c) don't include dedications and thanks on a contest manuscript (plenty of time for that later);
d) be judicious about epigraphs—mostly they're just so much hardware unless a poem clearly addresses the words or theme of the epigraph.
Shards: Poems from the War
Contemporary war poetry selected by Eugene Volokh. Professor Volokh teaches law at UCLA. Submissions welcome - formal verse sought.
Shark Bait
Sharks close their eyes
the moment before they strike.
They sense the electrical signal
of the heart, they know where to bite,
they can find it blind. The heart
will betray you every time.
It's been a year I've chosen
to be alone. My life is full
of work and talk and the occasional fling
where no one falls for anyone—it's best
to become heartless. No one holds me
back; I don't get that attached.
I say heartless but this is a lie. It beats
red and bloody underneath it all, I am ripe
for slaughter. It keeps getting harder
to hide the signal: the heart wants
to be discovered. Or devoured,
if that's what it takes.
The sharks' own hearts must
crackle with charge as they glide
silently through the leaden water—
do they sense each other's presence
as they sense prey? Do their hearts
call out to each other
in the darkness
beneath the waves? I want someone
to draw my passion like a magnet,
a target, I long for it. So the heart
sends out its signal; I'm a beacon.
Nothing will protect me
from the danger.
I'm just waiting to feel
the teeth sink in.
Copyright 2004 by Ellia Bisker
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem, "Shark Bait" by Ellia Bisker, spins an arresting bit of scientific trivia into an extended metaphor for how our instinctual need for connection may prove more powerful than our "higher" functions of judgment and willpower.
The poem takes a single idea and consistently develops it with skill, using repetition of certain key concepts (heart, signal, sense, electricity) to maintain the narrative focus. Bisker is economical with language, which helps the poem avoid sentimentality for the most part. Short, sharp rhythms and the use of internal rhymes and alliteration create a relentless momentum as the speaker's illusions are stripped away.
The theme of blind fate is evident from the first line, "Sharks close their eyes". The poem suggests that humans no less than other animals are hard-wired to make connections, be it with lovers, predators or prey. While the conscious mind tries to resist a destructive coupling, something more basic and sub-rational in us prefers any interaction, even a fatal one, over solitude. I'm reminded of numerous crime stories (e.g. Ray Bradbury's classic "The Ravine") about women who are drawn to stalkers and serial killers, perversely fascinated by the possibility of a desire so strong that it obliterates its object.
Bisker gives the theme of love and death a clever twist when she imagines sharks finding their mates by the same signals that they use to find prey. It's all the same hunger: "the heart wants/to be discovered. Or devoured,/if that's what it takes." The juxtaposition of similar-sounding words (devoured/discovered) is an effective technique that emphasizes the message of the lines while also creating a pleasing pattern of sounds.
Throughout the poem, Bisker has a good ear for the rhythms of speech, wisely choosing to end many sentences on a powerful downbeat while varying the placement of these end-stops within the line. Some examples that stand out: "It's been a year I've chosen/to be alone" and "I say heartless but this is a lie. It beats/red and bloody underneath it all, I am ripe/for slaughter."
Enjambment—the continuation of a phrase beyond the end of a line of verse—is another technique that "Shark Bait" employs to good effect. In the second stanza, line breaks allow the poet to suggest multiple meanings that are in tension with one another, reflecting the speaker's inner conflict about her solitude. The second line of this stanza asserts that "My life is full", but following the thought onto the next line, we see what it is really filled with. "[W]ork and talk and the occasional fling/where no one falls for anyone"—full of emptiness, in other words. Further down, she asserts that "No one holds me/back", a positive statement of liberation concealing the lonely cry that "No one holds me".
Something about the last stanza left me a little unsatisfied. Though it logically followed from the rest of the poem, it felt slightly less interesting and original. Perhaps it was because the speaker slipped into the passive role of "victim of love" at the end, when previously the poem had been alive with the electrical charge of her passion. In the previous stanzas, she was exercising agency; even though her mind chose one thing and her heart another, they were both trying to take control of her fate, whereas at the end she is "just waiting". I would have been interested to see the speaker try on the predator's or shark's role, realizing that maybe she can take charge of satisfying her heart's craving instead of merely capitulating to it.
