Tag: Poetry Collective

Never Miss A Chance to Read Your Work!

Published on by diannePLeave a comment

I want to invite you all to come out and support PERISCOPE CITY: WHERE THE LONELY GO TO LIVE ALONE with our Valentine’s evening “Love Stinks!” reading and open mic.

Join Zoom Meeting
Meeting ID: 886 1135 6295
Passcode: 090540

Ben’s book is, “A captivating series of short stories, both dramatically and philosophically enthralling.”
KIRKUS

“Ben Talbot excels at depicting a world both alien and familiar at the same time.”
MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

Welcome to Periscope City, a place where nothing is quite as it seems. Its citizens are those with no one to love, caught in a paradox of escaping loneliness while clinging to it. Here, human emotion is fleeting, and love is nothing more than a transaction.
Each story in this collection delves into the heights and depths of solitude through its characters: a writer torn between seeking validation from fleeting romances and finding comfort in the safety of isolation; a former college football star lost in nostalgia, unable to connect with the present; a young runaway scarred by her past, drawn to this desolate town inhabited by loners and serviced by robots.
Prepare for an emotional gut-punch as you enter a strange, unsettling place where the broken-hearted choose to stay broken and prefer to live in solitude. Talbot’s haunting, satirical, and often absurd interconnected tales explore themes of self-destruction and elusive redemption.
Periscope City will immerse you in a world where the boundary between reality and fantasy is constantly shifting.

Ben is going to read a little from his book, and then we will open it up for poems, flash fiction/non-fiction to give you a chance to add your voice to the conversation about love and loss and loneliness, and answer the age-old question, “What becomes of the broken-hearted?”

If you’re not a pro at reading, it is imperative that you come and try your luck! What better night? We can be awkward, clumsy, lonely, and literary together!

Meet me in Periscope City Friday night:

8P Eastern
7P Central
6P Mountain
5P Pacific.

Hope to see you there, and hear you read. We’ll be sad without you….

In the meantime, enjoy this excerpt from the book!

Periscope City

A sign greeted me at the border: Periscope City: Where the Lonely Go to Live Alone. 

It spoke my language, so I crossed in by foot, to the nearest place it took me to. That place was a one-story house with a long driveway called the Institute. There, they asked me dozens of questions about my immediate past and made me take a personality exam. I told them the truth: that I was a thirty-four-year-old loner whose friends had deserted him for marriage or death. They set me up in the Cramden Hotel. 

During the first week, I interacted with only housekeeping and the concierge. They were all robots. It was the best the town could do to live up to its tagline. 

—

Although I loved loneliness, I was still lonely as hell. After months of wallowing about my life situation, sinking into the lack of fellow humans, there was nothing I wanted more than to mix it up. I thought being lonely among robots was a different lonely as being lonely among humans. The scratch needed to be itched. 

The concierge suggested a dating app called Loner, and the concierge said it had the best reputation for keeping the lonesome lonely. I filled out a profile and submitted it to the AI gods for review. It matched me with Raylene, a blonde Puerto Rican who stood over six feet. Her profile said very little about her beyond the fact that she’d moved from Buffalo, New York, and loved pets over people. In her picture, she sat on a snowy park bench and wore a fleece jacket. A French bulldog sat in her lap, and it wore a black-and-white dog poncho. It looked like a staged photo, like something in an L.L. Bean catalog, but where L.L. Bean was trying to pull off cozy, it was a cold, plastic, disconnected photo. I assumed her entire profile was an attempt at sarcasm. 

Do you want to meet or not? she wrote. 

Because of my lust for tall women, I wrote her back: Yes. 

I have tickets to The Late Show, she wrote. Meet me at Geraldine Park at eight. I’ll be at the corner of Alaska and Winter Bear. And don’t be awkward. 

—

When I showed up, Raylene was sitting on a snowy park bench in the same jacket as her photo, with her service bulldog in her lap. The dog even wore a black-and-white poncho. Raylene’s smile was all the picture was missing. 

“Joe?” she asked.

Her perfume was cedar, or maybe it was the trees. Whatever the case, the scent had found its way to me, and it smelled lovely. The Loner profile was missing a smell. 

“Raylene?” 

“No,” she said. “Of course it is. How would I know your name was Joe?” 

The bulldog barked at me. 

