Rejecting Rejection Letters

I received two rejection letters this week, both for new poems of mine. Writers need to be able to take it on the chin and I do but that doesn't make rejection letters any easier. I've stopped reading past the "Thank you for your submission" as I know the rest of the letter is going to say how much the editors "enjoyed" reading my submission and how they hope I will "continue" to submit my poetry to their publication. If they enjoyed my poems so much why didn't they publish them and, why would I continue to send my poems to editors who clearly don't care for my work? I wish editors of small presses, journals, and magazines would come up with a synonym for "submission" as "submission guidelines," "submit here," and "thank for your submission," invoke a cartoon image of a timid wolf lying down and offering his throat to be bitten by the victorious meanie wolf. I am, after all, a poet not a canine. A software used by publishers to manage works under consideration is called "Submittable." Is submittable even a word? If it is, it shouldn't be.

"Congratulations" is how acceptance letters begin and I always read them, usually several times. Congratulations is a delighttable word and I cherish it on those occasions it is addressed to me. The congratulatory letter goes on to praise my poems and indicate when they will be published. My husband and my approximately three close friends (one can never be certain of relationships) often praise my poetry but compliments mean a tad more when they come from strangers, especially editors.

I like the idea of rejecting rejection letters. It eases their sting.

Poems and Sandwiches

Like the bus passengers described in "The Moose," I feel a sense of awe when I read this poem. I worked in the tax management department of a publishing house in Washington, DC. The work was extremely tedious. My cubicle happened to be near a large conference room and whenever it was empty I’d take a shortcut through it on the way to the xerox machine or the library. Each time I walked through the conference room I’d think this would be perfect for a poetry reading. I started a poetry group that met during lunch hour. The large number of people who turned up for the first meeting surprised me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who needed a break from tax legislation. I distributed copies of “The Moose” at this meeting. The poem’s exquisite craftsmanship and mystery still thrill me but I can’t think of it without remembering that huge conference table surrounded with kindred spirits, poems and sandwiches.

Getting Poetry

Yesterday, I was delighted to learn from the Academy of American Poets that they now have an embed feature on their website Poetry.org. This means a poem that appears on their site may be shared on other websites. Thank you to those at the Academy responsible for this courtesy. Below is another excerpt from my personal anthology.

“What He Thought”

Heather McHugh

This poem begins with assumptions – “Of all he was the most politic--/and least poetic-- /so it seemed…” – and changes to enlightenment crystallized in its last two lines. McHugh uses enjambments to keep the poem moving forward and line breaks and parenthetical asides to cause pauses and emphasis. For example: “(we’d all put down our forks by now, to listen to/the man in gray; he went on softly)-- poetry” and the very last line of the poem is a one line stanza.

Except for fellow poets and several friends, people regard my writing poetry as some sort of hobby, like gardening or decoupage. In a culture as embroiled in consumerism and celebrity mania as America is, poetry is greatly undervalued. It is often thought of as something English majors and academics are fond of. It’s disheartening when I hear someone say “Poetry isn’t for me,” “I just don’t get poetry,” or “Are you still writing poetry?” But the next time someone looks askance when I say poetry matters, I’ll suggest they read Heather McHugh’s stunning poem.

A Poet's Anthology

Several years ago I participated as a student and a teaching assistant in a poetry MOOC (massive open online course) taught by former US poet laureate Robert Pinsky. At the completion of "The Art of Poetry," each participant compiled an anthology of favorite poems. Over the next few weeks I'll post excerpts from my anthology. Some of the poems are very well-known as in this first post about "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry. Other selected poems are fairly obscure. The link to each poem follows my response to it. Occasionally, an entire poem appears by permission of the poet, or because it is in the public domain.

I hope you will enjoy reading the poems I chose for my anthology and my shared thoughts.

