Sitting on a bench sharing a coffee with old friends in a little northern Pennsylvania village, I saw it for myself. How much poetry in public places matters, even there, in remote mountains, where only about a hundred people reside year-round. Dangling from the willing arms of trees, laminated cards with phrases from poems or short poems that captivated both young and old. Children read them to each other aloud. Adults stopped on their morning walk to pause, read, reflect, nod, sigh or smile. Even some hard to please teenagers stopped their bike tires to read. What I didn’t expect to feel is how much it meant to them and to me. Poetry matters, folks. It matters big time. All writing matters. The Arts make all the difference in the world.
This little town is reflecting other larger movements to display poetry in outdoor places from around the world. Many people have heard of the Poetry in Motion initiative launched 1992 by the NYC Metropolitan Transportation Authority and the Poetry Society of America to bring poetry to millions of harried and stressed commuters. Poetry was displayed is subway cars and digital screens in stations. Each poem was accompanied by artwork. By 2002, 150 poems had been shared from all over the world, spanning the centuries. The poems reached out and met people in their own busy lives and enriched them. Readers reported looking forward to a new poem. They would snap pictures and send them to their friends. The world was different, changed and better.
The Poetry in Motion Initiative was relaunched in 2012 under MTA Arts and Design. You can visit their website to read poems and learn of upcoming programs. Over 30 other US cities launched similar initiatives in the wake of Poetry in Motion including Philadelphia, LA, Nashville, San Francisco and Providence. Public poetry has popped up in many other places such as cafes, libraries, playgrounds and picnic tables in seven national parks thanks to Ada Limon our 24th Poet Laureate who championed the idea of transforming picnic tables into public art by including a historic poem with some connection to the park.
There is also a Facebook page “The Poetry in Public Places Project” that encourages everyone, you and me, to display poetry outdoors. You can visit this page to enjoy creative and inspiring ideas. For example, from Hoboken, NJ, a photo of a box of poetry where people are invited to TAKE ONE, yard signs from the Mercer County Library System, a poem painted on a breakwater in Milwaukee.
I wondered what poems went first in the NYC Poetry in Motion. There were four of them. “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” by Walt Whitman, “When You Are Old” by William Butler Yeats, “Let There Be New Flowering” by Lucille Clinton and one of my favorites. Enjoy this poem and cheers to more poetry in the open air and hope!
—Ginny
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.
Emily Dickinson
If the New York Subway System asked you for a poem, what would you write?
Virginia Watts has been fortunate to have published nearly 100 pieces in literary magazines including CRAFT, The Florida Review, Reed Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Permafrost Magazine, Broadkill Review, Two Thirds North, Hawaii Pacific Review, Sky Island Journal, Eastern Iowa Review, Evening Star Review and Streetlight Magazine. Nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and four times for Best of the Net, in 2019, Watts won The Florida Review Meek Award in nonfiction.
Virginia’s new book is now available from Old Scratch Press:
Poetry has always moved with the times, and it is about time for me to drag myself along with it. From verses passed down orally to broadsides nailed to doors, from hand-sewn chapbooks to poems read over the radio, the form has never been fixed. Now, in the digital age, poetry has found a new home in the scroll.
And by scroll, I mean the swipe of a finger across a screen. On platforms like Instagram and TikTok, a younger generation is shaping how poetry is written, read, and shared. But this isn’t just for the under-30 crowd. If you insist on thinking this way, you may well get left behind. More and more poets of all ages are exploring these platforms—not to go viral, but to connect in quiet, and sometimes beautiful ways. And if you’re a poet who’s been writing for decades, or just starting out later in life, there’s a place for you in this unfolding form. (Even if that means asking your children, or grandchildren, for help—which they might then turn around and use for content on Instagram or TikTok later).
This is not about abandoning your favorite notebook or legal pad. It’s about discovering what the poem becomes when the “page” can move, speak, and shimmer.
What’s Happening in Poetry Right Now?
Social media poetry isn’t a trend—it’s a growing corner of the literary landscape. Here’s how the form is evolving, and why it might just inspire something new in you.
1. Short and striking poems are thriving
Poems written for screens are often brief—just a few lines that catch the eye and echo in the mind. In many ways, it’s a return to the epigram, the haiku, or the Dickinsonian lyric. These poems are intimate and distilled. Think of them as poems meant to be read in the space between moments—waiting in line, sipping coffee, catching your breath.
2. Poems paired with image and rhythm
Instagram poetry often appears one line at a time across a series of images, like flipping through a visual journal. Some use soft colors or textured backgrounds. Others feature the poet’s handwriting, scrawled on a napkin or journal page. On TikTok, many poets read their work aloud over quiet imagery—footsteps on a forest trail, candlelight flickering, steam rising from a teacup.
It’s not performative. It’s present. The screen becomes a small stage for the inner voice.
3. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence
You don’t need to be tech-savvy or camera-ready (well, it helps, or, again, you can ask your kids) And, you don’t even need to post anything publicly. For many writers, playing with these tools becomes part of the creative process. Recording yourself reading a poem on your phone, overlaying it on a favorite photo, or sharing it with a few close friends—these are all meaningful ways to engage with your own voice.
How You Might Try It
Here are a few gentle ways to dip your toe into the scroll-space:
Take a short poem you love—or one of your own. Try formatting it so that each line stands on its own. How does it feel to see each phrase alone, framed by white space?