Where could a poem like "Shark Bait" be submitted? The following contest may be of interest:
Muriel Craft Bailey Memorial Award
Postmark Deadline: July 1
Prizes up to $1,000, publication in The Comstock Review; no simultaneous submissions
This poem and critique appeared in the March 2004 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
SharpWriter.Com
Links to dozens of online dictionaries, grammar and style guides, and copyright advice sites are among the most useful features of this website maintained by horror/suspense novelist John T. Cullen.
She’s Not There: A Life in Two Genders
This witty and eye-opening memoir describes one person's experience of being transgender. James Finney Boylan was a published novelist and English professor who had tried all his life to suppress his feeling that he was female inside. Finally, at age 40, he began the process of transition, leading to an upheaval and rearrangement of his family life, depicted here in anecdotes both comical and sad. Some will feel that the real hero of the tale is the author's wife, who lovingly supported Boylan's transition despite her pain and anger at losing the man she married. Boylan's hilarious narrative voice is the book's chief strength; its weakness is an absence of in-depth reflection on where our ideas of "male" and "female" identity come from.
Sheer Poetry
This British website, geared to teachers and students of writing, offers a collection of materials on poetry and poets by contemporary UK authors such as Carol Ann Duffy, Gillian Clarke, and Simon Armitage. Features include interviews, critical essays, study guides, and an online forum. Material for children is well-represented, as are women poets.
Shelly Jackson
See "The Body" for linked prose poems and short-shorts in a novel use of the Internet.
Shibai
By Don Mitchell. In this compelling hybrid memoir and true-crime account, Mitchell recounts how the cold-case murder of his friend Jane Britton, a fellow graduate student in the Harvard anthropology department, was solved after 49 years. Shibai, a Japanese word for a stage play, also means "gaslighting" or "bullshit" in the slang of Mitchell's native Hawai'i. As an anthropologist among the Nagovisi people of Bougainville, Mitchell learned early that truth is always filtered through the stories we tell ourselves and the roles in which our culture casts us. When Becky Cooper, a journalist for the New Yorker, contacts him for a book she is writing about Jane's case, he discovers, in retelling the story to a stranger, that his long-held assumptions about the murder don't hold up. With him, the reader relives the Kafka-esque terror of being suspected by the police, the frustration when the investigation is stonewalled or misled by people he once loved, and the sorrow and relief of finally filling in the gaps about Jane's last moments. The resulting saga is a profound and subtle meditation on memory, aging, and our responsibility to the dead. Like a shadow that provides contrast in a photograph, Jane's unlived life stands as a counterpart to Mitchell's honest and self-aware journey through the milestones of his 77 years, from the triumphs and disappointments of his academic career to his deep relationship with the Hawaiian landscape and people.
ShortStops
Literary news site covers contemporary short fiction in the UK and Ireland. ShortStops features listings of live literary events where short stories are read, journals that publish short stories, a directory of authors in the genre, and other related links.
Sibling Rivalry Press
Founded in 2010 in Little Rock, Arkansas, Sibling Rivalry Press is a well-regarded independent publisher of poetry and literary fiction. In addition to publishing award-winning poetry collections, SRP is home to Assaracus, a journal of poetry by gay men; Jonathan, a journal of gay fiction, and Adrienne, a journal of poetry by queer women. Writers of all identities are welcome to submit to the press. Authors in their catalog include Wendy Chin-Tanner, Collin Kelley, Megan Volpert, and Julie R. Enszer.
Sibylline Press
Sibylline Press is a small press with a marketing co-operative that is dedicated to publishing novels and memoirs by women over 50. They are LGBTQ-friendly and trans-inclusive. One could consider them a hybrid publisher in that they require the author's financial investment in the marketing budget. Their website is modern and their book covers look professional.
Side Trip
By James K. Zimmerman
I seek an occasional
side trip to the universe
next door
the next slice in
the cosmic loaf
of bread
there, crows do not
say "caw" nor sneezes
"a-choo"
it is unearthly still
no language to ruin
thought
no heavenly bodies
to memorize
the words
and there, god is a magic
wand to a violin
an open hand
to a hungry dog
or perhaps
to a lurking trout
an angler's passing fly
Significant Objects
DIAGRAM Magazine editor Ander Monson and his creative writing students created this series of impressionistic short pieces inspired by cheap knickknacks from thrift shops.