Warmly,
Barbara

“The Peace of Wild Things”

Wendell Berry

In this one stanza free verse poem Wendell Berry speaks in the first person and he is speaking about the healing power of nature. Several years ago, I had a terrifying nightmare that left me nervous and upset. The following day I took my little dog for a walk in a nearby park. Suddenly, I heard the sound of pounding hooves so close I felt the vibrations in the ground caused by their power. Four beautiful white-tail deer galloped by! Awestruck, I stood very still and watched them till they disappeared in the woods. My dog was also still. No longer startled, I felt calm but not an ordinary calmness, something deeper and not easily described. The last line of “The Peace of Wild Things” came to me – “I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.” I don’t remember the nightmare. I do remember the deer and Wendell Berry’s poem.

To read the poem click here.

An Unfinished Poem

On November 7^th, I began writing a poem about a woman I met in a hospital waiting room that morning. Energetic, glad, and eighty-six, Nancy talked about great coffee, shelter dogs, and her son. I didn’t finish the poem that day because too many images and ideas about it were bouncing in my mind – Nancy’s snow white hair, the silver sequins on her blouse, a childhood prayer, and all that blue she was wearing. I needed to let the draft of the poem be a while and return to it another day. It is December 3^rd and I have not looked at the poem. After November 8^th, it is difficult for me to endow anything I write with a sense of joy and Nancy seemed to me to be all about joy.

Like many other Americans, I am in mourning for the country I thought I lived in. I have not watched television news since 2 am, November 9^th when only four additional electoral votes were needed by the Republican nominee. Except for Maryland and Virginia, every southern state went to him. I live in a part of the South where people still preface a woman’s first name with “Miss” when they say it. Every time someone calls me “Miss Barbara” I feel I’ve been transported to the antebellum era or the set of an old Bette Davis movie but there is nothing nostalgic about an unfinished country.

It is difficult for me to write when friends and family members I thought I knew revealed through their vote for the Republican huckster who they really are. And I wonder how Nancy, dear Nancy voted.

The Uses of Enchantment

My poem "The Uses of Enchantment" was published today. To read the poem, scroll down a bit after you open this link The Greensilk Journal.

Note: The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales was written by the brilliant child psychologist Bruno Bettelheim. 






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Halloween Parties and Poems

The following is an excerpt from my memoir Mirror Talk.

I am remembering that long ago Halloween party at my best friend Mary Sue’s home in Douglaston, Long Island. Second grade giggly girls, loved like candy. My mother bought my plastic costume in a Woolworth’s store. The whole shebang – cowgirl costume, including cowgirl hat and lasso, cost several dollars. I was thrilled until I arrived at Mary Sue’s. The door opened and I found myself surrounded by gusts of gossamer - petticoated princesses and bubbly ballerinas in creamy pastel gowns and child-size tiaras. I was the only cowgirl at the ball.

            What happened to the Halloween party, like the great Halloween parties my mother put together every year – skeleton and ghost costumes, my brothers and I biting floating apples in a tub of water or blindfolded, spun around and paper tail in hand, hesitating toward the big donkey picture on the wall. Where was the orange candy corn at Mary Sue’s party? Where were the candy apples on a stick? Even the candies at this party were the soft, muted colors the wealthy are so fond of. What do pastel colored candies have to do with witches, ghouls and goblins? At the party, a classmate named Peggy, asked me how much my father paid for our house and when told (yes, very young children overhear these things) reported gleefully her father paid five times that amount for their home in Douglaston. I didn’t care. I did remember being impressed at a sleepover at Peggy’s that her bedroom was the exactly same chartreuse as the Wicked Witch’s face in “The Wizard of Oz.”

            I loved our little ranch house in Little Neck, Long Island.  It was the first time I had my “very own” room and my mother said I kept it so nice we could charge people to see it. My brother Bob and I especially loved that our family moved into the house before landscaping for the whole area was completed.  We could play “King of the Mountain” on big hills of unleveled dirt. We could shout straight out and our voices would echo back. Before the lawns were laid down, I was the princess of play – without a gossamer gown.

The Rocking Chair and Ghost Girl, my two ghost poems, appear in the Halloween edition of Quail Bell Magazine.

Happy Halloween!

Image: © Ssylenko/Dreamstime.com

Afterlife

My poem "Afterlife" appears in the October edition of Front Porch Review. Click here to read the poem.