Record a reading. Use your phone’s voice memo app to record yourself reading your poem aloud. Don’t worry about background noise or perfect delivery. Sometimes the quiet rustle of real life is part of the music.
Use a free design tool. Sites like Canva.com let you pair text with images. Choose a background—an old photo, a sunset, a textured piece of fabric—and overlay your poem.
Share it—or don’t. You might post it on social media, email it to a friend, or simply keep it in a folder. The act of making something new is what matters.
As for me, let me just say I am a SLOW work in progress. Good luck to all of us over age 60 and remember to think of moving our creative work onto social media as just another way to flex our creative muscles, have fun, and play!
There has been much in the news within literary circles lately about literary journals with questionable practices, mostly focused upon submission fees and how these fees are used. No one should question the idea that it is expensive to run a literary magazine with such costs as editing and overhead, and most importantly, not everything about submission fees should be seen as negative. It is possible that when writers must pay a nominal fee to submit their work to literary magazines, they may be inspired to submit a more edited and stronger piece. However, it’s one thing to pay $3.00 to one journal to submit but let’s face it, most writers must submit the same piece to many magazines if they want to increase their chance of having it published. This is why submission fees can really add up. There is also the idea that if submission fees are charged, less submissions will come in and this will lead to faster publication decisions by editors. Like it or not, it does seem that submission fees are here to stay. If we accept that fact, then we must understand some realities about submission fees.
I am not going to name names here, but some well know literary journals have been engaging in practices that are shameful. It’s hard enough and expensive enough to be a writer trying to get work published in literary journals without these bad actors but, unfortunately, they do exist. One well known journal accepted submissions and charged for over a year but had already stopped reading and publishing new word. They later folded and changed their name. I have personally submitted to journals several times only to realize they had gone defunct. I was never able to get my submission fees back. Recently, several well-known journals held contests, charged the high submission fees customary in literary contests, and never announced any winners. Suffice it to say that just because something calls itself a literary journal doesn’t mean it should.
So, what is a writer to do? How can we protect ourselves from unethical practices and scam journals? Here are some practical ideas to consider.
Is the journal listed on reputable databases such as Poets and Writers, Submittable, NewPages.com, Clifford Gastang Literary Magazine Rankings, MLA International Bibliography, JSTOR
Is the journal’s website polished, free of grammatical and spelling errors. Is it easy to navigate? Does is look professional? A poor website design might be a cause for concern.
Do their publication terms comply with normal industry standards. Publication guidelines should always be clear and concise and include all requirements such as formatting parameters.
Be very concerned if a journal is asking for all rights to your work. They should be asking only for first serial rights.
RED FLAG: Is their submission fee unreasonably high? Are they charging $15.00 as an example when most journals are at $3.00. This should worry you.
Do they explain why they are charging a submission fee of any amount?
If they do charge submissions fees, do they also have yearly contests where they offer a monetary prize?
It should never be difficult to find contact information on the journal’s website, and there should be some explanation of who the editors are and what their editorial process is. A journal should have a physical address and an email address.
Look at their publication history. Have they been publishing consistently? Can you purchase copies of the journal on their website? Look at the most recent issue. Look at the quality.
If the journal has a blog on their website, is it being maintained?
Does the journal submit work to contests such as Pushcart Prize or/and O. Henry Awards?
Do they have a social media presence such as Facebook where they regularly promote the work they publish?
Be aware of any unrealistic or boastful claims about readership.
If you are submitting to a contest, look to see if the list of winners from last year’s contest is listed on the journal’s website. It should be.
Be aware if a journal repeatedly pushes back contest deadlines.
I have been submitting to literary journals for many years and have been lucky to have some level of success. Be aware of where you are sending your writing, but don’t let a few bad apples dissuade you from submitting to literary journals!!! The overwhelming majority are ethical to a fault and the writing world would be lost without literary journals. They are an invaluable part of our art form. I read literary journals, subscribe to them, admire them immensely and thank them for all the wonderful writing they bring to the world. So, happy submitting to my fellow writers and the best of luck to you all!
~Ginny
Virginia Watts has been fortunate to have published nearly 100 pieces in literary magazines including CRAFT, The Florida Review, Reed Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Permafrost Magazine, Broadkill Review, Two Thirds North, Hawaii Pacific Review, Sky Island Journal, Eastern Iowa Review, Evening Star Review and Streetlight Magazine. Nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and four times for Best of the Net, in 2019, Watts won The Florida Review Meek Award in nonfiction.
Virginia’s new book is now available from Old Scratch Press:
I live in Los Angeles, and it’s been a little bit unnerving to see what is on the news about us.
When I first moved to Los Angeles I lived in Venice Beach, on the Westside, by the Pacific Ocean. Venice Beach is beautiful, and weird, and has been heavily gentrified even since I lived there, and is now almost evenly split between people living in three million dollar homes, and people living in tents. It’s a problem on both ends of that financial situation. Of course, can you imagine being homeless? You would pitch a tent in a minute if you could, and you would definitely want to be in a temperate climate where people were laid-back, and where there were a lot of other people just like you around, to make you feel less obvious, and safer. I watched a video just yesterday about people who have chosen to live in vehicles (cars, campers) not in Venice Beach, but in the USA, and how they (being very digital) will meet up and hang out in different free camping areas to have a community. And why would people without homes be any different?