Silence
The Eskimos had it right
With all their words for snow—
As if one word,
One small combination of letters,
Could describe
That experience
Which bakes its schizophrenic soul
Into so many dishes,
A veritable many-course meal
For those with stomachs large enough to partake
Each different offering,
Savor the flavor
Of each soundless course
Cooked with care for them alone.
Steamed, sautéed,
Grilled and garnished
By different occurrences;
The champagne-bubbly silence of anticipation,
A soufflé baked with precision,
Apple pie-steam and coffee brewing,
The aroma impatiently unbearable;
The crunchy, loud silence of awkwardness,
Carrot bits flying everywhere
Orange and unforgiving,
Spinach stuck between buck teeth;
The hot silence between lovers not yet tasted,
Fajitas sizzling on the grill, their many trimmings
Displayed carefully side by side,
Waiting to be liberally thrown on a tortilla
Spread open and inviting;
The revolting silence of disbelief,
Leftovers left too long in the fridge,
Crammed behind the mustard, forgotten
Fermenting,
Until the rancid smell pervades everything around;
The bitter silence of jilted lovers,
Burned chocolate, milk gone sour,
Food eaten unknowing,
Its salmonella-poison masked
By other tastes;
The cold silence of grudge,
A brainfreeze—
Icy daggers borne of too much introspection—
That punctures logic
And shatters compassion,
Leaving taste buds numb;
The smooth, creamy silence
Of meditation,
Swirls of custard and meringue,
Key lime pie and fruity sherbet,
Bathing the soul in being;
The spicy cinnamon taste of accomplishment,
Warm, dry silence
That momentarily satisfies the palate
But leaves the soul thirsting for more
In just a few hours;
The blubbery aspic of loneliness,
Gelatin wiggling on the tongue,
Silence swilled
Like too much water
Until the stomach distends of its own accord,
Bloated from unwanted gluttony;
The sweet silence of years of acquaintance,
A familiar, lovely taste—
Comfort food—
Calorie-rich with love and memory;
The tasteless silence of death,
Cottonmouth on the tongue,
Unwanted heartburn
Stuck in the throat,
Which will not go away.
Copyright 2007 by Jessica Keeslar
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Jessica Keeslar's poem "Silence" is full of surprises. Leading off with an observation so familiar as to have become clichéd, she reclaims it by force of will, applying all her inventiveness and exuberance to the conceit around which she has built the poem, until she has established her authority as someone with fresh insights to offer. Her zesty, unexpected, yet always apt metaphors disclose the true character of both silence and food, in the same way as the proverbial Eskimo's vocabulary is meant to reveal fine gradations among weather conditions whose individuality we formerly ignored.
Snow is snow, we might say, to justify our lack of attention. Like snow, silence at first appears simple, empty, easily understood. By pairing this austere and seemingly featureless phenomenon with something as varied and abundant as food, almost its opposite, Keeslar makes us notice both the richness of silence and the loss that is the flip side of food's nurturing.
The opening stanzas, which in my opinion are the weakest, have a cute, chatty tone that led me to expect light verse. The poem's playful spirit is one reason it works: the Eskimo-language factoid has been cited so often in a sentimental, didactic "stop and smell the roses" context that Keeslar's over-the-top descriptions strike a refreshingly self-aware note of parodic humor.
It wasn't until the stanza beginning "The crunchy, loud silence of awkwardness" that I realized something important was happening in this poem. This is where she starts to let it all hang out, digging into the experience of awkwardness with a messy scene that makes us laugh and cringe at once. A bad poem often fails because the author has no humility, that is, no sense that her powerful emotions might be ridiculous in a certain light. I was worried by the portentousness of the first two stanzas, but here, Keeslar winks to let us know she's in on the joke.