“Sheepshead, knock it off,” she said. 

Sheepshead? After Raylene fed her a pill, the dog calmed down. The pill must’ve been a fast-acting depressant, which they sold over the counter here in Periscope City. I know because of my own dog, but he didn’t need medication like me. 

“You look different from your picture,” she said. 

Ditto. Not only did she frown but her hair wasn’t blonde. It was purple. “How so?” I said.

“I thought you were taller,” she said. 

I ignored her comment (let’s call it an insult), already being my tallest. 

“Ask me something,” she said. 

She was testing me, but then I remembered how sarcastic her profile had been attempting to be. The memory of it made me sweat a little with anxiety because I tried to think of something witty to say quickly, so I used a cliché. “If you could have dinner with anyone, who would it be?” 

“Come on, dude,” she said. “Ask me something else.” 

I gestured out to the surrounding park with my hands as if that were the explanation. “It was all I could think of,” I said. 

“I told you, don’t be awkward,” she said. “What about you? Who would you have dinner with?” 

I hated the question, too. 

“Abraham Lincoln,” I said, and the words tasted like tinned fish. 

“Why?” 

“He was the first person who came to mind,” I said.  

“Lame,” she said. “Now ask me a good question.”  

“Okay,” I said. “Why did you name your dog Sheepshead?” 

“Sheepshead Bay was the last place where I went with my husband,” she said. 

“Did you separate?” I said. 

She pressed her beanie down to her eyebrows, and I did the same with my trapper hat. We shared an awkward silence. It was what I got for asking a good question.

Creative Valentine’s Day Collage Poems

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Nadja Maril, a Founding Member of the Old Scratch Short Form and Poetry Collective

February is Valentine’s Day month. Instead of trying to send everyone Christmas and New Year’s cards, I like to surprise friends with Valentine’s Day cards. My handmade cards feature words as well as images. So why call them cards at all? They are actually Visual Poems. And because they are made from bits and pieces of collected words, colored paper and illustrations glued onto paper, they are also Collage Poems.

Try it. Once you created a few, you may become hooked. Many artists gravitate towards working in more than one medium. Visual art and poetry work well together. If you desire to be published, a market exists for creative work which combines the two mediums of visual art and words. I will providea list of publications at the end of this article. But first, let’s get started with a little inspiration.

Assembling the materials is part of the fun.

Valentine’s Day Origins

The name Valentine comes from Saint Valentine, and there are three men who are recognized as Saints by the Catholic Church. The most popular Valentine story, according to my research, is the one about the priest who performed secret marriages in opposition to Emperor Claudius II who ordered that all his soldiers remain single. Who the actual St. Valentine was is open to debate.  Maybe February 14th is the approximate date of one of the martyred  St. Valentines’ funerals, but it is remarkably close to the Roman fertility festival Lupercalia, once celebrated on the Ides of February ( February 15th).  In some Roman villages it is said that young men and women were matched up as lovers for a year in an effort to produce more children. A day that honored love and passion, in England and France February 14thwas the start of the birds’ mating season. 

The tradition of exchanging cards and love tokens is thought to begin in the middle of the 18th century. By the 19th century, the mass production of printed cards made Valentines’ cards even more popular. Gloves and handkerchiefs were two personal items lovers often gave to one another during the Victorian era. Flowers—pressed or fresh, as well as lines of verse given to our Valentine follow the romantic tradition of conveying ardor for those we adore. 

Collage Poem by Nadja Maril. This collage takes lines from several well-known poems and integrates them into a collage of images and shapes connected to love.

Collage

The word collage comes from the French verb coller, meaning to paste or glue. In visual art, a collage is comprised of pieces of paper, cloth or other gathered materials arranged and permanently attached to a surface. Old photos, advertising flyers, ticket stubs, magazine illustrations; are some typical collage materials. As a teenager I’d collect shells, dried seaweed, bits of sea glass to glue on to a flat piece of weathered wood; another type of collage. Whether you use buttons, lace, tissue paper, bits of colored plastic, feathers or fur- the possibilities really are infinite.