Los Angeles has a homeless, or unhoused, people problem.
Los Angeles, and all of Southern California, has a lot of immigrants. Many of them are legal immigrants, some are illegal. Some are only here for work. Many want to get enough money through work here to send home to family in order to eventually rejoin family. I have met many people with that plan from Asian countries and countries south of the USA. Those folks are not wanting to live here forever. They’re trying to make enough money that everyone can live well, back home. But there is no mechanism for that of any workable consequence here in the USA. The visas for work are not for waiters and day laborers. The visas for work are for IT people and doctors, that sort of person. In Los Angeles we know that the Uber driver, the waiter, the grass cutter, is probably not here legally, and not intending to stay. We get it, and I think, for the most part, we’re happy to have the low-cost help.
Then there are other people who want to stay: people who came here fleeing violence, people who came here as babies and have only known here, people who came here as students and experienced so much prosperity and freedom compared to life back home that they don’t want to go back. As Americans we cannot really understand how different life can be, especially for the very poor, and women in general, in other countries, even countries like China or India that we might see as very western. When we were in China (my husband Dave and I) to adopt our daughter in 2009 we met our daughter at our hotel, a huge, lovely hotel, about twenty floors or so, and absolutely where the wealthy and foreigners stayed. As soon as my daughter was placed in my arms I lost the ability to sleep, and so I spent the long nights in the hotel hanging out in the bathroom, so I didn’t wake up Dave and daughter, and it had a floor to ceiling glass window next to the shower, and I could see right down the main street of Nanchang. Next to us was another tall building, and each balcony had laundry and sausages hanging off of it. And if we were on flour fourteen of the hotel, it was probably floor eleven of the apartment building that was completely blown out. I don’t know what had happened there, but it was rubble like you might see in a Tom Cruise movie. And above it, and below it, the balconies had laundry and sausages hanging. Rain or dry, explosion, crumbled concrete or not, the balconies had laundry and sausages hanging. And on the streets, during the day, scores of people stood over lit barrels boiling eggs to sell, any kind of egg you could possibly want: quail, chicken, duck, and probably more I am too American to think of. The eggs came in all shapes and sizes, and the egg vendors huddled over the steamy pots trying to stay warm.
When we went into Nanchang from the airport we started first driving (in the passenger van with the other parents) through marsh, wetlands, dark and stinky, Then the marsh started having bits of high and dry land, and as soon as those appeared, there were tents and carboard shacks on them: people were living there. And as we progressed on (it was a long drive from the airport) there were more shacks. As the land got more livable the shacks got a little bigger, and then there were small villages with tiny crumbling houses, and then towns, and finally cities, and Nanchang was a huge city with underpasses and overpasses and pedestrian tunnels due to there being too much traffic on the eight-lane streets for people to cross safely. And in Nanchang the people lived stacked up twenty stories high in little efficiency apartments where their clothes and their dinner hung outside in the high breeze all year long, hot, cold, wet, dry, frozen or not. In Nanchang the city was so full and so busy that even at three in the morning there was a constant cacophony of car horns blaring below me, way below, fourteen stories below, in the street. The noise was significant, even up as high as I was. It was bumper to bumper car lights all night long. The bathtub in my bathroom was deep, and the hot water was endless, and I could soak and secretly watch the entire world below, all night long as I worried I was going to suck as a parent.
The day after we got our daughter we took the van across the street. The street was so large and so busy we had to take the van to safely get across, and we went to the “adopt your child here” building, which was easily fifteen stories high itself. I remember my ears popping as we rode the elevator up. When we got to the “this is where you give the boxed ginseng from Pennsylvania and sign the forms” floor we got off. It was freezing cold on that floor, and there were no electric lights turned on, so it was fairly dim, on a rainy forty degrees day, as we dipped our thumbs in red ink and signed our papers severing our child from one nation and attaching her to another. Each clerk we dealt with was wearing a winter coat and gloves with the fingertips cut out, over their business suits. I felt, in all honesty, both so lucky, and also that I had saved my tiny daughter from a hard life.
Dave and I ate Chinese food (of course we did) eagerly and with relish the whole time we were there, but there was one afternoon where I had been dragging Dave and our baby daughter exploring around, that we were just tired, and we went to a McDonalds in an eight-story shopping mall. I remember it was elevators only, and people were always waiting, and they would literally leap over you to get in. I think we waited at least three times to get on. When we got off and made our way to the McDonalds the line was about two blocks from the restaurant door. It moved quickly, and as we went inside I saw that they had the tables McDonalds had had when I was a kid, like cafeteria tables with immovable swivel chairs attached. Each chair had three people sitting on it. Let that sink in. One small hard plastic swivel chair, and three butts. Yes, butts in China are very much smaller than in the USA, and that tells you something right there that has nothing to do with genetics.
I remember when all of us (all across the world) who had submitted our paperwork in March of 2005 were talking in a Yahoo group about everything China-adoption related. It was common for people from the same month to design a t-shirt to wear in China so that they could spot each other (as if white people with Asian babies wasn’t enough of a clue). And I remember a whole passel of American members got up in arms because our group wanted a rainbow on the shirt, and those up in arms didn’t because they did not want to be associated with anything “gay.” And I remember thinking, in that moment, as if a lightning bolt had hit me, You may have been able to check a box for a gender preference, but even that wasn’t a guarantee, and what if your child turns out gay? Are you not open to whoever your child turns out to be? It wasn’t the first or last time the adoption process has taught me lessons about how little control I have in life. But what really hit me then was how it made me view those parents-to-be both as dumb, and unkind.