The metaphors become more creative as the poem progresses. "The cold silence of grudge,/A brainfreeze—" how clever to pair (sweet) ice cream and (bitter) resentment, forcing us to puzzle out the underlying similarity. Both can be pleasures we gorge ourselves upon, thinking at first to nurture ourselves, but later finding that this self-indulgence is more of a headache than it's worth. "The spicy cinnamon taste of accomplishment" and "The blubbery aspic of loneliness" transcend reductive explanation by analogy. These lines directly translate mental states into physical sensations that startle us because the connections are at once so unexpected and so right.
Keeslar makes the interesting choice to end the poem on a note of deprivation. Though not all of the emotions explored in the poem are happy ones by any means, up to this point the overall mood leaned toward affirmation and abundance. As in meditation, where both pleasant and unpleasant feelings are to be studied and embraced without judgment, Keeslar seemed to be setting negative experiences (awkwardness, anger, loneliness) within a larger, more generous and positive frame of reference. Even decay has its own rich palette to be savored, she says. But ending with the death stanza, rather than slipping it in earlier before an upbeat conclusion, somehow undermines this hope. As a reader, I feel disappointment, maybe even betrayal, because my expectations for the poem were frustrated. As a critic, I'm not sure this is a bad thing.
The descriptions of the different kinds of silence are pitch-perfect and I wouldn't change them at all. I would, however, seriously condense the opening three stanzas. They lack the musical rhythm and unusual imagery of the stanzas that follow, and their tone is somehow too precious. If Keeslar wants to keep the over-used Eskimo-snow reference, which does have the virtue of setting this poem within an instantly comprehensible tradition, she might want to lead off with her own original thought, instead of placing too much weight on an observation already handled so often by her predecessors. Below, a rough attempt at a new beginning for this poem:
Silence serves up as many dishes
as the Eskimos' words for snow—
For those with stomachs large enough to partake
Each schizophrenic offering,
Savor the flavor
Of each soundless course
Cooked with care for them alone:
The champagne-bubbly silence of anticipation,
etc.
In this revision, I tried to preserve the phrases that were most individual, substituted the stronger and more specific word "schizophrenic" for "different", and foregrounded the poem's true subjects in the first line. I eliminated phrases that seemed merely repetitive of concepts already introduced. The Eskimo reference suffices to convey the inadequacy of a single word to convey a multifaceted experience. Thus, I cut out the first few lines of the second stanza, which spell out this message in a way that felt like overkill. I might like to see a more tactile, unexpected word in place of "schizophrenic" (mental illness being nearly a poetic cliché itself) to express the dissonance of flavors that Keeslar is about to ask us to swallow. This author has a great talent for the objective correlative that she needs to put on display right from the beginning of this adventurous poem.
Where could a poem like "Silence" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Second Light Poetry Competition
Entries must be received by October 1
British group of women writers over 40 offers prizes up to 300 pounds; entries may be published or unpublished
Beullah Rose Poetry Prize
Postmark Deadline: January 1
$200 prize for unpublished poems by women, from the journal Smartish Pace; online entries accepted
Edwin Markham Prize in Poetry
Postmark Deadline: November 1
Prize for unpublished poems includes $500 and publication in Reed Magazine, the literary journal of San Jose State University
Wild Violet Writing Contests
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Literary e-zine Wild Violet offers prizes of $100 for poetry and fiction; online entries accepted
This poem and critique appeared in the September 2007 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Silence. Struggle. Salvation.
By Judith Cody
for Guy, he'd have understood
Crash in the rose garden. Crash. Crash. Crash.
Suddenly a full petaled wide open Tea Rose
Known as Mr. Lincoln, let go of most of
Its immense maroon, elderly petals (this all at once)
Sending them fluttering helplessly to the bare
Ground, some of them struck a furtive Brown Towhee
Who was scratching noisily at the base of the shrub
For a few errant earwigs who normally rest in the day,
But now must fight wiggle for their lives (though lost)
For a second, now the descending cascade of petals distracted
The disheveled bird allowing the exposed insects
To escape (this afternoon).
Reprinted from Garden on an Alien Star System (Finishing Line Press, 2020); first published in Phantasmagoria 5(1):8
Silliman’s Blog
Thoughtful reflections on contemporary poetry and poetics from award-winning poet and editor Ron Silliman.