Now, think of a collage of words. Instead of collecting physical items collect words, phrases, entire articles that resonate with you. While modernist artists in the early 20th century were creating collages of shapes and colors, Avant-garde groups that included Surrealists and Dadaists took the form to another level by including language. Tristan Tzara famously advocated a “cut-up” method of composition, involving cutting out words from a newspaper and pulling them out of a hat to create a poem. Whether you take excerpts from a political speech, a nursery rhyme or a popular song, by incorporating a medley of sources you are creating a collage poem.

Take another step to combine a visual collage with a literary collage and you have a hybrid, a poem that provides a visual and verbal experience. Whether you want to call it a collage poem, a merging of two art forms or an awesome Valentine’s Day Card—that’s up to you.

Publications that Publish Work that Combine Images and Words

These are just a few to get you started.

A Velvet Giant

https://www.avelvetgiant.com/

ctrl +v

https://www.ctrlvjournal.com/

Diagram

https://thediagram.com/

Dream Pop Journal

https://www.dreampoppress.net/

Ghost Proposal

https://ghostproposal.com/

Instant Noodles Literary Review

Submission Guidelines

The Offing

https://theoffingmag.com/

Timber

https://timberjournal.org/

If you need a different sort of Valentine’s Day gift, not the typical candy or flowers, considering purchasing a poetry chapbook and sending it to a friend. At Old Scratch Press we have published five chapbooks thus far, all under $9, with more to come.  Take some time out of your day for some quiet reflection and share the love. Whoever started the idea of a day celebrating our connection to one another, let’s try and keep it going.

Nadja Maril is the author of Recipes from my Garden, Old Scratch Press, September 2024. Nadja Maril’s short stories, poems and essays have been published in dozens of small online and print literary journals and anthologies including: Lunch Ticket, Spry Literary Journal, Invisible City Literary Review, and The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts.She has an MFA in creative writing from Stonecoast at USM. A former newspaper columnist and magazine editor, she writes a weekly blog and you can visit her website at www.Nadjamaril.com.

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Exploring the Role of the U.S. Poet Laureate

Published on by Nadja Maril1 Comment

By Virginia Watts, Founding Member of the Old Scratch Press Collective

Many people have heard of title The United States Poet Laureate, official title Poetry Laureate Consultant in Poetry, but they do not know much about this position. The Poet Laureate serves for an eight-month term running from October to May, elected by The Librarian of Congress. Traditionally a poet will hold this title for two terms. In choosing the recipient of this prestigious title, the Librarian consults with experts in the field of poetry as well as former Poet Laureates. Additionally, suggestions from the general public are accepted.

The Poet Laureate only has two officials duties they must perform, two readings at the beginning and end of their term. The idea is that each Poet Laureate should be given the space and freedom to decide for themselves how they can use their role to encourage people throughout the nation to read, write and develop an appreciation for the art of poetry. The Poet Laureate receives a stipend of $35,000 and $5000 for travel expenses. Prior the 1986, the Poet Laureates were known as Consultants in Poetry. The well known poets Robert Frost and Gwendolyn Brooks were Consultants. Since 1986, there have been 24 Poet Laureates, Louise Gluck and Ted Kooser among them.

So, what have some of our Poet Laureates done during their tenure to spread the love of poetry?

In 1997, Robert Pinsky, the 39th Poet Laureate, put out an open call for people to share their favorite poem. Many Americans sent poems. Poems came flooding in from all ages, all states, from people of diverse backgrounds and interests. Pinsky’s call set off a domino effect leading to reading of favorite poems in hundreds of cities and towns.

Gwendolyn Brooks is well known for her focus on elementary school students. Early learning about poetry and writing it is bound to foster a lifelong love of the art form.

 Joseph Brodsky thought the best way to have people experience poetry is for them to find free samples of it in their everyday lives and places, such as airports and hotel rooms.

Billy Collins published an anthology inspired by his time serving as the United State Poet Laureate. “Poetry 180” makes it easy for high school students to read or hear one poem each day during their school year. Collins is often quoted as believing that poetry is a kind of social engagement, that a poem should feel like it reaches out and invites the reader inside.

Rita Dove brought writers with a focus on African diaspora together. Maxine Kumin focused on shining a light on the works of women writers and Joy Harjo, the 23rd United States Poet Laureate, was the first Native American to hold this honor.