If you have not experienced life in a place with real poverty, you cannot imagine what people would do to get their families out of it. Could you sit all day in the cold, trying to sell your steaming eggs alongside hundreds of other people steaming eggs, baby tied to your back, little dog on a newspaper on the ground, everyone trying to stay warm and have enough to eat?
Los Angeles is okay, folks. It’s fine today, and it was fine last week, even with the homeless and all the immigrants of varying status. It’s actually a place where, rich or impoverished, people are generally in a good mood and kind and a heck of a lot more pleasant than my Philly neighbors used to be. (No disrespect Philly; you’re a great town, and you have your reasons.) We’re not bothered by immigrants at all. We are bothered, in many different ways, by some homes costing three million and some homes being cardboard shacks like in the marsh in China. But the current administration is not helping us with either of those problems. And it is potentially creating a lot more that we don’t need or deserve simply because most of us in this county voted for the Black woman.
But in this moment, what difference can I make? What can I do to help?
It is another hard lesson to learn that sometimes the only thing to do is to witness, to see, and to report back, honestly, on what you saw. There are many things that feel out of control right now, and many that you, also, probably want to stop, even if your list isn’t the same as mine. Take a picture, with your phone, camera, or mind, and share it. Write it down, make a picture with your words. Share it, and accept other people’s experiences too. You’re not playing fair if yours are the only right ones.
The reason I wrote this post is not because of what is happening in Los Angeles, actually. It is because my fellow member and friend Nadja shared The Gaza Poets Society Substack with me. When Hamas kidnapped those people from Israel it hit me in the heart. I’m of an age that indicates that I, and my fellow kids of the 70s and 80s, were raised on The Diary of Anne Frank as a big thing in school, and I went on, as a child, to order many other Holocaust-related books from the Scholastic catalogue. I read so many that I sometimes couldn’t sleep as I tried to plan how I would help my family escape from the Nazis (and I’m not Jewish by nationality or religion). And the first book I edited professionally was a Holocaust memoir. I just felt that Jewish people needed a place to be safe from the rest of us, and the kidnappings in 2023 underlined that.
But in college I read an interview with Yassar Arafat that changed how I thought about Palestinians. Though I still felt that Jewish people needed a place to be safe, I began to see that Palestinians also needed a place. Since the kidnappings happened in 2023, it’s been hard to watch the fallout. But, like the administration sending Marines we don’t need to Los Angeles to try and break it, there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about what the kidnappings unleashed.
Still it is important to know, to witness, to not turn your eyes away from something because it’s intractable, no matter what you think or feel is truth. And so I wanted to find a way, in this post, to share that Substack with you. The poetry is both well-written and moving. And as all writers share the feeling of “writing into the void,” I think the one thing we could give them is eyes on the page. It doesn’t mean we turn our back on one group for another. It does mean we take a look at all that is going on in the world of poetry. People in the USA often say, in the years since 2016, that not everything is political. But that is not true by a long shot. There is a reason some people in China shiver in a cardboard house in a marsh and some shiver next to a pot of boiling eggs in an actual metropolis. There is a reason why some people died of Covid and others did not. And in the USA, where most of us in this group are, the people in the nation do not (as a sweeping generalization, of course: so many shades of grey) easily understand how dangerous and revolutionary poetry often is in the rest of the world. Revolutionary precisely because it is a way of witnessing.
It seems not at all odd, to me, to hear that bombs are falling in Gaza, to see it on the news. Sadly it doesn’t shock me at all. But it does shock me to hear that there has been a mass shooting in Austria, and it does shock me to see that Marines are in downtown Los Angeles. It’s a matter of degree, of what narratives and images we are accustomed to versus those we are not.
As for what you see on the news, that’s not what I’m experiencing here, though I can hear helicopters for twenty-four hours now. It would take me about an hour, in good traffic, to get to where the news is taking its pictures, and it’s important to understand there is no one photo that can give you a true picture of all of Los Angeles. Can you imagine that it might be the same in other parts of the country and the world too?
Keep your spirits up, however you can. My recipe is potato chips, coffee, crosswords, and walking the dog. Check out the poetry on The Gaza Poets Society Substack. And don’t stop witnessing.
Here I am with Linwood Jackson, President of the Delaware Press Association.
On May 1, I was awarded a Second Place in the Delaware Press Association Communications Awards for my book, The Song of North Mountain. This was my veryfirstever book released solely under my name, and the award presentation was exactly one year after the book hit publication.
I am quoting the judge, whose name I don’t know, in their comments regarding the award. “This is a beautifully crafted collection of poems that takes readers on a journey through nature, personal reflection, and the deep connection between the land and the human sprit. With vivid imagery and emotional insight, You (sic) capture the essence of the North Mountain landscape, blending personal growth, exploration, and the rhythms of life. The poems are rich with sensory details and metaphor, drawing readers into the natural world where every “rustle of leaves, shift of light, and breath of wind carries meaning.” I find that your writing, both introspective and outward-looking, intertwines the inner and outer worlds, exploring themes of solitude, contemplation, and the passage of time with tenderness and reverence, giving the collection a meditative quality.”
