new year

While I love having chips and salsa for dinner and watching as much Battlestar Galactica as humanly possible in a single 24-hour period, I can only handle a few days of winter break before I start to go mad. In the spirit of easing myself back into meaningful activity, I’ve closed my netflix tab and ventured back to the literary side of the internet. Surprisingly, it is still alive and well, despite my growing concern that the entire US population is out shopping (I went to the mall yesterday: 0/10, would not recommend).

Eunoia Review featured two of my poems this week, “Home Room” and “Baked.” The Eunoia editors are wonderful; they somehow manage to be organized enough to feature a new writer every single day, and I’m very pleased to have contributed to their blog.

Also wonderful is Thrush Poetry, whose editors very graciously rejected one of my recent submissions. I saw this rejection coming from a mile off, given that I originally discovered the journal on this list: “Top 10 Lit Mags to Send Your Very Best Poetry (and get happily rejected)“.  Regardless of Thrush’s polite brush-off, I love their November issue, particularly Geffrey Davis’ “Could You Forgive My Clumsiness.” He writes, “I’ve not yet learned // how to make clean, unequivocal room / in my poems, to offer an evenhanded display // of my inconstant heart.” It’s one of those poems that I read and wondered why I didn’t write it first.

On that note, here is one of my poetic cast-offs, whose only future lies in my dogged dedication to this blog. Think of it as store-brand poetry: cheaper and just as filling.

Confessional

Sometimes I go to sleep with everyone I’ve ever kissed
called to the forefront of my thoughts,
and I am always too alive
in those moments to give myself up
to the unconscious necessity within me,
but I try.

I don’t have enough words for the truth.
Even now I am lying,
because the whole truth would be us two
in a perfectly lit room,
stone sober, bare limbed,
me telling you that I don’t cry anymore.
(Does honesty still count
if no one believes me?)

I read somewhere that the average person
has been intimate with 4 people during their lifetime,
and I think that the average person is bad at truth
or bad at arithmetic or bad at intimacy.
Probably all three.
I don’t know what I’m bad at.
I’m just trying to find the way
to be most myself.

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One Response

  1. Keep at it. The rejections are warming a pearl within their clammy repetitions, supple and smooth and soft just for you.

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