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Tuesday, February 17, 2004

 

No reading reviews from me; I spent my long weekend in C-Ville, visiting Mark. Went to Heartwood Books and loaded myself up. Heartwood is the best bookstore in the universe; better than the Strand, because the Strand is picked over. Whereas I appear to supply the entirety of Charlottesville's demand for used books of poetry. A list will be forthcoming later, when I have the books in front of me. Bei Dao, Randall Jarrell, and James Tate were among those purchased...

Belying the statement in my last posts, from Thursday or so, that I was experiencing non-inspiration, I wrote five poems that day. This week I plan on matching poems up to publications and beginning the horrifying process of submitting things for publication. Ugh. So far it's just like applying for a job by cold letter, and I assume the entire process will correspond exactly, in that submitting will be much like applying for a job in that you just keep sending out letters until somebody caves.

Last night, I had a dream in which I went out to purchase Lisa Jarnot's Black Dog Songs. I suppose this means I should go buy the book. Mystical purchasing commands are coming down to me through the ceiling of my skull while I snooze, and who am I to deny them? Here's a poem from the book that's been making the rounds:

Indian Hot Wings
for George W. Bush

The chicken wing factory is lit up in flames
and the flames are the wings of the little hot chickens.

The little hot chickens are the lampshades of the night
glowing inside the burning of dawn.

The dawn light is chicken-light for little white chickens,
The chickens are white like the glowing of coal.

The coal light of chickens are the white light of chickens.
The chickens are burning and bright in the sun.

The sunlight and lampshades are brighter than chickens.
The dreams of the chickens are bright as the sun.

The chickens are filled with the hot coals of lampshades.
The chickens are burning, the chickens are done.


Nice, huh? Well, I'm off to go write nice little cover letters and decide whether poem X is arty enough for journal Y or snooty enough for journal Z. If you have advice for someone who who would honestly be torn between the choice of being stung by angry bees and going through the motions of submitting poetry, please leave it in the comments. In the meantime, perhaps you would enjoy this sex advice from the poets of PBQ. Don't you love the poets' little head shots? They all look so artistique. When I get a head shot, it's going to involve a pirate hat. Sometimes, you need to lighten up.

posted by Reen |link| 0 comments

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