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No Sweeter Fat
The briny tastes and stormy weathers of the Pacific Northwest permeate this first poetry collection, voiced by a woman whose appetites for food and love are more than the world allows. These poems speak honestly of loneliness and pleasure. Winner of the 2006 Autumn House Press Poetry Contest.
Nobody’s Mother
This award-winning author's autobiography in verse is narrated in a likeable voice that will resonate with a wide audience. Themes include feminism, aging, the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, and nostalgia for Jewish culture along with a critique of its patriarchal and warlike aspects. Along the way, Newman offers such delights as an ode to the now-shuttered Second Avenue Deli, and a playfully erotic exploration of middle-aged love.
Nolo Press Information on Trademarks & Copyrights
Articles on copyright basics, plus how to get maximum protection from the federal copyright laws. Learn the difference between trademarks and copyrights.
Noname Book Club
Noname Book Club is an online and in-person community dedicated to uplifting POC voices. Each month they discuss two books written by authors of color, and send copies to incarcerated comrades through their Prison Program. They make their book picks available to local libraries so that the club can be financially accessible.
Nonsense Lit
Portal devoted to nonsense literature includes links to classic humor from Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll, and Punch magazine, as well as contemporary work.
North Central Review
Deadlines are February 15 and October 15 annually. Students may submit up to 5 poems and 2 pieces of prose per issue. No piece should exceed 5,000 words in length. Include proof of undergraduate status (.edu email address or photocopied student ID without number). Online entries accepted.
Northern Public Radio Book Series
This book review series is broadcast on WNIJ and WNIU, the public radio station affiliated with Northern Illinois University. The website includes book reviews and audio clips of author readings and interviews.
Not Akhmatova
By Noah Berlatsky. Playful and musical, yet weighty with paradox, this collection pairs freewheeling translations of Russian-Jewish poet Anna Akhmatova and original poems that respond to the fraught question of Jewish loyalties in the diaspora. Berlatsky shows that one doesn't have to believe in God to argue with Him. In these pages, Akhmatova is both present and absent, a figure who epitomizes her people's persecuted dead. The shape of that absence has sometimes seemed to bend Jewish identity around it like a black hole. Berlatsky recognizes that gravitational pull even as he resists it. This serious project is leavened by wry aphorisms about the ephemeral nature of poetry, and indeed life itself—a pessimistic, wisecracking sense of humor that situates Berlatsky firmly within the Judaism with which he wrestles.
Notable Online at The Rumpus
Due to the coronavirus, most literary events and book launches moved online in 2020. Literary journal The Rumpus now offers this weekly calendar of noteworthy online literary events. To submit your event for consideration, contact notableNYC@therumpus.net. In the subject line of the email, please include the event's date. Please include the virtual platform, time zone, and a link to the event information in the body of your email.
Note to Self III
Why does the sky steal
my grave mood
like a copycat?
Like a confused maiden that gets all heedless
it loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth.
With same look as beauteously sparkling diamonds
but all useless still—
for when I stretch out my hand they melt on the surface
like common water.
So, tell me sky:
you, that you are our guardian,
did you come to scorn mankind?
The
tip-tip-tapping
of its precious tears
erodes my mind.
There I see them—
they crash against the ground just like
a shy devotee would do against its crush
to have a chance to touch them and be noticed.
How foolish those raindrops are!
Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,
as though they want to say
"take me, take me"
—reminding of a whore.
Why do I seek their company still?
That they are a dear companion to my teardrops
—is not the reason.
But that I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence.
Yes, we are far apart.
But we breathe
under the same sky—
it's mere an effort to have you physically.
All day I hear your voice—
oh, may those raindrops bring me the feeling of your skin
and the wild wind present me your smell!
I understand that I am as silly as the raindrops.
But at least
this way
I'll never forget that I wait for you.
Copyright 2008 by A.J.R. Hewitt
Critique by Jendi Reiter
This month's critique poem comes to us from German poet A.J.R. Hewitt. I chose "Note to Self III" for its apt metaphors and gentle lyricism. The restrained pacing of this wistful love poem allows Hewitt to succeed with a theme that could easily shade into sentimentality.
Hewitt piques the reader's interest by posing a question ("Why does the sky steal/my grave mood/like a copycat?") and reveals the answer gradually, through images of loss and transient beauty that awaken a sympathetic recognition in the reader long before the narrator reveals her own story. This is in contrast to a mistake often made by beginning lyric poets, who state their emotions at the outset as a substitute for creating a common ground of feeling with the reader. We can be moved by a poem about a familiar experience, even one that uses well-worn comparisons (raindrops/romantic tears), to the extent that the imagery stirs our own memories of such an experience before the author tells us how to feel.
Hewitt accomplishes this with two winsome extended metaphors. First she compares the sky to a "confused maiden" that "loses its possessions and lets them fall to the earth". Her jewels, perhaps her beauty and purity, vanish like raindrops. One sympathizes with the artlessness and lost innocence of this character, more than if the narrator identified it as herself from the beginning, because the "maiden's" lack of self-awareness contrasts poignantly with the tragedy we foresee. In the next stanza, Hewitt compares the rain to a "shy devotee" losing herself in an attempt to touch her beloved, the earth.
The poem counterbalances this pathos with the narrator's self-criticism, preempting the reader's potential mockery of her romantic melodrama. The same sensations are replayed with a wiser, more cynical interpretation. Perhaps seeing herself through the eyes of the lover who rejected her, she suddenly disdains the persistent rain: "Slapping against my coat, clutching, pulling,/as though they want to say/'take me, take me'/—reminding of a whore."
