Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

I know I’ve been absent for a while. I expect I’ll write here again, get my mojo workin’. I’m not going to try to do it though, at least that’s not a plan for now. When I think of things to write, or more rarely, when I draft something, it seems inconsequential to me.

This is a happy occasion. I submitted some poems in 2013 and heard from the editor of Literary Mama in August 2014. Usually, one gets a response much sooner, so I had forgotten I’d even submitted to the journal. I am thrilled that they accepted my poem.

It’s good to have an excuse to post. I’m here. I’m still here.


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My second publishing credit in an online arts journal, up today at qarrtsiluni.com


XO, twinkly

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grammer grammer

I woke up with a peace settling over me: for the time being, I do not care if I’m not writing poems.

I also do not feel compelled to submit poetry to anyone or anywhere right now. It’s so great! I feel especially confident that journals which include in their submission information statements such as “if you can/can’t, do/don’t x, y, or z, then don’t bother submitting to us” are assholes and do not deserve my work. It almost makes me want to write some purposefully crappy sappy maudlin shit and submit it just to make their eyes roll, clench their sphincters, and congratulate themselves for having a completely relevant and hip publication. But hey, I’m sounding bitter and bitter only hurts me.

from my blog’s spam folder:

obviously like your web-site however you need to take a look at the spelling on quite a few of your posts. A number of them are rife with spelling issues and I in finding it very troublesome to tell the truth nevertheless I will surely come back again.

You can pretty much tell me anything if you throw a bucket of charm on it. To the credit of the author-bot, I just found a post from 2 years ago in which I misspelled grammar. Twice.

Here is a photo of my cat:


XO, twinkly

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each day

the whetstone.

a writer,

the words.

pen to paper;

fingertips to keys

wrists see


who visits my dreams

tugs at my ankles, ruffles my hem

I do not know why, for whom
I write this




Hell yes!


Okay, so it’s not a real mash-up, but a twinkly-style mash-up and that’s how I roll….

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First World Problems

My children know what this means. It’s a good way to put a stop to whining and complaining. I mean this for myself, not as a means of controlling the entitled little folks (okay, not so little) with whom I live. Believe me, I’m plenty entitled.

I know that even in the US, many are living in very poor circumstances and conditions. Especially now with income disparity and the corporatocracy being what it is.

I want to show you something about me. This is the tube from which I squeezed (or, as we like to say around here: squoazed) my toothpaste the other morning after waking:


I have a compulsion to squeeze the toothpaste tube until I think it can yield nothing more; Lo and Behold though, every morning there is more. I am sure this toothpaste tube has thought of committing itself to the garbage can for weeks, but I won’t let it go. It’s like a toothpaste fairy keeps refilling a quarter-teaspoon of paste back into the tube every night.

I am sometimes overwhelmed by the crap that comes to me by way of Facebook. The pro-gun camp and the anti-gun camp. Never the twain shall meet and this makes me first angry and then exceedingly sad.

From now on, I will attempt to refer to what is known as a “gun control” issue as an “anti gun-violence” issue, both to flip the rhetoric on its head and present a more accurate phrase.

I enjoy many aspects of Facebook. I love it even with its flaws and deceptions at my [willful] expense. I have thought of un-friending certain people, but have decided simply to hide their posts.

I save plastic bread bags for reuse, as my mother did (and still does) before me and I rewash plastic bags, especially the sturdy ones with zip-tops that are filled with carrots or (DELICIOUS) greens that I purchase at the farmer’s market.

I like immaculately clean dishes. I am quite wasteful when it comes to how much dish soap I dispense from the bottle.

I don’t grow any vegetables or raise any animals. I do buy eggs from my neighbor.

Sometimes, when it comes to the aftermath of emotional interactions I’ve had with people I love, sorry is the best I have.


Oh, Emily. She was so [what we would call today] positive. Maybe she was even cheerful. I am happy to guess and suppose and surmise and read nothing at all about it but her own words.

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I think you can spell grueling with one l or 2. When I try with 2, my spell check gives me a red warning line.

I found out that the deadline for a chapbook competition to which I want to submit is NOT January 31, but January 4. How did I miss this? What was I thinking?

I am in the happy state of scrambling together my manuscript RIGHT NOW (except for this blog post).

Because I submitted a full-length manuscript back in July, I am in pretty good shape and this is only a 28-page chapbook.

This is not really grueling, but what is grueling are the voices in my head, the NO NO NOs and the YOU CAN’Ts and the THESE POEMS ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGHs and the YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOINGs.

Lie down, meditate, run, jump, hike, bathe, cook, clean, shovel, say om shanti as many times as it takes to kick the voices out and clear the mind and proceed. Do laundry, cook and clean some more. Make lists, clear desk.

I’m accepting any votes of confidence and encouragement from you, my pets. YOU. I need you.

One thing that is encouraging, all on my own: in looking over the manuscript from July (rejected, yes), I see, as with previous rejected manuscripts/poems, how many poems can be removed completely; I find words and lines that can be edited out. Looking broadly through my files, I also see that I have more new poems than I realized. I see that my writing is getting stronger, if not particularly varied in tone or subject, and I know that my ability to edit out pittances is better. I am earning a keener eye and ear.

This is the end of Year Two of my blog which I love knowing. I remember how scary it seemed at first, how exciting, how I felt on the edge of offense or scandal with each swear word or talk of sex or nudity. I read old posts and I know I have matured and gotten more comfortable. I know I am a better writer and that I can continue to improve.

I do believe this is my 400th post. I like the tidiness of it: last day of the year, 400 posts.

Good Riddance 2012!!!