Sleigh Bed and Before Dark

My poems "Sleigh Bed" and "Before Dark" appear online in Quail Bell Magazine. To read the poems click here. 

Fireflies

My poem "Fireflies" appears in the July issue of Front Porch Review. There are some lovely poems in this edition.

Click here to read the poem.  

Pups & Poems

In the fall of 2014 I participated as a student and a community TA in  an edX massive open online course (MOOC) called The Art of Poetry. The two month course taught by former poet laureate Robert Pinsky was extremely demanding and extremely rewarding. The course is being given again (registration began March 29th) and I considered taking it again. The prospect of immersing myself in poetry for several months seemed enticing. I also imagined studying great poets would, as often happens, spark my own writing. Then I realized taking the course was out of the question. It was out of the question for one reason - I have a new puppy. It seems ungracious of me to blame a cuter-than-cute puppy for not continuing my studies and accomplishing at least a modicum of creative writing but a close look at the facts reveals the awful truth - the only writing I've done in the months since the puppy has been rent checks and bill payments. I wasn't dazzlingly productive before the puppy but I was writing.

I'd simply forgotten how much work training a puppy involves. As I've mentioned elsewhere, I am at that awkward age between older woman and death. Still, I wanted more than watching PBS and sipping cinnamon tea. I wanted a funny, friendly, petite pal.

I have abandoned my higher self - reading, writing, and more reading - to play with squeaky toy ducks, raccoons, squirrels, and foxes.

Puppy or scapegoat?

Years ago, I taught something called "Business English," appropriately enough, in a business college. Marking exam papers was tedious and as I was unsure of exactly what Business English was, I showed videos of Shakespeare's plays to my students. Shakespeare was a good businessman. In theaters, pieces of glow tape are used to mark where actors tiptoe onto dark stages. I know from grade B movies "the mark" is the intended victim of a confidence man. And there was that something on Cain's forehead. Who knew marking is also a four pound Maltese lifting his snow white hind leg to sprinkle yellow on the corner of pieces of furniture in the living room. On the plus side, from the day he arrived, Darby has slept through the night, even when teething. Apparently, like me, he realizes the importance of a good night's sleep for one's looks and disposition. And he has the sweetest disposition of any pet, feline or canine, that I've had the privilege of sharing my days with. Yes, it's okay to end a sentence with a preposition although I'm not sure Shakespeare did.

I read somewhere that we love our dogs because they show us who we really are. I find this warming and true. I'm playing fetch and tug-of-war with my puppy when I'd rather be reading poetry and my husband Victor is wrapping and freezing small amounts of chicken for Darby so his food always smells fresh when Victor would rather be reading the newspapers.

Instead of writing, I'm training my puppy and playing with the little chap. I tell myself my creative impulse is hibernating somewhere in my psyche and, when Darby is older, new poems will spring forward. In the meanwhile, can any of you recommend a pet odor remover that actually works?

Singing Magic Review

Thank you Steve Ullom for this lovely review of the paperback edition of my poetry Singing Magic. Praise from a fellow poet means a great deal. You can read the review by clicking here.

April 30th Poem - Before Dark

BEFORE DARK

“Home before dark,” our mother’s voice

trails after my brother and me like a kite tail

as we scamper to stickball.  Sundown

happens too soon so we run to the blue

house as if our lives depend on time.

After supper, in the hallway, I hear

“She’s got to stop following me around”

and imagine his pals poking fun at

a skinny kid sister tagging along.

Today, I can’t help it; I’m happy.

God knows why.

I’m holding on to heaven.

If I let go, what’s there?  Nothing

but memory and pain.

I confess I’ve been unfaithful

to my dreams and my stories,

leaving them alone and unwritten

in the distant shimmering house,

the house they burst forward from,

rushing and true.  I have to keep writing.

That’s how it is, before dark…

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 28th Poem - That Day

THAT DAY

I could not know that day would be

the last time tight in the saddle

my legs hugging the horse

my heart jumping with joy

the guide tapping his cowboy hat

I was nowhere near

an accomplished enough rider

for a full gallop and I am glad

because that’s me chanting

over and over and over “Oh

my God Oh my God Oh my…”

in the shade of the mountains

and divine amusement.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 27th Poem - Sleigh Bed

SLEIGH BED

Visiting Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst

After days divided into increments

of grocery lists, poetry and baking bread,

weary and delighted, you slip into

your dark wood single bed

and feel soft linens against your skin.

