Category Archives: poetry

More Publishing News!

Two more poems have been accepted for publication. I’m almost on a roll! But my head has been pulled back into politics, and so my writing has hit the doldrums. I have noticed before that my creativity seems to fuel both my writing and my passion for political change. I shall have to find a way to do both at the same time, though that will come in time, I suppose.

The first of these poems was accepted at the beginning of January and will appear in the Spring edition of Buck Off magazine. I haven’t heard when it will be available yet, and they are apparently still looking to fill a fiction slot. The poem is called “Making Loaf” and is an attempt at following Kim Addonizio’s very good instruction in her book The Poet’s Companion. Kim is a master at the erotic poem, but she recognizes that not all of us are adept at that particular form. She suggests taking a mundane task, finding a way to substitute some more sensual verbs for the everyday ones generally used in describing the mundane act to make the act a metaphor for a sensual act. I chose baking bread, and this poem is my attempt at fulfilling her instruction. I was quite pleased when it was accepted by Buck Off since I wasn’t at all sure I had succeeded at my task. I will let you know when the poem appears.

The second poem is called “social security day” and it has appeared today in a British journal, Peeking Cat Poetry, which is free to download in PDF format. I had submitted this to several journals without much luck and took one last stab at getting someone to look at it, and it worked! It is one of my favorite poems, because it has my cats in it, and i think I did a few good metaphors. Check it out here. This link takes you to the page on Lulu where you can download the PDF. It’s Issue 34.

I hope you enjoy these poems. I’m told by my fellows at the Burlington Writers Workshop that my voice is fairly distinctive, and I’d love to hear any comments or criticisms of my work!


I promised!

I said a few weeks ago that i would publish here my first accepted poem, “Lizard Skin,” that appeared in the September issue of Chantwood magazine. Please accept it for what it is, an early example of the kind of poetry I write.  Here it is:


Lizard Skin

You are a dragon, a winged lizard,

with breath that stinks and scales

that clank like metal in a sink.

Your hoary face is as wrinkled

as a crumpled black garbage bag.


It isn’t magic dust that saves me

but fortitude and choler

that smolders but does not die.

I don’t let it burn me.

I’ve learned that much.


You wiggled into places

you did not belong,

hairy and handsome,

now all lost in age and reptile skin.

I am free and alone.


It should be single spaced, but I haven’t figured out how to do that and get the line breaks right. No comments necessary, folks. I just said I’d publish it and here it is!

Poetry news

Well, Ive had two poems published recently which means that someone other than the folks at my writing workshop has actually approved of what I’ve written. For me, this is a big deal, because these journals didn’t know me, and they still took a chance on what I wrote. The first appeared in the September issue of Chantwood, a general literary journal that does not publish online. Therefore, if you want to read it, I will publish it again here in a short while. It’s called “Lizard Skin,” and was one of the first poems I wrote once I took up this pastime.

The second poem has just appeared in the last week, and it is called “New Day.” If you would like to read it, you can find it here. It has been published by the group at the University of Maine at Farmington that prints an annual version, The Sandy River Review, and publishes an ongoing stream of literary endeavors in The River. It is in the latter that my work appears. Items are chosen from The River to be published in the print version, but I will have to wait to hear if I’ve made that more select group!

I wrote this poem at a writing retreat put on by my workshop (free!) in October. This was the most marvelous writing experience I’ve had in my life. It was run by the eminent poet Baron Wormser, and if you haven’t read his work, I commend it to you strongly. I’ve been reading one of his newer books, Unidentified Sighing Objects, and I can’t say enough good things about it. His writing instruction spoke to me as I have never felt before and I owe everything in this poem to his tutelage. This is one of the joys in belonging to a writers workshop (also free) that supports writers so excellently.

I am now in the publishing rat race, as I like to call it. I submit poems to journals that I discover through Duotrope, a wonderful service that lists over 6,000 journals with links to their websites and statistics regarding their publication practices. As the most disorganized person on the face of the earth (you should see my desk–I haven’t, for many weeks), it is nice to have a reputable third party to keep track of my scribblings and where I’ve sent them. The cost is $5 a month, much less than a house cleaning, and well worth the peace of mind it gives me. I have poems that are waiting review at some journals that I haven’t even looked at in six months, as newer poems get sent out to new journals. It’s a form of timeline of my writing, something it never occurred to me I might like.

I hope to be able to report further forays into the world of published writers in the future, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. Please remember that for me, hope springs eternal, and I will keep at it, at least a little longer.

Lamp Shop and more

I attended a workshop led by the inimitable Partridge Boswell, a poet of some growing renown, about revision and beyond, as he called it. It was a ploy to get us in with near finished poetry and to set us up for a public reading at the Lamp Shop, a cozy little bar and local hot spot. The Lamp Shop has been the home for some time of a Spoken Word night on Mondays, conflicting with my group’s regular poetry workshops. Partridge’s deal was to drag us all over there after the third of three revision workshops and get us up on stage.

I would have enjoyed it more if I had not been suffering all day from an attack of hypoglycemia, caused by my reduced need for insulin for my diabetes since I went on a low fat whole food plant based diet in February. My mind was not very functional and I was shaky on my feet, but I pulled myself together enough to read two poems, one very new.

This was the first time I presented poetry to those outside my tiny writers’ community and it was a total shock at how well my work was received. Not only clapping, but a few hoots and cheers resounded at the end. It awoke me out of my stupor enough to smile at least at the welcome response. A man who had read earlier approached me and told me my poems reminded him of Robert Frost. I was floored.

Needless to say, I submitted those poems to a number of journals today, and I can’t wait for the first rejections!