Many of us, particularly of my generation, suffer from imposter syndrome, that feeling that we’re really just pretending to be . . . smart, kind, good at what we do, talented, strong, etc. I’ve been writing since I was a teenager. Mostly doggerel, lines about angst, loss, imaginary friends, and wry observations. As I’ve aged and matured, so has my writing. I’ve discovered poets other than those I was raised on (Longfellow, Holmes, Browning) and many who write in rhymed and metered verse.
College introduced me to more complicated poetry – Ferlinghetti, Hopkins, Stevens, Auden, Eliot, Yeats. And then, foreign writers, like Rumi, whose ideas were so very different from those I had been immersed in.
So, I still wrote, but still privately, only sharing sparingly, for I still did not consider myself a “good” poet.
Well, I guess I am now. This anonymous judge really liked my work! The DPA, in their wisdom, selected judges that were not from Delaware. Delaware, being such a small state, is one where everyone knows everyone else, especially in communications and writing. So all I know about this anonymous judge is that he or she is not from around here. And, they liked my work.
Being a creator, whether in writing, arts, crafts, or just about anything, we have the angels and devils on our shoulders. One says, “Perfect. Absolutely PERFECT. Don’t change a thing!”
The other angel is the voice of the imposter. “Really? You expect anyone to like this? What balderdash! This is ROTTEN!” So we hide our creation away, or simply refuse to edit it.
I think we’ve all been there. The fact is, creating is a matter of taking risks. Making changes. Wondering if what we have written can be said better. And having the courage to play with it. Editing. Changing the recipe. Adding a stroke of color.
I can certainly attest that every single poem and sketch in this book was analyzed, edited, and reworked (and rethought) at least 5 times.
Ghost Light, the poem I included in my last blog, was awarded a Second Place, also. This judge commented that “Your evocative, photographic-like details set the ghost-like mood and scene from the beginning. . . .” And, ‘the last stanza is particularly well-turned — “by chance or intent,/ catch the moment, . . . in a sudden shaft of dawnbreak.’”
The judge noticed. They noticed the internal rhyme, the alliteration, the combining of words to create a new meaning. These are ‘tools’ I labored over, hoping the reader would listen to these words and how they created an atmosphere, a feeling, a response.
We all too often hesitate to read out loud, to ourselves or to anyone else. But it is important. Whether we read to a child, or are read to, there is a chance for us to escape into the word picture created by the author. That’s what I try to do — create word pictures for you to explore.
Above you see Don Paterson’s take on the titular poem, with a poem where the title is the whole poem.
A titular poem is a poem where the title is part of the poem, a line in it. In my own poetry I have really liked using this device, and often use my titles as the last line of the poem, the conclusion to the whole action of the poem. I have been described by my teachers as a narrative and magical realist poet. In my defense against these allegations I will let you know that I grew up listening to songs like “Jolene,” by Dolly Parton, “Ruby,” by Kenny Rodgers, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” by Gordon Lightfoot, “Dark Lady” by Cher, and the oddest one of all, “Angie Baby,” by Helen Reddy. My formative years were two-to-three decades of songs with strange narratives in them. It isn’t my fault!
I have written many titular poems, some remarkably more successful than others, but I will share with you today one that is probably my personal favorite. This was written when I was in graduate school for my first writing degree. I had moved back in with my family. My house was helmed by two working parents, both too ready to have a drink, both too generous with money and not much else, and both not great at respecting boundaries. But I was able to go to school for my Master’s Degree and teach at the school part time, which pretty much took up 10 hours of each day, but made about one third of what a person needed for rent in those days, so, without my old room, I never could have done it. There were a lot of challenges though, one of which was a mother who was threatened by education, and really tried to impede it even as she envied it. My most repeated story, and least believed, was the one where I went up to my room to work on a paper due the next day that had to be twenty-five pages. My mother burst in to the room, my dad in tow, and began to lay out sheets of wallpaper over my (yes, I’m not kidding) word processor and desk. “We’re wallpapering the bathroom,” my mother announced. “What, now? Tonight? It’s seven,” I said in disbelief. “We have to do it now,” she said. “Right Vince?” My dad looked at me and shrugged. What could I do? I went downstairs, and waited. They finished a little after eleven, and I finished the paper a little after four the next morning. Yes, I should have probably written it sooner, but that aside, who competes with their kid with wallpaper? Sigh. No one I shared my graduation program with ever believed my stories. So, one day I wrote this poem to see if it could explain it to my fellow authors that my stories were true. As you read the poem remember… this is a titular poem, so see if you can understand how the title works as the title, and also as the last line of the poem. Yes, there are obscenities in the poem that some may find offensive. I’m a salty old girl, and, once, I was a salty young one.
