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Call for Short Poems for Public Display

The Poet's Resource

The BIG LIT Weekend Call for short poems:
BIG LIT The Stewartry Book Festival
April 14-17 2016

Poet Chrys Salt and her colleague Chik Duncan would be grateful for short poems of any kind (published or unpublished) to be displayed in high street windows over BIG LIT weekend in the Scottish town of Gatehouse of Fleet.
The poems: “are often left up long after the event and attract punters to The Festival.”
Send in Palatino 12 point font, with your name at the bottom and include acknowledgements for published poems.
For poem length, Chrys says: ‘Sonnet length is good; shorter is even better.’ (Apparently, the windows are small, Georgian ones!)
ASAP would be good but no later than 14 March. 
Please send to Chik Duncan:
(P.S. I have it on good authority that, if you do send your poems, they will still be eligible for submission elsewhere, as public display does…

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List of Paying Lit Mags/Journals from Poetry Has Value

Trish Hopkinson

Poetry Has Value is a blog by professor and poet Jessica Piazza. The blog description reads:

“Recently, I was inspired by the poet Dena Rash Guzman’s personal challenge to send her poetry to paying markets in 2015. I was so inspired, in fact, that I decided to spend the next whole year submitting poetry ONLY to paying journals and markets, and recording what happens in this blog. I also decided to use this space to simultaneously explore deeper questions of poetry’s value and worth (monetary or otherwise.)”

There are several interesting posts from other authors on the site, including one from friend and fellow poet E. Kristin Anderson on her experience with a speculative fiction mag. The articles explore issues whether or not poetry is a commodity, why prose pays more, etc. Jessica has also added a great resource for all poets looking to submit to paying markets and…

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How to Describe What I See When I Look at Your Face in Darkness



kindness is in eyelashes
forgiveness in an orange flash
yellow sunflower dust lines kindness
melts away
falling into
crevices a bay
a boy
with sharp angles and sun

I Never Asked Him about the Dark Woman in the Photo

I heard my parents arguing
until the coldest part of the night
held hostage “happily ever” from my mom.
Afterward, they shared no one bed
and erased their anniversary celebrations.
We ate in silence: pan fried liver and sweated onions.

I wasn’t supposed to know
my father brought her into our living room,
past our kitchen with the new microwave,
past all my siblings’ bedrooms.

I wasn’t supposed to know
this affair went on for months–
months my mother grew her voice
among self-slicing thorns and her wrist.

I knew my father paid for us to vacation
in Europe, which he canceled abruptly,
stepping on a sharp rock
and tripping over his marriage.

After the night when my parents fought,
no one could find their way back home.

The River Games

(Photo credit)

A Sabrina Orah Mark Style Imitation

When Samantha fell off the roof, the woodsman gathered an iris, the truth, and a yellow moth. He wondered if the junction would occur on Thursday of next week. The queen of a hundred lakes exclaimed with sympathy and licorice. He untangled his boots from Samantha’s white tendrils, feeling a bit embarrassed and underdressed. It was evening. The soldiers would be playing cards by the fire right now.

I heard the woodsman’s toes etching red diamonds on the moth’s left wing. Blood pricked my fingertips. Whether it was one of Samantha’s beaks. Whether the crown bounced off the glass window. I wasn’t sure. Chip after chip…the soldiers upped the ante.

Wiping Honey Off the Bench at Dover Beach: “On Sentimentality”

Wiping Honey Off the Bench at Dover Beach: “On Sentimentality”


They say you won’t understand
why I am truly First Person Fabulous. You may see me sitting on the red chair at the outdoor café,
white saucer, white cup to my lips.

They say Ambiguous You are disconnected from the tepid me. Instead of gulping tea and leafing open the paper,
you might witness my sobbing shoulders
and a maddening flicking of tears.
Am I more than an occupied parking stall approached a second too late?


But I know you are intelligent.
You are capable of dual activity: the duality of the connection we share, though not tangible, is “arterial and venous.”


They say poets imbibe sentiment with every sigh,
but if we agree to sit under the canopy of the Banyan tree,
Ambiguous You on your side
of your practical metal bench,
and First Person Fabulous me
placated on the idea of my imaginary one-foot bench,
couldn’t we curate the perfect environment
to generate poems of phô and snakes and pills?


Come then. “Let us be true to one another.”

On the state of American poetry

Poets, poets, come out wherever you are. An endearing, humorous read.