I would be remiss if I did not laud my fellow poets (I almost feel safe in calling myself a poet now!) for the undeniably great work they did too. Everyone performed well, indeed excelled, under the fine tutelage of Partridge. We also got to see him perform, and it awoke in us all a recognition of how far we still have to go!


A Twisted Path to Poetry

I thought I was a novelist, mainly because stories came to me in big chunks. I wrote until I was finished, and would find a novel-length story had materialized. Then I was told by my helpful friends, that I wrote in shorthand, and needed to expand the descriptions in my stories, and they became series. This was not a welcome piece of news, because, well, when I finished writing one of these behemoths, I was done.

I took a creative writing course to see if I could understand my problem. The professor was a poet, so I learned more than I ever cared to about poetry. One of our assignments was to find a poetry form on the Poetry Foundation website, and compose a poem in that form. I found the form of the double dactyl and became notorious in my writers workshop for my skill at making fun of people. For a second assignment I found the pantoum, and used it to good effect on more serious subjects.

A funny thing happened on the way to the election. Donald Trump’s  pussy-grabbing statement raised all sorts of horrors from my past and made me a very uncomfortable person to be around. I snapped at people for no reason, yelled at other drivers and gave them the finger (not nearly so dangerous here in Vermont as some other places), and otherwise engaged in self-destructive behavior. Then one night, I started writing poems. They were helpful in getting some of the anger out of me and onto paper. I relived some terrible moments of my past, and turned them, for better or worse, into poetry.

I have now submitted poetry to a journal, recommended to me by a friend. It’s only one journal, it’s only 6 poems stretched over a couple of weeks, but it’s a start. And fiction finds a small home in my poetry, but not the sort I was writing and not the sort I would want to write a full story about.

In January, a local poet will be teaching a three session poetry craft workshop at my writers workshop. If I’m going to keep doing this, I’m going to have to figure out the rules. But who knows? I may get some burning hunger to write fiction again. Or maybe just get the right offer.



Writing Again, But Poetry?

I intimated some days ago that I was writing again, meaning that I was looking at some of my fantasies for new inspiration. But then a funny thing happened. Donald Trump’s 2005 comment about grabbing pussies made the news and turned my world upside down.

I am a 65 year old woman who lived through many of the trials and tribulations of the 1970s and 80s as a woman rising under the feminist movement of those days. To say that I was subject to sexual harassment is an understatement in the extreme. I was also the victim of one sexual assault and two rapes. I did not report any of them, in two cases because the assailants were members of the legal profession in which I was lowly public defender. I will not further detail the incidents, but it should be clear that a woman making charges against two men high in the legal field would have been laughed out of court. I would have been disbelieved and smeared at a level that is no longer present in our legal system, except from certain judges who seem to think that rapists shouldn’t have their futures damaged by a few minutes of fun. They are the dinosaurs of today.

But back to Trump and the effects of his statement. I, like many women, numbering undoubtedly in the millions, suffered the crimes against me alone, and I built internal walls so that I could continue to function without falling apart or lashing out. Many women of my age built walls of different strengths and sizes, depending on the nature of the abuse they suffered. The everyday indignities of being a woman in a “man’s world” we all built walls against. We smiled, and accepted crudities that would stun today’s woman.

But the walls built to hide rape and assault were stronger and more enveloping. I had indeed buried my injuries so deeply that I had not considered them for years. They were part of my youth, and not worthy of spending time on. I had survived and would continue without ever having to review the pain and horror again. Until Trump….

What has this to do with writing? Just this. I have had anger and despair rising up in me in waves, with pain adding a slight piquancy to the mix. I was in danger of exploding at the least provocation, and I knew for my own sanity I had to find a way to tamp it down. I turned to a form of writing which I have used to deal with issues of depression and suicide in the past few years. I have been writing poems. The original ones were wrenching to me, causing me to desire drink or some other means of escape. I knew I was improving when the poems turned more to the failures of Trump as a human being, and less on the damage he had done. But I finally succeeded in writing a witty poem, denigrating Trump as nastily as I could. And with that, although not healed, I am back on a more even keel.

I have done something I’ve never done before. I have submitted some of the poems for publication. Accordingly, I can’t share them with you here. But I’ll keep you informed of any acceptances and let you know if, by any slight, slim chance, they are accepted for publication.

Spring is springing!

For many of my fellow allergy sufferers, spring is the worst time of the year. After the long cold winter here in the northeast, we have a positive cornucopia of allergens to deal with, now that all of the March ones that didn’t pop when they should have are coming out to join the April ones in droves. I have a lovely cough that can stop a conversation at ten paces as people look for the diseased one. They look doubtful when I tell them I’m not contagious.

Many of my writer friends are making use of the inspiration of blue skies and days when the high flirts with 70. We all breathe a sigh of relief when the weather people tell us the night time low will be above freezing. Spring poems are coming into our space on Church St. for review and analysis, but today has stopped some short.

Being in the home city of Ben and Jerry’s, we are enjoying the carnival atmosphere of free cone day. Some springs, it has not been smiled on by the weather gods, but they played nice today. Low 60s, blue sky with puffy white clouds, long lines snake down the street. They started at noon, and it is nearly 3:30 as I write, and the line has not shrunk all day. As people get their ice cream, new people join the queue, laughing and chattering away. A poor keyboardist has been playing practically non stop since 11:30. It’s a nice background, but he’s not getting the attention he deserves.

I wonder if I will go join the throng and scare the bejeezus out of them with my foghorn cough. Maybe they’ll move me up the line faster to get rid of me!