A Few Dry Old Peas Rattling Around In A Waxed Paper Dixie Cup
Jesus fucking Christ goes through my mind as I sit here, trying to read the poems from my poetry workshop, and my brother, who doesn’t live here, appears suddenly at the front window like an unwelcome trio of Jehova’s Witnesses, causing my dog, who had just been whining at my leg for my bagel to bark loudly and repeatedly at the window as the phone rings, making me jump like a bean, and I answer it, all the while looking in exasperation at my beloved bother of a brother, who is unaware that I am here, and if he comes in the house will joke, as if he were the opening act for the Jerry Lewis Telethon, “Still in your pajamas? Ah you and that school racket,” while I say, “Hello” the the phone with my voice trying to sound pointed and pissed and my mother’s voice says, “Read me what the calendar says my dentist appointment is,” and says, “I know you’d like nothing better than to put my wash in the dryer—how ’bout it?” and says, “Don’t just sit around; do your windows,” and says, “You’re home todays so I won’t be home to let the dogs out,” although she wants to be ’cause she thinks I don’t do it right, and tells me again how to do it before she hangs up, but my brother has not come in, has disappeared, so I go back to reading for two seonds because here comes the dog again, whine whine bagel bagel scratch me, and I stamp at her; she looks at me—Big whoop—says her scroungy toothless expression, and I hear a loud banging, so I look up and a strange truck, a truck that would have turned up the noses of Sanford and Son and a man who obviously was designed with the truck in mind, are in the driveway, and he is pulling a gigundous lawnmower off the truck while I try to think and come up with Jesus, shit! Don’t unload that! Did I ask for that thing?! and Who the fuck is this toothless guy? and wonder for a scared second if he’s a relative I don’t recognize which is usual for me, when I see my brother coming ’round the side of the truck and I run upstairs thinking, What the hell is that guy here for? Bill is going to bring this strange man to see me in my pajamas, and the dog is lifting off the floor now in little hydraulic barks—I am thinking Christ Bill, now you’re going to wake Lee and I am giving up on reading poetry; I’ll write some instead, and I retreat to my room and start typing trying to ignore the barking of slamming truck parts and lawnmowers out front, but I am right, my brother does wake my sister, and when she gets up, by opening her door she releases another dog to bark, and it runs downstairs to join in, eager to catch up, while my sister walks into the bathroom and pees loudly with the door open, and does not flush, puts on striped spandex, and goes tour-de-fourcing down the stairs where, like a swift grifter, she switches out the tape in the VCR for an aerobics tape and turns it up up “Lift ’em up! That’s grrrreat! You can do it!” but I can’t do it because I can still hear my brother and Mister May-Be-A-Relative, so I am able to hear another voice added to theirs as my mother says, “Oh, I wondered if you’d be here. I just came home to let the dogs out,” and my friends wonder why I’m tense and why I never want to visit the zoo, and I think, Dad must be coming home any minute to tell us all the jokes he’s heard today, like, “Duck walks into a pharmacist, says gimmee a Chapstick and put it on my bill,” or the one about the Avon lady who farts in a elevator, after which he will laugh that long, wheeze, Lou Costello laugh “Hey Abbott” and somehow, in this rapidly escalating cacophony, a small sound, like a maraca gently shaken, is in my ears pulling me to it, causing me to think one final thought at the end of my morning study time, because, pricklingly familiar, I think I’ve heard that small hollow sound before, and I think I now know exactly what my brain is like.
Did you make it to the end? Could you see how the titular title ended the poem? I must admit I’ve always felt that the title must work as the title, of course, but should also resonate at the end of a poem, because our eyes, having reached the end, especially of a long poem, will zip back up to the top to refresh, remind us of what we were reading in the first place.
Have you ever written a titular poem? If so, I’d love to have you share it in the comments. Have you ever read one that you especially liked, or that flummoxed you? Let me know.
All these years later, through many different rounds of education at many schools, through being a life-long adjunct: always running place-to-place, through infertility and a trip to China to become a mother, through a few trips back and forth across the country with a full car and a moving van, through working with so many different and wildly talented authors, I do still feel a bit like I’m a plate-spinner with a brain that might like a long vacation on a deserted island. Thanks for reading! I hope you’ll share back something titular.~ Dianne
Dianne Pearce is the publisher and main editor at Current Words Publishing. She also designs and formats each issue of INSTANT NOODLES LIT MAG, and had to learn how to work computers to do it!
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I have participated in quite a few of writing critique groups for many years now, and I can say that the feedback I have received from fellow writers has been critical to my success in publishing my work. It is true that if you remain with the same group over an extended period, there will be certain people that you will agree with more than others for suggestions for editing your work. There is nothing wrong with that. After all, everyone has different tastes and preferences. That being said, it is important to read and consider all comments you receive. Here are a few tips to guide you in getting the most from the process of critique.
Decide what you are honestly looking for before you submit a manuscript. If you just want to know if the story is worth working on at all, then submitting a very rough draft might make sense but I never do that. My approach is to put in all the time necessary to complete a short story or poem and make it the best I can. This means, for me, several months of writing and many edits. I probably edit a piece fifty times or more before I feel I have done all that I can for it. I prefer to circulate what I believe is “a finished story.”
During the critique, just sit quietly and listen. In the groups I attend, I will receive written comment, so I don’t have to write notes during the oral critique. You can learn a lot by listening to colleagues discuss and debates questions or concerns they may have about your writing. Above all, don’t say anything as the writer. You aren’t there to explain your work and above all, you are not there to defend it. You don’t want people to feel that they cannot give you honest and open feedback. That’s what you are there for and as writers, that is what we all need.