Our current Poet Laureate is Ada Limon. She is from a Mexican American background and grew up in California. As part of her position, she penned a poem dedicated to NASA’s Europa Clipper Mission. Her poem is engraved in her handwriting on a metal plate aboard the Europa Clipper spacecraft. This spacecraft launched in 2024 and will enter the Juniper system in 2030.  Here is Limon’s gorgeous piece. She is one of the must-read poets of our times, well deserving of the title of United States Poet Laureate.

In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa

Ada Limón

1976 –

Arching under the night sky inky
with black expansiveness, we point
to the planets we know, we

pin quick wishes on stars. From earth,
we read the sky as if it is an unerring book
of the universe, expert and evident.

Still, there are mysteries below our sky:
the whale song, the songbird singing
its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.

We are creatures of constant awe,
curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom,
at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

And it is not darkness that unites us,
not the cold distance of space, but
the offering of water, each drop of rain,

each rivulet, each pulse, each vein.
O second moon, we, too, are made
of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.

Photo by David Kopacz on Pexels.com

“In Praise of Mystery” by Ada Limón was released at the Library of Congress on June 1, 2023, in celebration of the poem’s engraving on NASA’s Europa Clipper, scheduled to launch in October of 2024. Copyright Ada Limón, 2023. All rights reserved. The reproduction of this poem may in no way be used for financial gain.

About the author: Virginia Watts is the author of poetry and stories found in Epiphany, CRAFT, The Florida Review, Reed Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Words & Whispers, Sky Island Journal among others. She has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and four times for Best of the Net. Her debut short story collection Echoes from The Hocker House won third place in the 2024 Feathered Quill Book Awards.

Virginia Watts grew up in Hershey, Pennsylvania and spent summer vacations in the Endless Mountains of Sullivan County with her Quaker grandparents. Many of her stories and poems revolve around small town life and rural roadways that are not always what they seem.

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The Blessings of Ritual and Routine

Published on by diannePLeave a comment
My dearly departed guinea pig, Addie, in her warm fuzzy hidey. Addie was carmel and white and had lovely pink eyes. Really, pink.

Just before the pandemic (the 2020s I feel the need to say for when we all are history), we were in search of a better situation for our daughter, and we moved her to a private school. She went from a class of 30 to a class of 12, and her academics improved immediately, though our finances did not! As a part of her classroom they had an animal student, the lovely Miss Addie pictured above lounging in her hidey with a tasty piece of bamboo. The school asked for a volunteer family to take her home over the Christmas break, and we volunteered. Addie and I bonded immediately (I am the pet-whisperer), and I must admit I delayed sending her back to school in January by almost a full week. When the school was shut down over Covid in March they asked me again if I would take her, and I eagerly said yes. She moved in with us, and by May the lovely school announced it was going out of business. Addie became family. During the stay-home days our daughter took courses on Outschool (highly recommend) where she learned female guinea pigs preferred to be in pairs. We then adopted Baby from a pet store. It turned out that Addie did not prefer to be in pairs, but eventually a tolerance developed.

When we moved back to California, again for a better school experience for our daughter, we drove across with two cats, two guinea pigs, and one dog. About a year after we settled in, I woke up a few days before Christmas to find Addie had left us. Baby, it turned out, was desperate not to be alone, and went on a hunger strike. After a forcing some food into her for two days (guinea pigs must eat constantly or they die), we adopted Punky (who looks a bit like a pumpkin). This past summer Baby followed Addie to Valhalla, and I saw, stretched before me, a long line of guinea pig adoptions for the rest of my life. I waited with bated breath until, lo and behold, it seemed Punky took after Addie, bless her. She seemed very interested in checking out Baby’s viewing and memorial, but then she was fine to have all the snacks and seed balls and pigetti (corn silk) to herself. She moves, in her luxuriously large cage, from hidey to hidey during the day, alternatively napping and yapping. She has a lot to say to me, and we perform a call and response between us where I say, “Woooo, Punkus!” and she chirps away back at me, whooping louder and louder until I bring her some fantastic treat.

