Here we are! Tuesday again and this is a fave day for many readers who so enjoy the variety of responses to each week’s prompt. Today we welcome the poetry of Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Marta Pombo Sallés, Frank McMahan, and Sonja Benskin Mesher in response to the last writing writing prompt, May 9, Autumn Promises, which was to write about a favorite season. Why is it a fave? How does it move your heart or inspire your thoughts? So, enjoy these and do join us for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt – tomorrow.
You’ll notice that I always include a link to each poet’s blog or website to facilitate getting to know new to you poets. That’s what this exercise is primarily about. So do connect. If there’s no site, you can probably link-up on Facebook.
All are welcome to join us for Wednesday Writing Prompts, no matter the status of career: novice, emerging or pro. Come, be a part of our poetry community.
Please note: Folks have sent me emails for Wednesday Writing Prompt with their photo and bio, which I don’t post unless there is a reason to do so… That is, you won’t see your photo and bio go up unless you share a poem on Wednesday in response to the prompt … and it’s your first time participating. It’s by way of intro to everyone. Thank you for your interest. I look forward to your future a participation.
Thanks to those who contributed today’s delights and to all who take the time to read their work and travel on to visit their blogs or websites. Bravo!
the longhot
in 1990 the Valley
of the Sun served up
a 122 degree day
on the 26th of june
then
i was a long distance runner
of the mind
that i could not miss a day
i had to run
at least a mile
every
single
day and so
i ran in the predawn
and it was already pushing a hundred
and fifteen minutes was all i had
but it scratched the itch
but not enough
so after sundown a friend of mine and i
ran again
briefly
he was soon wiped
but i was full
of essence of beenthere
and extract of donethat
and was oddly energized
when he asked if we could stop
and when we drew in heated air
i felt like a furnace being stoked
years later i was on a golf course
in july
had the course practically to myself
but for one or two twosomes
riding in carts
while i walked and carried my bag
at the twelfth hole
on the fairway
a worried ranger told me
i didn’t “look so good, partner
why don’t you sit down for a while?”
“nah, i’m ok,” i replied
plastering on a grin
i didn’t feel
because my focus was derailed
“you shouldn’t do this by yourself”
“i’m drinkin a lotta water
i’m ok thanks”
and i touched that with asperity
and he left
more worried than ever
but he need not have been
this was my sweat lodge
this was my forge
this was the longhot and my home
it makes cold water taste sublime
it cleanses it cures
it defines
When I am hot and fevered, bring
me from a cold, clear spring, water
in earthenware pitchers. Lave
my limbs indulgently. Let
the drops on my brow fall softly.
Carry me then on a litter,
in cotton covered, smooth and cool,
to the shingle shore where the
breeze, the merest breeze can glide,slow
across the contours of my skin,
sloughing away this burning. Let
the tide’s murmuring bring a slow
descent through slumber into sleep,
weightless, dream-less, floating.
The autumns of our lives
Unfold in harsh winters
Still nature turns the page
In the book of seasons
That trembles now and then
With echoes of climate change.
A new spring reminds us
There’s hope to carry on.
Past glories and stories
Can never be erased.
Once the seeds are planted
Smiles begin to flourish.
One autumn father died,
Another we voted.
What seemed impossible
Under such repression
Became a hero’s act
For our democracy.
Wishes held in fingers
Jolly voices strangled
By repressive police.
Our hearts froze with fear.
Yet we’re no criminals,
We just wanted to vote.
That autumn was half-won
With promise unfulfilled.
All masks were now fallen
And everything had changed.
In most uncertainty
Untrodden way to go.
Monster decay with clay
Planted so many fears.
Imprisonments began
Freedom of speech attacked
Democracy at stake
Our claim remains awake.
That was just one more fall
In the book of seasons
Where revolutions find
Their own written pages.
Ours will have its place
Within nonviolent fight.
I have found flowers
I have found flowers,
And the cool winds feel softer
Dry leaves are lifted
Waves are visible in the grass
And I know
That Nature with her sensitive ear
Hears the tender touches of, the velvet
tiptoes of Spring-
Evergreens sway to welcome, in
Murmuring whispers of youthful sprouts
Rippling away invisible woes , and I find
More flowers as loneliness fades away-
Comfort engulfs the soul and spirit as
The mind drifts away to memories
When families were together to stay-
All seasons were loved December or May
And now I find flowers but not the family
All seasons seem the same ,as joyful memory
In summer heat cool raindrops or autumnal
Falls, touches my soul, inspires the spirit-
Ah, tech problems but here at last are Sunday Announcements. Good luck with your submissions. “The poet is the priest of the invisible.” Wallace Stevens
CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS
Opportunity Knocks
DESERT WILLOW PRESS is open to the submissions of 14 – 18 poems for chapbooks, which are its speciality. Details HERE.