Try not to feel hurt about “negative” comments about your writing. At first, for most writers, we do feel hurt but in time, this goes away as you realize that critique is an honest exchange of creative suggestions meant only to help you decide what final edits you wish to make. We cannot read our own work in a way that will make it the best it can be. We don’t have the distance to be able to do this. In short, we need each other. Of course, the critique should be done in a constructive, professional way. I have always had good group leaders who have insisted upon this.
At the end of a critique, I always make sure to thank everyone for taking the time to read and critique my work. I know it takes time and effort, because when I read for others, I give it my all too. It is the greatest gift we can give to each other as writers.
So now that you have your critiques, it is very important to set everything aside for a minimum of a month before you return to make edits. Early on I made the mistake of making edits too quickly and they were knee jerk and not good. You need time to let things sink in and percolate. Give it a rest.
When I do edit, I go through each written critique and fix all mechanical edits first, such as spelling errors. While doing that, I keep a running list of more involved edits that I will look at more carefully to see if I agree with them. This might be things such as a section of unrealistic dialogue, an ending that needs less or more, a character that lacks some necessary background.
I have never not changed a story or a poem based on professional feedback. Some more than others, but all have been edited because of ideas or suggestions or questions raised by writing colleagues and I can honestly say that my work has been improved immeasurably by the critique process. I am so grateful for my writing colleagues and friends. I do have one writing friend who I give my final edited pieces to for one final read. And another tip for writers. Seek out readers of all ages to critique your work. You will get different perspectives that will improve your final product.
An important final comment about writing groups. Over the years. I have made such wonderful, close friendships with the people I have met in these groups. It’s funny how life works. You go looking for something and you come away with something so much more valuable than you expected.
Good luck with your writing and enjoy all of the process, including critique and editing in response to critique. I promise you that you will find it rewarding to not only give critique but also to receive it. It is part of our art form.
Enjoy your group!
~Ginny
Virginia Watts has been fortunate to have published nearly 100 pieces in literary magazines including CRAFT, The Florida Review, Reed Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Permafrost Magazine, Broadkill Review, Two Thirds North, Hawaii Pacific Review, Sky Island Journal, Eastern Iowa Review, Evening Star Review and Streetlight Magazine. Nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and four times for Best of the Net, in 2019, Watts won The Florida Review Meek Award in nonfiction.
In high school I watched the clock in last period, because I knew as soon as the bell rang I was heading straight to dance class, and all the teen angst and hormonal folderal of the day would be disappear once I got there.
I’ve taught dance for over forty years now, and that was the beginning of a lifetime of learning how the mind/body connection affects my creativity and well-being.
We’re taught early on that writing is supposed to come from the neck up—brain first, fingers second. We believe the words live in our head. But I’ve come to understand this: the stories I care about—the ones that ache and sing—live in my body. And if I want to write them honestly, I have to move.
Movement Makes Space for Story
When I’m stuck on a line in a poem or in a scene, walking often is my default means to address it. It might just be a walk around the block that allows my shoulders to drop and my breath to even out.
There’s something about the gentle rhythm of walking—or swaying, or stretching—that stirs the sediment at the bottom of the creative well. It shakes loose a phrase, a memory, an emotion I hadn’t thought to name.
We say “I’m working it out,” and often we mean emotionally—but there’s a physical truth there, too.
“ But I do believe very strongly that the best poetry is rooted in bodily experience. We experience reality through our bodies and senses, and truth, to the extent that it is apprehensible.” -Poet Rebecca Foust
The Dance Between Emotion and Motion
As someone who grew up dancing, I know I carry emotion in my body, and in order to gain access I have to move. In order for the reader to feel what I am writing about, I must first feel it myself, and that is not going to happen if I stay entirely in my head.
Movement helps me feel it. And when it’s a big feeling—grief, rage, shame, heartbreak—moving my body helps metabolize it. When we experience trauma or hold strong emotions, our bodies remember. They contract around those memories. Notice how we hold our breath or the body tenses up. If we don’t move them, we risk writing around the truth instead of into it. And I don’t have to run a marathon or take up kickboxing. I can simply take a deep breath, raise and lower my arms a few times, twist gently side to side–all in my deskchair.
Moving lets the emotion pass through me so it can move onto the page. Otherwise, it stays stuck in the pipes.
Stillness Is Its Own Kind of Movement
Sometimes, the writing calls for the opposite. Stillness. Not scrolling or skimming or daydreaming—but deliberate, open stillness. The kind that invites something deeper in. The kind that looks like staring out the window.
This is the space where I can hear the quieter parts of my story—the voice of a child I’d forgotten to listen to, or the image I saw in a dream but brushed off. Lying still and staring at the ceiling can be just as powerful as dancing. For me, it is my meditation practice. It’s all part of the same body-based practice.
Final Thought: You Are the Instrument Your body is not a machine that carries your brain to your desk. I tell my students of both writing and dance that the body is an instrument that vibrates with memory, story, longing, and truth. When you write from your whole body, your work carries a different kind of resonance. So move. Let the story or poem move with you. And then write like your body remembers something your mind forgot.
Click this link for a quick 5-minute seated stretch to get the body moving and the words flowing: https://youtu.be/n0VlNd3nLFw
Many writers, including myself, write both prose and poetry. For me, it just depends on the subject matter as to which form I choose. Many writers begin with one form of writing and evolve to another. There are some writers who begin in one genre and stay there. In the end of the day, our paths are different, but we are all writers, and all writers want to tell a story. We want readers to feel something, experience something, remember something. We want them to leave us changed in some small way. Even if you don’t want to learn about the craft of poetry in a formal way, as in attending workshops, just reading a few poems a day will improve your prose writing in ways that will surprise you.