The guinea pigs, as much as I don’t want to have a long line of them stretching to the end of my life in front of me, are part of my life’s rituals, and I love the job, and someday I know I will mourn the loss of it, as I mourn both the beautiful, pink-eyed Addie, and Baby, who looked like a tiny Holstein. Every other morning, without fail, I awake before the sun and the rest of my family, chat away with Punky as I remove all her bedding (I use cloth bedding, nice fluffy fleece pads), and all her hay, and all her snacks and poops, and I clean out the cage. All the linens go into the washer for a hot wash and an extra rinse, and the cage is refitted with clean bedding from my ample supply. Then I top off the snack bin (hay rings, seed balls, vitamin C chews), put in fresh hay, and add in some salad (lettuce, peppers, fresh baby corn, that sort of thing) and set Punky up for her new day. It takes me about 40 minutes (not counting the laundry time) and during that time I do not have to think what move to make next, and my conversation (Wooo Punkus!) pretty much doesn’t change, and is not the most thought provoking. That gives me some early-morning time to freshen up my brain as I freshen up Punky’s cage. We both enjoy it. For me it is both calming, and nurturing as I nurture my little Punky, and there is a clear sense of accomplishment in looking at the “beautiful once again” cage. 

Of course, you might think, that’s a lot of work, lady, for a kid’s pet, work that the kid should be doing. My daughter and I traded years ago because, when Addie first moved in, my daughter was too short to clean the cage, and not very quick or proficient at it. I offered to trade emptying the dishwasher (a chore I despise). She agreed. So now she’s stuck with it! And I get the meditative and soothing time with Punky.

I want to address this next paragraph to my fellow non-believers out there, or, perhaps, non-conventional believers is a better term. I was raised really immersed in a traditional Christian church, but, as long as I can remember, though I didn’t really balk against going until late into my HS years, it had no effect on me. I didn’t click into the whole thing. I often read the Bible in church from boredom during the long services, but it came across as fairy tale to me, and the emotions I saw people experience in church were not there for me. Even during my beloved grandmom’s funeral, who loved her church dearly, what I remember feeling, aside from loss, was that I would have preferred to be somewhere else, somewhere emotionally warm, to hold her in my thoughts. I have no doubt that my delight of a grandma is somewhere, in some form, still being a delight, but hooking it into her own religious beliefs is beyond me. So, there are two points I want to make here about that based on my experiences in life: ritual, which is done so well by churches/temples/mosques, and their like, is not owned by them. And life needs ritual for space to process and to get in touch with emotions. We are all different, and some of us need more ritual in life than others, and that ritual can be as simple as how we decorate for holidays, certain meals we make at certain times, celebrating our own birthdays (of course! I’m glad I was born!). Ritual is, really, meditation, and for me it is more profound when it is a natural thing in my life rather than what I would view as a forced, arbitrary movement. The guinea pigs are a delight too. Their personalities remind me of my chubby grandma in many ways. She often whooped, and loved eating too. There’s no reason they should not be connected in my heart and in my thoughts. I love the ritual that they are.

And during the “mundane chore” of cleaning the guinea pig cage I get a lot of writing done (in my mind, not on my computer!). It’s a reset for me as well. There’s no pressure for perfection, and the thoughts roll in and out like a calm tide. 

Of course Princess Punky will not outlast me (I am optimistic enough to assume). And I want to just mention my second very early morning ritual that will ride with me to the bitter end. OHHHHHHH…….

All I want is a proper cup of coffee
Made in a proper copper coffee pot
I may be off my dot but I want a proper coffee
In a proper copper pot
Iron coffee pots and tin coffee pots
They are no use to me
If I can't have a proper cup of coffee
In a proper copper coffee pot, I'll have a cup of tea!

Gaze upon my magnificent second morning ritual… coffee made in a proper copper coffee percolator! A percolator has several ritual benefits: there are a few parts to take apart and clean; there is a prescribed way to put it back together, and when it is back together it moans suggestively and bubbles, and scents the air with perfume Chanel should be envious of. It is another opportunity for me to do labor that requires no brain power, that pleases me and affects me directly while also giving benefit to someone else (my spouse), and doing the “chore” brings about visible results that please me. It also offers me a hot cup to sip and enjoy as I slowly move from meditation to sitting down and writing out this post, or some other writing project.