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My Ohio friends say snow snow snow, but I don’t think it will come our way. I’ve been telling you this for a while now. I can believe in the Solstice and the return of the light, but I can’t believe in snow.

I looked up a recent post and an image had disappeared from it. Was it my own photo or a photo from the web? I don’t know, but I’ll add something back.

I started watching Downton Abbey and I like it a lot. I am in love with all of the good characters; and though I see my humanity in each, I hate all the bad ones.

When I was growing up and we spent Christmas in Canada with our very best family friends, we did celebrate Boxing Day. No one in the US had heard of Boxing Day yet.

We would walk and walk on their 50 acres, we would drink and eat and play games and laze about the house. This was my Christmas for many years after the age of 7.

I am going to submit some more poems starting this week including at least one manuscript. I’ve been on hiatus but the rejections still trickle in. The one online poetry journal that accepted a poem seems to be out-of-commission, but I can’t know for sure until I hear something further. It’s been a couple of months since my submission was accepted and now, POOF!, even their website lies fallow….

After this post, I will post a poem in a separate post. Until then (in a few minutes!), please enjoy this musical interlude:

This is from Saturday night’s concert in Montague.

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Happy 79th Birthday to my mom!

As her memory goes, I wonder what I am responsible for. Am I the holder and keeper of her memories and secrets? When can I tell them? What does my brother know? What does she remember? Is what I know true?

I do wish my mother happiness, but it seems an elusive wish. She says she has always been lucky, lucky to have come to the United States and to have found the life she did. But her childhood tells a story, not of luck, but of trauma. I wonder how this fits into her definition of luck; but I will never ask her.

I titled this selfish because I am not using my post today only for a birthday wish for my mother. I don’t really think I’m selfish, because it’s my blog and I want to use it just for that—for myself. But I do feel guilty a tiny bit. I think being a mother, a daughter, a wife, means I always have a tiny lingering guilt. I am sure not all women are like this. I wish I could shake it, but apparently I am not yet evolved to that point. Perhaps this could be my Christmas wish for myself or my New Year’s resolution.

I have snippets of writing lately, nothing coming out whole cloth like I used to have. I know, honestly, most of that needed heavy editing anyway.

What do I wish for? Better poems, more poems, dream poems, publishable poems, poems that will make you swoon, will make you weep, make you laugh, make you buy my books (what books, twinkly? oh, right), fruit poems, frozen bud poems, bloody blue poems, pink poems, feather poems, leaf-and-snow poems, mom poems, wife poems, marriage poems, sex poems, fuck poems, love poems, fucking poems, magical poems, clear poems, anatomical parts poems, important poems, a-political poems, no-more-guns poems, deep poems, no-murky-bits poems. Enough! This kind of thinking is so anti-Alexander Technique that I can hardly continue to allow myself its luxurious indulgence.


Here are 2 recent poem snippets:


When Shall I Be Delivered

I begged for more from the world

It started inside
a pinprick
where I was once attached

You have not delivered me

With each bout
of bleeding
my density increases
alongside my insatiable hunger

My marrow
pumping erythrocytes
for every drop
that falls

Not much
they always say
a few tablespoons

If men bled
they would find
a more poetic measure
than cups and spoons
(a woman’s place is in the kitchen)

But I know the feeling
of the soldier
draining into the muddy earth
the sand with its greed
taking more than its share
pints and quarts and gallons for drenching

I am ready for the firing squad
or operating theater

I am ready for my uterus
to be yanked out by
its mooring ligaments

No scars
a virginal torso

I didn’t need you any more

But thanks
for the ride


December 17

My mother is a husk
a Christmas walnut
cracked open

The meat of her

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1. Number of poetry submissions since July 29, 2012: 20. THAT’S: TWO ZERO; T-W-E-N-T-Y

2. Number of poetry submissions, so far, in my 30 poems/30 days: 16, ONE SIX; SIXTEEN. Did you even understand the difference between #1 and #2? Because I already don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.

3. Number of rejections: 2. TWO. DEUX. DOS. ZWEI. AND I can say two in Greek and Hungarian and Hebrew and Japanese, but not so much the spelling of them, so…..

4. Are you bored yet?

5. Number of acceptances: 2. TWO.

Yes, that’s right. Now, I’ll be honest and say that one of my acceptances was from before I decided to do my 30/30 poetry submissions and was a sample of my work in order that I could “apply” to be a featured reader at Rao’s’ last Friday reading last month. You already know about that, so maybe it’s not really news or really an “acceptance.” But fuck it, I’m taking it.

The other acceptance was of ONE poem from 3 which I submitted to an online poetry journal and I can’t yet “talk” about it because, you know, nothing is finalized.

7. Amount I’ve spent so far submitting my poems: $56. Mostly, this amount is broken up into little bits and often covers the cost of receiving a copy of whatever journal even if I don’t get published. More often, it is because some of the submissions are for “contests;” a different matter than an “open submission” period.

8. Number of uses of the “eff” word in the poems I submitted: I have no idea, but off the top of my head I’d say 3.

9. Being a poet is exciting, n’est-ce pas?

10. Am I happy? I don’t know, what do you think?

11. Yes, I’m going out to dance my fucking ass off on Saturday night. Are you fer or agin me? I will be wearing more than these lovely ladies are wearing. Because you know, it is in the 30s outside tonight.

12. Is she holding a wimpy riding crop or is that a stalk of a wheat-like plant from the floor vase (you must pronounce it vase, with a long a, like you are French, okay?)

13. Did you notice how often I used unnecessary (or “dubious” at best) quotation marks in this post? Because one of our favorite signs we read many many years ago on a gas station pump and it said this:

Please “PAY” first before you “PUMP”

Isn’t it fine?

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