FURROW MAGAZINE, An Undergraduate Literary Journal for UW-Milwaukee, publishes poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art and comics by undergraduate student. The next reading period runs from December 1, 2018 – February 20, 2019. Details HERE.
THE MATADOR REVIEW, alternative art and literature, is now accepting submissions for the Summer 2018 publication. Deadline: May 21. The review is interested in poetry, fiction, flash fiction, and creative non-fiction, inviting all unpublished literature written in the English language (and translations that are accompanied by the original text) as well as many forms of visual art. Submission information can be found at: www.matadorreview.com/submissions ; Submissions can be sent to editors@matadorreview.com ; Questions and concerns can be sent to contact@matadorreview.com;
NARRATIVE MAGAZINE has a year-round open call for submission including fiction, nonfiction and poetry. Reading fee. Payments. Details HERE.
POETICA MAGAZINE, Contemporary Jewish Writing has an open call for submissions to its 2018 poetry anthology. Deadline: August 31.Details HERE.
STRATA MAGAZINE reads submissions of short fiction, poetry, flash fiction and libretti, interviews, essays, columns or series, criticism, visual art, multi-media collections, travel writing and reportage. on a rolling basis. Details HERE.
WIZARDS IN SPACE MAGAZINE publishes poetry (up to five pages), speculative fiction, political and personal, faith, identity, love, loss, and humanity. Deadline May 26. Details HERE.
The BeZine
Call for submission for the June issue.
THE BeZINE, Be Inspired, Be Creative, Be Peace, Be.Submissions for the June issue – themed Sustainability –close on May 10 at 11:59 p.m. PDT.
New rules: Please send text in the body of the email not as an attachment. Send photographs or illustrations as attachments. No google docs or Dropbox or other such. No rich text. Send submissions to bardogroup@gmail.com.
Publication is June 15th. Poetry, essays, fiction and creative nonfiction, art and photography, music (videos or essays), and whatever lends itself to online presentation is welcome for consideration.
No demographic restrictions.
Please read at least one issue and the Intro/Mission Statement and Submission Guidelines. We DO NOT publish anything that promotes hate, divisiveness or violence or that is scornful or in any way dismissive of “other” peoples.
June 2018 issue, Deadline May 10th. Theme: Sustainability
September 2018 issue, Deadline August 10th, Theme: Human Rights/Social Justice
December 2018 issue, Deadline November 10th, Theme: A Life of the Spirit
Deadline for the June issue is extend to May 20th.
The BeZine is an entirely volunteer effort, a mission. It is not a paying market but neither does it charge submission or subscription fees.
Previously published work may be submitted IF you hold the copyright. Submissions from beginning and emerging artists as well as pro are encouraged and we have a special interest in getting more submissions of short stores, feature articles, music videos and art for consideration.
CONTESTS
New:
THE NARRATIVE PRIZE for best short story. Cash award. Deadline for entries: June 15. Details HERE.
2018 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Award will open from June 1-January 15, 2018. Watch HEREfor announcement.
YEOVIL PRIZE of the Yeovil Community Arts Association awards best Novel (synopsis and opening chapters), short stories (up to 2,000 words), poetry (max of forty lines), Writing Without Restrictions and is open through May 31, 2018. No demographic restrictions. Cash award. Submission fee. Details HERE.
Reminders:
THE SWANEE REVIEW, First Annual Fiction & Poetry Contest will open July 1 – 31, 2018 for a set of 1-3 poems or a short story of up to 10,000 words. Cash award: $1,000 and publication. Details HERE. The poetry judge is Dan Chiasson.
SEQUESTRUM LITERATURE & ARTS 2018New Writer Awards for fiction, nonfiction and poetry. Cash award and publication. Submission fee. Deadline: October 15, 2018. Details HERE.
MAGMA POETRY will announce the details for its pamphlet competition soon. Watch the site for information.