Poetry as a form succeeds on bold, visual imagery, exact information from all the senses. This is how the reader enters the poem and lives inside it for a brief time. By reading lines of poetry, prose writers will also experience and come to understand why rhythm matters. There is great impact when rhythm is found in sentences and phrases.
One of the defining benefits of studying and writing poetry for me as a prose writer has been that in poetry more than any other genre, each and every word must do work, and I mean each and every word. Poets take time and great care choosing words and prose writers, if you want to be your best, you should be doing that as well, but it takes practice. Read Hemingway again to see why this matters.
Poetry has the same elements as prose writing, such as characterization and narrative arc, but it contains more unexpected phrases, surprises and turns that send readers in directions they didn’t expect. This is often missing from prose writing, and it shouldn’t be. Additionally, poetry teaches us about pace. How long lines with no punctuation slow the reader down. How a short line placed just right can then really pack a punch.
Prose writers can also use traditional poetry techniques to enhance their narratives such as assonance, linking words with similar vowel sounds. Using words in this way can produce a desired effect on the reader such as a calming effect as if listening to music.
My greatest lesson and take away as a prose writer who reads poetry every single day is that endings are so incredibly important. When you read enough good poems, you’ll see what I mean. And stories, like poems, deserve the best endings possible. This is something to strive for.
So, you want to be a good prose writer? Then read poetry. Simple as that. Poetry teaches us all how to use our language. Poetry teaches how to describe. Poetry demonstrates mood, voice, momentum in unexpected ways. We all want the same thing. To tell the story we want to tell in the best way we can. Reading poetry will help us learn to do that.
There are many good online literary journals where you can read poems: Narrative Magazine, Agni, Carve, Rattle, 32 Poems, A Public Space, Apple Valley Review, Evergreen Review, The Cortland Review, Waxwing, Pigeon Pages, Cleaver Magazine, Able Muse.
You can also sign up to receive daily poems from: Rattle, Your Daily Poem, Poem-a-Day, Poetry Daily, Poem of the Day. All these are free as is the wonderful podcast written and hosted by one of my favorite poets Padraig O Tuama: Poetry Unbound. I would also highly recommend Padraig’s wonderful book: 50 Poems to Open Your World.
Happy Reading!
~Ginny
Virginia Watts has been fortunate to have published nearly 100 pieces in literary magazines including CRAFT, The Florida Review, Reed Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Permafrost Magazine, Broadkill Review, Two Thirds North, Hawaii Pacific Review, Sky Island Journal, Eastern Iowa Review, Evening Star Review and Streetlight Magazine. Nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and four times for Best of the Net, in 2019, Watts won The Florida Review Meek Award in nonfiction.
Sometimes words are hard to find. Like now, for me, when the words and feelings are so big they look like a giant ball of yarn; overwhelming and untangle-able.
That is when I find my words elsewhere. It might be “black-out poetry”, like the one made from my poetry submissions rejection letter collection. Or, it might be from refrigerator word magnets. Or, it might be from headlines in the New York Times. Opportunities abound and are yours for the taking. “Found Poetry”, which I first thought of as just weird, is actually quite fun. So, what is “found poetry”, anyway?
Found poetry is a literary collage, crafted by selecting and rearranging words from other sources to create something fresh and meaningful. Blackout poetry, cento, erasure poetry, and cut-up techniques are all ways to engage with found poetry. Not only is it a great exercise in close reading and creativity, but it can also be a meditative way to reconnect with language when traditional writing feels out of reach.
How to Create Found Poetry
Gather Your Source Material – This could be an old book, a newspaper, a diary entry, or any text that speaks to you.
Highlight Interesting Phrases – Look for unexpected word combinations, evocative imagery, or intriguing snippets of text.
Rearrange and Shape – Remove, rearrange, and add punctuation to shape the poem into something that feels complete.
Experiment with Form – Try blackout poetry (blotting out words with ink), centos (poems composed of lines from other works), or even digital found poetry using search engine results.
Literary Journals That Accept Found Poetry
If you’ve crafted a found poem that feels right, consider submitting it to a literary journal. Here are a few that welcome found poetry:
The Found Poetry Review – Dedicated to publishing only found poetry (currently on hiatus, but their archives are rich with inspiration).
Diode Poetry Journal – Occasionally publishes found poetry alongside traditional forms.
River Teeth: Beautiful Things – Accepts short, poetic nonfiction, including experimental found forms.
The Indianapolis Review – A journal that appreciates erasure poetry and visual found poetry.
Pangyrus – Open to hybrid and experimental poetry forms, including found poetry.
Entropy (Closed, but check for archives) – Previously published a variety of found and hybrid poetic works.
Fence – Open to experimental poetry, including found forms.
If you’re feeling stuck in your writing practice, found poetry offers a playful and rewarding way to engage with language. Whether you keep your found poems private or submit them for publication, the process itself can rekindle your creative spark, or even maybe begin to gently loosen your own giant yarnball.
(Black-Out Poem written from one of my rejection letters)
Have you tried writing found poetry before? Share your favorite sources of inspiration in the comments!
OLD SCRATCH PRESS 