Websters says that a blessing, as a noun, is grace (the thing said before meals), approval or encouragement, or a thing conducive to happiness or welfare (by which I take it Websters means well-being). Rituals are a blessing. And, for me, a lot of my blessings are my routines. I exhort you not to deny yourself of the blessing of your routines, even if they are “chores” (such a dirty word!). Slow them down a bit; use them to slow your thoughts, and plum the richness of repetition, a moment with no planning and no management needed, a moment on autopilot. There are so many writing gems to be found there, as well as quite a lot of balm for the nervous system. Enjoy that walk with your dog, scritches for kitty, a hot cup of coffee, or, if you can’t have a proper cup of coffee, a hot cup of tea. 😉 Whoop whoop!

The Runaway Christmas Train

Published on by rdfauthorLeave a comment

When I was a little boy, my father would assemble a huge train table in our living room next to the Christmas tree. The table was easily ten feet wide by ten feet long, and three feet high. In addition to the tiny figures of the villagers, quaint tiny homes and buildings, working street lights, fake trees and assorted trains that adorned the table, crepe paper in a red brick pattern was attached to all sides of the table. The paper ran from the sides of the table all the way down to the carpet, creating the illusion that the table was supported by brick walls all around.

Or from my point of view, the perfect fort wherein I could hide.

The strategy was to sneak underneath the table after my parents had gone to sleep and wait for Santa to place the presents under the tree. I actually made it to my secret hiding place each year, carefully separating the folds of the brick crepe paper back in place behind me so that nothing looked out of place.

And like clock work, every year I would promptly fall asleep before sighting Santa.

So that is the memory, suspended in time for more than forty years, like an image trapped within an icicle that never melts.

The reality is starkly different.

The old house was sold many years ago, the train table dismantled and perhaps rotting in some unknown wood pile, and the assorted engines, passenger cars, and cabooses stored away in bubble wrap for another generation.

Things are different with my wonderful parents as well. Mom passed away in 2022, and Dad is struggling every day in a memory care unit.

Despite all of these life changes, I still hold on to this memory, this specific icicle of time has not yet eluded my grasp.

My attempt to preserve this memory in poetry appears below. The poem is called “Christmas Eve from Under the Train Table” and first appeared in The Hot-Buttered Holidays Issue of Instant Noodles in 2021.

I hope you can find something special in my memory as well.

Happy Holidays,

-R. David Fulcher

CHRISTMAS EVE FROM UNDER THE TRAIN TABLE

There I was,
and there I would remain,
Expectant and curled-up beneath the great trains
which had whistles and steam and a radio tower that lit up.
The trains were sleeping, but my breath replaced their din,
Escaping my lips like an anxious child.

It is not the darkness I fear.
I fear that my mischievous breath will plume forth and collect Itself into a crystal ball,
and then roll out from under the brick-red crepe paper,
a great red marble full of my embarrassment.

The clock clangs midnight.
I can hear my parents through the walls,
their secret laughter like soft explosions
accompanied by the faint swish and whisper of wrapping paper.

Now I can their slippered arrival.
My heart pummels in my chest with incessant fluttering,
sick of this distant observation,
insane with the knowledge that all this espionage is for me.

Making Moments Count

Published on by gilliampoetLeave a comment

One of the things I like best about poetry is its ability to capture the beauty of a single moment, even if it’s not something that would normally be seen as beautiful. At its heart, poetry is emotional storytelling. A moment becomes significant when it is infused with feeling—joy, sorrow, nostalgia, or wonder

Last year, I edited an issue of Instant Noodles with the theme of ‘instant.’ I was looking for poems that captured that exact essence of poetry that appeals so much to me. I wanted the beauty of the grief or the joy of a single moment captured in a poem. It’s probably my favorite issue of Instant Noodles that I’ve edited to date. I think the poems we published in that issue were the kind that will resonate long after reading them because every reader shares that moment with the poet.

That issue of Instant Noodles can be read for free here . I highly recommend giving it a look.

Life is filled with fleeting moments—those golden, mundane, or bittersweet slices of time that often pass unnoticed. But poetry has the unique ability to crystallize these moments, transforming them into something timeless and profound. Capturing moments in poetry is about taking the ephemeral and making it eternal.

Here’s a poem of mine that captures the moment when I held my son for the first time. It appeared in the Instant issue of Instant Noodles.

Contraction

After hours of flesh seizing 
muscles finally relaxed 
and I cradled a fresh universe 
in my arms, puckered face 
already rooting for food. 