Singapore Unbound
Founded by award-winning poet Jee Leong Koh, Singapore Unbound is a cross-cultural literary organization that builds connections between Singaporean and American authors through projects such as the biennial Singapore Literary Festival in New York City; Gaudy Boy Press, publisher of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by authors of Asian heritage; and the SP Blog, with book reviews and artist interviews.
Singing of War
War poetry scholar Peggy Rosenthal reviews two anthologies on the topic, and discusses the place of poetry in the curriculum of the famed West Point military academy, in this article from Christianity Today.
Sinister Wisdom
Publishing since 1976, Sinister Wisdom works to create a multicultural, multi-class lesbian space. Sinister Wisdom seeks to open, consider and advance the exploration of lesbian community issues. Sinister Wisdom recognizes the power of language to reflect our diverse experiences and to enhance our ability to develop critical judgment as lesbians evaluating our community and our world. The magazine currently welcomes work by transgender women who identify as lesbian. Read back issues online for free in their archive.
Sistah Scifi
Sistah Scifi promotes speculative fiction by black women. Site founder Isis Asare says, "Sistah Scifi is a cauldron of all things afrofuturism; afro-mysticism; Black sci-fi; and voodoo casting spells to uplift literature written by Black women."
Six and Rain Sestina
SIX by Charlotte Mandel
At six, my cheeks were apple red.
Relatives pinched me like fruit on a stand,
testing me. I longed to be pale,
glassy and flat like the people
reflected in black mirror windows
staring in the howl of subway tunnels.
Riding to Coney Island, the tunnels
blasted into daylight. Veiny red
blobs flooded my eyes. Sun melted the windows.
I jumped and slid off the wicker to stand,
squares imprinted on my thighs. I smelled people
and corned beef. I could hear the rattle of my pail.
Under my wet wool suit, sand rubbed the pale
hidden chinks of my body. I dug tunnels
with care, my fingers creeping like people,
sandhogs meeting, their torches red
fire boring through. I mixed mud to stand
firm, fit in bits of shell for windows—
white, like eyes of a fish. Windows
couldn't be trusted. Glass looked pale
but might be backed with silver, force you to stand,
rigid, planted in a screaming tunnel
watching faces staring in the dim red
narrow passage, the eyes of bodiless people.
In the movies, behind the screen, real people
ballooned like silhouettes in windows.
My mother sat beside me, offering a red
apple that felt cold and black in the pale
gigantic flickering talking tunnel.
A man was touching me—I didn't understand
why my mother looked away, letting me stand
it, letting me suffer eyes and hands of people—
the man's fingers groping for tunnels
under my dress. The wall in front was a window
framing a strange man's eyes magnified, pale—
a scream in my throat like sand, burning red—
"We'll go home, your skin is red." My mother made me stand,
pulled off my bathing suit. Pale bodiless eyes of people
stared through black mirror windows at my body screaming in tunnels.
Copyright 2010 by Charlotte Mandel
RAIN SESTINA by Chuck Levenstein
Patience is a virtue nurtured by endless rain:
Old forests are proud of their ability to wait
While lesser shrubs insist on irrigation ditches
And pipes of stolen water, streams diverted,
Dams inserted to pool and pump the skies
While the trees and I are dry or wet as Nature wills.
My tribe is not inclined to subdue weather with its will
Our rites include no prayer or sacred dance for rain
Or sun; legend tells that for forty years we had to wait
With backpacks and flat bread, trudge through desert ditches
And dunes behind old Moses, from refuge diverted
Because the fool struck a rock, impatient with the skies
A pity we were abandoned to sand and white skies,
And a jealous god insistent on his will,
When there were swimming deities who loved rain,
Imbibed heavenly nectar and were content to wait
While we stumbled away from digging Egyptian ditches
(Desire to escape from slavery, of course, not to be diverted.)
Suppose, just suppose, the fleeing caravan had been diverted
And dark Atlantic waters parted under Brazilian skies,
And we trailed the Amazon drenched as a wet god willed,
My ancestors might have learned the Portuguese for "rain",
And armed with arrow and bow we would wait
To ambush Herzog's Jesuits in soggy ditches!
Alas, we were not born with the britches to sit in ditches!