Did you exchange hungry kisses

with Judge Otis P. Lord on that bed?

Or, was it sacred space where

only dreams and poems were wed?

Harvard looted everything of yours

except this sleigh bed,

its head and foot boards slanting outward,

where you lay listening and let

the hodgepodge of eternity in.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 26th Poem - The Ridiculous Woman

THE RIDICULOUS WOMAN

I’m a ridiculous woman

in a ridiculous body

wearing ridiculous clothes.

My eyes are two buttons,

my nose a clothespin,

my mouth, half a crayon,

ears, shells of odd size,

hands, empty mittens.

My feet I refuse to describe.

My dreams are of noodles,

my hair, spinach green.

I’m the most ridiculous woman

I’ve ever seen.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

April 25th Poem - Heart

HEART

I sold my heart today,

the gold locket I seldom wore &

my grandfather’s cufflinks,

in a mall jewelry store.

The gold locket I seldom wore &

purchased at Christmas,

my grandfather’s cufflinks,

melting after the teller’s remark.

Purchased at Christmas,

these shining things,

melting after the teller’s remark,

“Good for you, you’ve made

yourself a little money.”

My grandfather’s cufflinks,

shining, engraved.

I sold my heart today.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 24th Poem - Afterlife

AFTERLIFE

People do odd things

after the death of a parent –

lose their faith,

end a marriage,

travel somewhere

they read of long ago,

as if, as if…

the faces they owned

before they saw

the things no one tells,

would somehow return,

certain and vaguely young.

The last time I saw my mother

she winked at me when encouraged

to attend a sing-along.

I understood that wink to mean

there wasn’t much to sing about

stationed by the large window

in a locked wheelchair so the nursing

home staff could move freely.

That window waits for me.

It does no one good

to cry in the dark,

“I was wrong.”  You need

to go on in the way

almost sleeping children

pull bedcovers and sigh

into the breadth of night. 

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro

April 23rd Poem - Untitled

UNTITLED

Ethel Lang was the most beautiful girl

in Saint Anastasia Grammar School.

Tall and graceful, she usually wore

a sprig of tiny flowers in her hair,

lilies-of-the-valley or violets, fastened

with a tortoise shell barrette.  Winters,

a jeweled butterfly took their resting place.

When Ethel entered a classroom,

a message for the teacher in her hand,

even second-graders knew to look.

Some never saw her eyes or heard

her voice and so she seemed to them

almost an apparition of some catholic sort.

It would be terrible to think she

met some sad and wholly unfair fate,

     beheaded like Anastasia for her faith

─the terrorists would have taped the murder─

   or, a bad marriage to a man who hits.

Eerie hells await even the beautiful.

Rather, imagine her arranging flowers,

loosely, so they breathe.  She is

laughing easily at a friend’s remark.

In another room of the house

guests from other countries gather,

the scent of jasmine everywhere.

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro
 

April 22nd Poem - First Kiss

FIRST KISS

Teddy O’Connor, I dreamed of you last night.

You were the age you would be now

and still handsome in your quiet way.

Remember us, in our Easter Sunday best,

beside my father’s mint green Chevrolet,

holding torch-shaped ice cream cones.

Ten years later, I’m wearing a prom dress.

You are Cary Grant in a rented tux.

You broke my heart that night,

being too attentive to another.

Somewhere between the Carvels

and senior prom, probably

when we were twelve, we paused

in a Long Island woods and

sat beside each other on a fallen tree.

You surprised me with a kiss

and I fell silent as a log.

In the dream, you said you live in Delaware.

I wonder how you are now.

The fool part of me is tempted to see

how many Theodore O’Connors

live in Wilmington but if I found you,

what could I say?

Teddy O’Connor, I dreamed of you last night. 

from Singing Magic by Barbara Alfaro
© Barbara Alfaro