TARTS FICTION AWARD of Livingston Press at the University of West Alabamayearly deadline is December 31st. The entry fee is $20. Standard royality contract. Details HERE.
TERRAIN.ORG, 9th Annual Contest in Poetry, Nonfiction and Fiction is accepting submissions through September 3. $15 submission fee. Cash award: $500 to first place. Publication for first place winner and finalists. Jane Hirschfeld is the poetry judge. Details HERE.
Accessible anytime from anywhere in the world:
The Poet by Day always available online with poems, poets and writers, news and information.
The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, online every week (except for vacation) and all are invited to take part no matter the stage of career or status. Poems related to the challenge of the week (always theme based not form based) will be published here on the following Tuesday.
The Poet by Day, Sunday Announcements. Every week (except for vacation) opportunity knocks for poets and writers. Due to other Sunday commitments, this post will often go up late in the day.
THE BeZINE, Be Inspired, Be Creative, Be Peace, Be – always online HERE.
Beguine Again, daily inspiration and spiritual practice – always online HERE. Beguine Again is the sister site to The BeZine.
YOUR SUNDAY ANNOUNCEMENTS may be emailed to thepoetbyday@gmail.com. Please do so at least a week in advance.
If you would like me to consider reviewing your book, chapbook, magazine or film, here are some general guidelines:
send PDF to jamiededes@gmail.com (Note: I have a backlog of six or seven months, so at this writing I suggest you wait until June 2018 to forward anything.Thank you!)
nothing that foments hate or misunderstanding
nothing violent or encouraging of violence
English only, though Spanish is okay if accompanied by translation
your book or other product should be easy for readers to find through your site or other venues.
TO CONTACT ME WITH ANNOUNCEMENTS AND OTHER INFORMATION FOR THE POET BY DAY: thepoetbyday@gmail.com
TO CONTACT ME REGARDING SUBMISSIONS FOR THE BeZINE: bardogroup@gmail.com
PLEASE do not mix the communications between the two.
Often information is just that–information– and not necessarily recommendation. I haven’t worked with all the publications or other organizations featured in my regular Sunday Announcements or other announcements shared on this site. Awards and contests are often (generally) a means to generate income, publicity and marketing mailing lists for the host organizations, some of which are more reputable than others. I rarely attend events anymore. Caveat Emptor: Please be sure to verify information for yourself before submitting work, buying products, paying fees or attending events et al.
morning, the pale yellow sun spilling
its radiance, slower to blossom and
faster to fade into twilight obscurity
wind, migrating from other climes,
bruising itself back-handed against
my windowpane, reminding me of rain
and easy breathing and the bliss and
vigor of shorter days, the hint of chill
and autumn promises in one dry leaf
After the weight of last week’s prompt, I thought I’d do something light this week. Although the summer heat isn’t upon us yet in Northern California, I know it’s coming and I’m already longing for fall. What is your favorite time of year? Why? Perhaps it’s not the weather that makes it your fave but traditions: holidays, birthdays, vacation … Tell us in a poem.
Leave your poem/s or a link to it/them in the comments section below. All poems shared on theme will be published here next Tuesday. You are encouraged to join with us no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about the love of reading and writing poetry, sharing your work, exercising the writing muscle and getting to know poets who may be new to you. You have until Monday evening, May 14 at 8:00 pm PDT to respond.
If this is your first time participating in The Poet by Day Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a short bio (NOT your poetry) and a photograph to thepoetbyday@gmail.com. These are always published for new contributors by way of introduction.
“There is only one law in the universe that never changes– that all things change, and that all things are impermanent.” Sogyal Rinpoche, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying
The last Wednesday Writing Prompt, A Hunger For Bone, May 2, was on living with dying. We’re often in denial about this constant in our lives. The reality may hit us with the death of a friend, a sibling, a parent, a school mate. Today seven poets share their experiences and observations in writing that is honest, intimate and moving. You may find you need a tissue or two.
You will not fail to be touched by the sincerity of newcomers Sharmila Pupu Mitra and Marta Pombo Sallés (a warm welcome to both) and with the work of our “old timers” Gary W. Bowers, Paul Brookes, Kakali Das Gosh, Shiela Jacob and Sonja Benskin Mesher. Thanks to each for their willingness to touch our hearts and share their work.
Join us tomorrow for the next Wednesday Writing Prompt. All are encouraged: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about the love of reading and writing poetry, sharing your work, exercising the writing muscle and getting to know poets who may be new to you.