The fate of a destined stream cannot be diverted,
Exiled tribes may yet find their way to Himalayan skies
Where upstream Tzaddiks spin the wheel of no-one's will
And on Bhuddish heads snow falls, quiet as this summer's rain,
And Godot! There he is! Sits but doesn't wait.
These umbrella musings keep us dry while we wait
For slippery waters to cease slithering by in roadside ditches.
Our wetlands misery, malarial mold and all, must be diverted
Until clouds dissipate, as in memory did clear the skies
And they filled with radiant Apollo's will.
How long will our patience be tried by this damned rain!
Yes, even flowery patience will wilt if forced to wait
For an end to endless rain, the petals diverted
From terran skies end their short lives in a ditch.
Copyright 2010 by Chuck Levenstein
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
The sestina is scary. That's what I think most poets think, and I find that sad because the sestina is one of the most enjoyable ways I have ever found to write a poem.
But I think I know why they're scary (I have three reasons, actually) and this month in Critique Corner, with contributions from two highly accomplished poets, I'd like to see if I can allay some fears.
They are Charlotte Mandel with "Six", which was originally published in her collection A Disc of Clear Water (Saturday Press, 1982), and Chuck Levenstein, editor of the former online zine Poems Niederngasse, with "Rain Sestina".
Scary Thing #1: I Flunked Math
These charts one sees all over the Internet! They make the form appear like kabbalistic numerology comprehensible only to pattern-seeking savants. No! Remember this is a form invented by people who wove their own belts; the rules of the sestina are no more complicated than tying a macramé knot, each line of poem, a cord of twine. As a string of knots, the pattern doesn't refer back to the first knot but just to the previous. The stanzas spool off of one another: 6,1/5,2/4,3 of the previous stanza, 6 times—a simple braid.
Now to finish a row, some sort of edging stitch is needed. In sestinas, this is called the envoi. Although once there were traditional patterns for the envoi, they have long ago been abandoned to more general rules: all the end words appear somewhere in the last three lines, usually two per line, one at the end and one somewhere in the middle. Also, most sestinas end with the last word of the poem's first line. Not only does this not require any computer programs to remember, but it is a pleasure of the form to exploit it to expressive effect.
Notice how Charlotte Mandel does this in "Six". The end words correspond with the end words from the first stanza as 1,2,3,4,5,6—not just a clever reference to the title and form, but highly expressive as well: a childish counting up suiting the theme and adding an ominous touch.
Now, the evolution of variations on the envoi is an essay in itself, which brings us to...
Scary Thing #2: History is Long
It seems one can't enter a discussion of the sestina without first encountering its long history. To be fair, its history is quite interesting, in part because more details of it are known, at least more so than some of the other forms of its day. It makes a good story that no one can resist. Unfortunately though, all this ado has the effect of casting the form as unapproachably venerable. No again. Sestina is not venerable; it is vernacular. (Allow me just one colorful factoid: its main proponent, Arnaut Daniel, was depicted in Dante's Purgatory as the vernacular poet.) More importantly, the sestina has had numerous revivals amongst poets since, clearly attesting to the pleasure they give one to write.
Why? Because the sestina is a prose form, built in sentences not phrases, unlike its more design-dependent contemporaries, the triolet and the villanelle. As opposed to these phrase-repetition forms in which the phrase drives the poem, the end words in a sestina serve more as destinations. Choosing how to get from one to the next is much of the fun.
As a prose form, the sestina is particularly suited for argument. In Levenstein's poem, for example, stanza four begins with "Suppose" and stanza five with "Alas." These are rhetorical terms, meant to propose new facets.
Most sestinas are written in the third-person form, often covering big sweeps of time as Levenstein has done. Elizabeth Bishop's famous "Sestina" offers an interesting contrast. This poem reads as if it were a screenplay—so many shifts in vantage point.
Bishop has chosen present tense for her narrative. It did occur to me to wonder how that might work for Mandel's poem, especially in the first line of the sixth stanza, if not all the way through.
In both cases, the guideposts of end words elicit surprising turns in the journey. In this sense, the sestina is a poetic form.