My world imploded, contracting 
until nothing existed but this 
one tiny fist raised at the audacity 

of the air to be so dry 
the lights so bright 
the scream that replaced the rhythm 
of my familiar heartbeat 

and I traced constellations 
across freckled skin as I eased
into a new center of gravity.

The Power of Specificity

Great poetry thrives on specificity. Think of a single red leaf falling on a crisp autumn afternoon or the smell of fresh bread wafting through an open window. These details evoke emotions and anchor the reader in the poet’s world. Poetry doesn’t need grand metaphors to capture the essence of a moment. Sometimes, a simple, honest line is more powerful than elaborate language.

Share Your Moments

Because life is poetry, everyone is a poet. You can write about your own moments and shape your memories into poems. Then, you’re sharing that moment with others. Your words let them feel what you felt and maybe even remind them of their own special memories.

Poetry helps us slow down and notice what’s around us. It takes the little things that we might normally ignore and makes them important. So grab a notebook, start noticing the world, and turn your moments into poems that last forever.

The Sounds of Home: A Writer’s Connection to the Beach

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Nadja Maril, a Founding member of Old Scratch Writing Collective

The dog is digging a hole in the sand. After chasing and fetching her ball numerous times, she has decided to bury it. It’s a game of make it disappear and find it again, a game she can play all by herself while I sit and listen to the waves slapping against the shore. I love this sound. It doesn’t matter where I am, if I’m near water coastline I’ll find a beach. The sounds of water soothe me. And I’m not alone in craving water sounds. A babbling brook, the torrent of a waterfall, the crash of ocean waves: are sounds that both inspire and invigorate.

Of the five senses—sight, smell, touch, sound, taste— one of the five will often be more prominently experienced than the other four. And this can change, depending on the situation. I find, when I tap into my memory bank, that sound is most frequently my touchstone. I think of a scene and I hear it. The rise and fall of the voices, crickets chirping, the sputter of an outboard motor, heavy breathing.

WRITING PROMPT

A classic writing exercise is to describe the place you call home.  If you are truly honest with yourself, the exercise will force you to select the place you long for, if you’re not already living there.  In order to describe it, you’ll be choosing the details that pop out in your mind.  The exercise provides a short cut, so to speak, to grasp what you value most.

Flash Fiction writers, you can use this prompt to channel you directly into the characters you create. Where do they feel most secure? It can tell you a lot about a person.

For me, home is the beach. It’s a happy place where I can walk for miles, build sand castles, swim in the waves and float on my back with the sun in my face. During childhood it was the Provincetown beach at the end of Kendall Lane. Today it is Cornhill beach in Truro a few miles away. The first glimpse of water and sand, the sound of the waves pushing into the shore, the smells of salt and seaweed, the wind against my face; I am home. From both beaches, if I look eastward I see the very tip of the Cape Cod peninsula curving around, creating a sheltered harbor. Out across the bay is Long Point Light Station.

When following a writing prompt or exercise, allow your thoughts to freely flow. Do not self-censor while writing. Once, you’re finished you can cut words, sentences or entire paragraphs. But if you analyze every word you select, you won’t get very far.

The subsequent step after spending twenty to thirty minutes writing a description of “home” is to read what you’ve written and look for patterns. Does one sense, such as smell, dominate the prose. Are there duplications of the same idea that cloud the focus? Challenge yourself to deepen the scene by adding action or dialogue.

Whenever I’m “stuck” and looking for a fresh something to write about. I challenge myself by creating a prompt or borrowing a prompt idea from another writer. The ideas are out there, you just need to make the time and have fun with what you create.

THANK YOU for reading. Have fun. And please, if you like my writing, you can support my efforts by buying a copy of my chapbook RECIPES FROM MY GARDEN– Poetry, Flash CNF and Short Essays (Old Scratch Press Sept. 2024) a great gift to yourself and for friends at $8.95. My chapbook is just one of the many fine books published by the imprint Old Scratch Press.

Secrets to Publishing Your First Creative Work

Published on by wyn001100Leave a comment

Founding member Robert Fleming share his insights on How to be successful at publishing your first creative writing work

You’ve put it on your bucket list to be a published author. Well done. Who are you doing this for: yourself, others, or both?

Yours truly, without even knowing, wanted to be published. In 1973, at age ten, I published text on the bathroom brick wall of Roslyn Elementary School in Westmount, Montreal, Quebec. My work looked like the work following but also had curse words and genitalia graffiti.