SHARMILA MITRA aka SHARMILA PUPU MITRA was born in the beautiful small town, Jalpaiguri, in North of West Bengal, India. She teaches English and is a poet. She tells us she is in love with words, and spends her time thinking how to use words to express her most intimately felt experiences. Her journey has been rough. Sharmila lives in her ancestral home in Kolkata, with her elderly mother and her rescued fur children. Life is a kaleidoscope to her.
Last Moments
Last moments together
peace of mind and spirit
magic energy flowing
my hand holding yours.
The pain has vanished
now sleep peacefully
take in all this love
I am giving you.
No grass in the park
no plants in the lake
though colorful flowers
give hope for your leaving.
The sculpture remains,
see the confident gaze
how she stands resolute
how she tells life to go on.
MARTA POMBO SALLÉS is a German and English teacher working in a high school near Barcelona. Marta has taught both languages since 1990. She says that at work and in her free time she feels the need to create things.
Marta was also featured on The Poet by Day yesterday in the postPoets Helping Poets.
CATALÀ: Hola a tothom, em dic Marta Pombo Sallés i sóc professora d’alemany i d’anglès en un institut a prop de Barcelona. Ensenyo aquestes dues llengües des de l’any 1990. Tant a la meva feina com en el meu temps lliure sento la necessitat de fer coses creatives.
turnstile
as my friend tom
grappled with another uncle’s succumb
to heart diease
he emailed an assertion
i will not forget:
“we’re all chunking up
to the turnstile.”
as my friend jeff
composed his last message,
and anti-seizure medication
did its eldrich thing,
on many screens in many homes
a horribly cheery woman’s voice
told listeners that use of this medication
may lead to suicidal thoughts
or actions.
as another day meets its midnight turnstile
the probability that turnstile day
for me
is imminent
is incrementally higher than it was
24 hours prior,
it took a year for dna confirmation.
there were a scattering of bones
and a skull
missing the lower mandible.
the county called her
and she came down
from the high country
and at her request
they showed her
her son’s remains.
soundlessly weeping, smiling,
she carefully lifted
the bleached brainpan
and looked into the sockets
of the skull of her son.
she ran her finger over
the smooth cool top
and murmured his name.
she kissed her finger
and pressed it gently
against the skull-top.
she wanted the bones as is
but the law of the land said no.
they cremated
the sun-sterilized bones
and gave her the ash-filled urn.
All house mirrors have been removed.
I sit on her soft bed, rest an arm
on a spare pillow. Mum’s pillows
stacked behind her as we watch a
tv placed where her dress mirror stood.
Once she cried as her hair fell out.
She cried as she gained each pound weight
because she takes the chemicals
to stop her dying, stop the spread.
Once she was ‘petite’, now Mum’s fat
jowls, bingo wings slop on the bed.
Together we watch lithe bodies,
sharp muscle tone dash for the end.
Her home is spotless, a show home.
Every day we polish, scrub,
vacuum, she wants it welcoming.
She nods off half way through the
100 metres, I soft clap
the winner as she would have done.
I remember good times, and smile
at her laughter, gleam in her eyes
when she sees another winner
dash over the race finish line.
Meanwhile, she looks forward to Oakwell,
a new fan of Barnsley FC.
I never go as I don’t like
football, regret my selfishness
and time not enjoying her life.
She will sit in her hired wheelchair
yell and clap at their confidence,
vitality, their will to win.
Snowfall churned the wind
Gone through his ashes
I called him
None answered
The ridges through back the echoes
Of his dying footsteps
A balefire lighted in
That heath
Recalled his funeral
His white visage
Shivered fingers
Languid cheeks
Still stare at me
Awaiting for the
Undesirable last breath
On his steadfast .
After paramedics found you
I counted lost hours
you’d spent alone
becoming-so it seemed-
more and more dead
as the sun rose,
curtains stayed closed
and your telephone rang and rang.
A nurse would have seen
blue lips, felt no pulse,
pulled the emergency cord
but you refused another
hospital stay, worn out,
at ninety, by the chafe
of cannulas, sticking plasters,
starched white linen.
You slept, one final night,
in your own double bed;
lay, pyjama-clad,
beneath a brown blanket,
the green quilt
you still called an eiderdown
and pink polyester sheets
blush-bright on your body’s chill.
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