It is poetic in another sense as well, that is, in its music. The sestina has a way of generating riffs. Scan the left-hand column of "Rain Sestina," and you will detect a pattern of "and"s resolved in the envoi as "an end".
Now a form that shifts and riffs lends itself to humor. (Though the all-humor-all-the-time mode that dominates the form's latest revival, the postmodern sestina, is admittedly amusing—all right, often very amusing—it limits the expressive range of the form to glib to outrageous.) Levenstein made me laugh twice in stanza five, just the right time to vary the tone and keep the poem lively.
A second characteristic of the postmodern sestina, obviously, is to be self-referential, or perhaps more apt in this case, form-referential. Charlotte Mandel accomplishes this nicely in her envoi as mentioned above. Her title is a hint as well.
But there is a problem with being too self-referential: it can be paralyzing.
Scary Thing #3: But, But...What If I Choose Wrong?
All the free advice out there about homonyms and words that can be used in multiple tenses and invisible words and words from the same family and so on, turn a form so relaxed it could easily be used by a child into an ordeal. Moreover, cute as the postmodern wink can be, too much self-consciousness about the end words puts an inordinate emphasis on something secondary to meaning.
In practical terms, you need about 45 words in your first stanza. You can get those words from anywhere, a diary entry, the back of a cereal box, one of the poems in your unfinished file. Now pick some words you think you might like to work with. Choose wisely: thematically, musically, sure, but don't fret it. You will discover that it is possible to make adjustments.
In fact, so adjustable is this form that you can begin with any stanza and the pattern will hold. Pin the cut stanzas back onto the end. Often the meaning will render this ridiculous and new lines will need to be composed, but sometimes they merely need a bit of reworking. At best, sometimes this is just the leap a poem needs to keep it energized.
Here's how this revision would work with using the poems of both of our guests as examples:
In Levenstein's "Rain Sestina" the last two stanzas and envoi would now be:
These umbrella musings keep us dry while we wait
For slippery waters to cease slithering by in roadside ditches.
Our wetlands misery, malarial mold and all, must be diverted
Until clouds dissipate, as in memory did clear the skies
And they filled with radiant Apollo's will.
How long will our patience be tried by this damned rain!
Patience is a virtue nurtured by endless rain:
Old forests are proud of their ability to wait
While lesser shrubs insist on irrigation ditches
And pipes of stolen water, streams diverted,
Dams inserted to pool and pump the skies
While the trees and I are dry or wet as Nature wills.
Yes, even flowery patience will wilt if forced to wait
For an end to endless rain, the petals diverted
From terran skies end their short lives in a ditch.
In Mandel's "Six" the last two stanzas and envoi would now be:
why my mother looked away, letting me stand
it, letting me suffer eyes and hands of people—
the man's fingers groping for tunnels
under my dress. The wall in front was a window
framing a strange man's eyes magnified, pale—
a scream in my throat like sand, burning red—
At six, my cheeks were apple red.
Relatives pinched me like fruit on a stand,
testing me. I longed to be pale,
glassy and flat like the people
reflected in black mirror windows
staring in the howl of subway tunnels.
"We'll go home, your skin is red." My mother made me stand,
pulled off my bathing suit. Pale bodiless eyes of people
stared through black mirror windows at my body screaming in tunnels.
In both cases, there is most certainly something to be said for the choice. As Levenstein's poem currently stands, the final stanza is sort of a summation, resounding themes that have been previously stated—another god brought in, a return to the theme of patience. This poem has just been something to do to kill time while it rained. But in the new arrangement, the thematic statement "Patience is a virtue nurtured by endless rains" is now offered as a wisdom discovered—way more worthwhile than a time killer (at least to me as a reader). The address shifts too, from "we" to "I," adding another level of cadence.
What is lost is the inviting first line. "My tribe..." is less generous, less inclusive, less obvious too—that is, it takes more parsing. The opposite effect is true for Mandel's "Six," where much is gained by beginning with the second stanza with its active, in-progress, "Riding to Coney Island, the tunnels/blasted into daylight."