Bathroom Wall Poem

This talented toilet author made choices: what topic to write about (poo poo), what language to use (English), where to publish (on the bathroom on brick), who the publisher is (self), what genre (poetry), what poetry devices to use (rhyme, humor, 5-lines), and to not disclose the author name (anonymous).

Where you target your publication is guided by your confidence (courageous or timidity) about having other human see and judge your work. If you are feeling timid like the Cowardly Lion, publish your writing in your personal diary. Be sure to select a diary with a lock and attach the key to your necklace that you wear even when you shower.

Cowardly Lion from movie Wizard of Oz

If you get a little courage, self-publish your work on social media (Facebook), like I did in the following work.
On Facebook, other humans will see your work, but you will not experience the review/selection of a judge who accepts or rejects your work.

https://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com/2024/09/40-poets-being-published-in-doors-of.html

If you find the courage of Joan of Arc, send your work to a publication where work is selected by an editor.

Joan of Arc

Tips for setting yourself up for your best chance of publication acceptance
• For your first publication, select a publication that has a fifty-percent or greater acceptance rate like vanity press where you will have to buy a book that could cost $50, an organization newsletter like a religious one you are a member of or a school you are an alumni of.
• Read the target publication and only submit to them if they publish work similar to yours (genre: poetry, theme: love)
• Read the submission directions and follow them: sometimes there is a theme like love. When there is a theme only submit work that is the theme requested.

Ready? Take a bid breath in, hold three seconds, exhale. What is your publication confidence: timid or courageous. Go forth.

 
Yours Truly is:

Robert Fleming, a contributing editor of Old Scratch Press.

Who published an Amazon best seller visual poetry book: White Noir.

an editor of the digital magazine Instant Noodles

and the creator of an upcoming magazine cover for Tell-Tale Inklings #7, to be released Autumn, 2024. Visit Tell-Tale Chapbooks on Facebook.

Exploring the Art of Haiku Poetry

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Virginia Watts

Many people are familiar with the haiku, an unrhymed form of poetry that dates to 17th Century Japan. It consists of three lines and observes a strict five, seven, five syllable count. Traditionally this form of poetry was about nature, often seasonal change captured in a moment of time. Matsu Basho is considered the be the haiku master who brought haiku into its place as a serious poetic form.

Here is one of his well know poems.

An old silent pond . . .

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

People may be less aware of Western or American haiku which is often not as strict in form but nevertheless mirrors the traditional haiku. The reason for a more relaxed rule on syllable count is that the syllables in Japanese don transfer smoothly to English. Some famous poets known for American haiku are Amy Lowell, Sonia Sanchez and Ezra Pound.

Jack Kerousc

Then there is Jack Kerouac who wrote thousands of haiku and often included them in his correspondence and novels. Kerouac was a serious Buddhist who credited composing haiku with sharpening his mind. He was drawn to the idea of keeping poetry simple without trickery. Here is Jack Kerouac reading some of his Western haiku: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMwAtOom7CA

The allure of the haiku form rests in showing the beauty in the ordinary, in the belief that simple moments should be captured and preserved. It’s fun to draft haiku. People are often surprised by how much they enjoy it. Some tips: Keep a notebook with you to jot down observations, ideas, those little, unexpected life events that none of us can predict. When you have something you want to write about, do it. Don’t worry if your idea seems silly. Write about what inspires you and don’t look back or question the inspiration. For a first drafting session, try grouping words in a loose 5 -7-5 format. Don’t try to be perfect or overthink this part. Go for flow, rhyme secondary to an honest reflection of what inspired you. The next step is to put your draft on the back burner. This helps with all forms of writing. After drafting, put a temporary distance between you and your draft.  As Jack says:

Nightfall—

too dark to read the page,

Too cold. 

—Jack Kerouac

In a day or two return and rework as necessary. Look for awkward syllables or weak word choices. Most of all, trust your gut. If the haiku represents what you wanted to capture and keep then you’ve done it!  Bravo! Drafting haiku is wonderfully addicting and rewarding. It’s like a bag of chips. You won’t stop at one.

Virginia Watts is a member of the Old Scratch Press Poetry and Short Form Collective and the author of Echoes from the Hocker House.