Simply tagging on the first stanza with no revision would be risky in this case. Personally, I like it. I like the shift from the memory to the adult reflection upon it coming at this point in the poem. Reworked or not, what it definitely does demonstrate is how a digression of some sort at this point would heighten the drama of the mother's response in the envoi. This revision sacrifices the form-referential design of Mandel's envoi, but she might yet be able to save that idea.
The larger general point, though, is that the sestina is more flexible than one might think. So relax, pick a few words, and settle in for a long poem. There's nothing to be afraid of.
Where could poems like "Six" and "Rain Sestina" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Virginia Warbey Poetry Prize
Entries must be received by May 19
UK-based literary society offers prizes up to 800 pounds and possible anthology publication; no simultaneous submissions; fees in pounds sterling only
Connecticut Poetry Award
Postmark Deadline: May 31
Connecticut Poetry Society offers prizes up to $400 for unpublished poems, 80 lines maximum
New England Poetry Club Annual Contests
Postmark Deadline: May 31
Various themed contests, including a members-only category for poems in traditional forms, with prizes of $100-$1,000
Bridport Prize
Entries must be received by June 30
One of Britain's largest and most prestigious awards for unpublished poems, short stories, and flash fiction by authors aged 16+, with top prizes of 5,000 pounds in each genre; enter by mail or online
Margaret Reid Poetry Prize for Traditional Verse
Postmark Deadline: June 30
Prizes up to $3,000 and online publication for published or unpublished poems in traditional forms; Winning Writers assists with entry handling for this contest
These poems and critique appeared in the May 2010 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Six of Crows
By Leigh Bardugo. In this young adult fantasy novel, set in a cosmopolitan and mercenary city-state modeled on 19th-century Amsterdam, a crew of six thieves and underworld denizens must break into an impenetrable fortress to rescue the inventor of a magical weapon that could spark a devastating war. The world-building, social conscience, diversity of characters, and twist-filled plot are all outstanding. The story continues in the sequel Crooked Kingdom.
Six Video Poems at Poets & Writers
Multimedia presentations of poems by Anne Carson, Thylias Moss, and Aaron Fagan add new dimensions to the spoken word through interpretive dance, music, and graphics.
Sky Island Journal
Launched in 2017 in Luna County, New Mexico, Sky Island Journal is an online literary quarterly of poetry and flash prose (1,000 words maximum). Each piece opens in a read-only MS Word document, rather than a scroll-through webpage, to encourage readers to focus wholly on one thing at a time. The journal is free to read and has no advertising, but there is a $3 submission fee to keep this business model sustainable. Editors say, "The Florida Mountains Wilderness Study Area is our muse; its landscape is the source of our positive energy, our rugged independence, and our relentless tenacity."
Slam News Service
Keep track of upcoming poetry slams and bouts across the US and the world. Hosted by "teacher, poet and traveling man" Michael Brown.
SlashGear’s List of Best Websites to Find and Download eBooks for Free
SlashGear, a technology news site, compiled this list in 2023 of their favorite sites for free and low-cost e-books and audiobooks. These include OverDrive, an e-book lending library, and LibriVox, which offers free audio versions of public-domain books.
Slate Article: ‘Poems of War’
Six leading writers and editors - Robert Pinsky, Alice Quinn, Judith Shulevitz, Dan Chiasson, Anthony Swofford, and Robert Fagles - discuss the poems that they turn to in times of war. Includes audio clips of them reading the poems.
Slated
Slated is an online marketplace for film packaging, financing, and distribution. Writers can network with industry professionals and receive feedback on how to make their scripts more marketable.
Sleep
By Judy Kronenfeld
May you fall into it
groggy and disheveled as a baby
who lets go of his mother's
nipple with a thwuck—head lolling,
cowlicks sticking up,
lips open and glistening.
May you fall into it
like a drunk keeling
over onto his own stoop,
having staggered the last possible
step on his slog from the bar.
May you not stand alone
on the shore at 3 A.M.,
longing to extricate yourself
from the gritty sand
of consciousness, when everyone
you know has been swept out
by the sea of sleep.
May you reclaim once or twice
the gauze-fine sleep of childhood—
calmly gliding from flickering shadow
to light, from flickering light
to shadow, like a punt
on a tree-lined river.
And may your last be utterly
black and quiet,
and last forever.