In the next stanza, whether wisely or unwisely, the narrator is able to integrate even this negative judgment into a love that continues unabated. At last revealing her reason for identifying with the rainy weather, she says of the raindrops, "I hope their slaps will give me some of your essence". The word "slaps" introduces a darker note, suggesting to me that an infatuation like this can slide into the dangerous self-delusion that prefers abusive contact to none at all. Hewitt leaves that potentiality unrealized, but lingering, at the end of the poem, where the narrator is still dreaming that her beloved will acknowledge the connection they share.
Thus, what seems like a simple traditional love poem is actually a subtle and concise depiction of the psychology of love, with its many contradictory moods following in quick succession, like clouds across a stormy sky.
Considering that English is not Hewitt's first language, she has a fine ear for its rhythms and nuances. I have left the poem as she submitted it, but would suggest the following grammatical changes: In the second stanza, add "the" before "same look", and eliminate the second "you" in the penultimate line. In the sixth stanza, change "mere" to "merely" before "an effort". The phrase "gets all heedless" sounds more like street slang than its author probably intended. I would change the line to "Like a confused maiden becoming all heedless" so that the verb can apply to both the maiden and the "it" (the sky) of the next line.
In the fourth stanza, it would be technically correct to add "me" before "a whore", though not necessary for the poetic flow. I rather like the ambiguity and universality of the line without the pronoun, which is why I did not correct it before publishing. At this point in the poem, the narrator is looking at herself through another's eyes, internalizing their negative judgments. Her real fear is not her own self-criticism but the likelihood that her beloved or other onlookers would have contempt for her devotion.
Finally, I would like to see a more interesting title than "Note to Self III", which sounds more like a writing exercise in a notebook than a title in which the author had real confidence. It is also not really accurate, since the narrator is addressing her beloved throughout, not herself. With these changes, this well-written and affecting poem would do well in independent, small-press and local poetry society contests, though it might be considered too traditional for the university-run publications.
Where could a poem like "Note to Self III" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Franklin-Christoph Poetry Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Free contest from seller of luxury pens and desk accessories offers $1,000 for unpublished poems up to 100 lines, plus fountain pens for runners-up
Writer's Digest Poetry Awards
Postmark Deadline: December 19
National writers' magazine offers $500 and self-publishing package, good exposure for emerging writers; open to unpublished poems, 32 lines maximum
Poetry Society of Virginia (Adult Categories)
Postmark Deadline: January 19
Prizes of $50-$125 for poems in over two dozen categories including humor, nature, and a variety of traditional forms; top prize in 2009 is $250 for a sonnet or other traditional form
This poem and critique appeared in the November 2008 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Note to Van Helsing
Seduction is an art,
And so is death.
To fan the spark of life,
Until raging flames consume the body.
She died in ecstasy you know.
Sobbing her thanks,
As her soul burned away like a wick.
I can still feel her now.
A heartbeat unique among millions.
Within the heated flow of her veins,
Had lain the throbbing birth of womanhood.
Untouched!
An unmarked page,
Floating in the rain.
She danced between the drops,
Waiting for my pen to make its mark.
How could I resist,
This island of purity,
In a sea of sin?
The deep longing within her loins,
Given voice through quickened pulse.
It cried out for me,
And I raged in turn,
To cleanse my soul in the waters of this untapped well,
To douse damnation's fires in this virgin's red fount.
Gentle, so gentle the pursuit.
A soft smile to mask my fangs,
A caress like silk from razor-ed nails,
A knowing look with earthy promise,
And suddenly, so suddenly,
She was mine!
Fragile little leaf,
Twirling in the wind,
Crying on the edge of eternity,
For the thunderous release of the storm.
Within shadows her flower opened,
Within whispers her petals fell,
Within shivers her womb curdled,
To the cold offal of a dead man's seed.
Fruitless rite, empty husk, innocent damned.
She seemed familiar,
Did you know her Abe?
Perhaps your other lambs will bring me peace.
Copyright 2009 by Brian Donaghy
This poem was first published on MicroHorror.com in April 2009.
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Just in time for Hallowe'en, this month's critique poem by Brian Donaghy is based on characters from Bram Stoker's Dracula. In style and tone, "Note to Van Helsing" is a straightforward entry in the erotic-horror genre that Dracula exemplifies, rather than a critical reinterpretation or ironic pastiche, of which there have been many in modern times.
Vampires are the superstars of the monster world because they represent the unholy marriage of our two great preoccupations, Eros and Thanatos. In the Victorian era, arguably the heyday of the Gothic romance, sexual taboos could be explored more freely if the literal storyline was about violence rather than sex. The tragic outcome of uncontrolled passions in the horror novel could redeem a sensual story from charges of immorality.
To some extent this dynamic is still at work in the immensely popular Twilight novels, where the decision to transition from human to vampire is a powerful metaphor for adolescent girls' anxieties about their sexual awakening and the attendant risks of peer-group ostracism and family estrangement. Similarly, one could argue that Anne Rice's elegantly tragic, polyamorous vampires reflected the conflicted emotions of the gay community during the AIDS crisis of the 1980s and 1990s. Does the sublimation of erotica into horror reflect the misplaced priorities of a culture that finds violence less obscene than sex, or does it defend the sacred mystery and momentousness of sex in the age of casual hook-ups?
The Romantic poets wrote some of the greatest classics of erotic horror. Among them are Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee", John Keats' "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Christabel", "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and others. (Read about Coleridge and see more sample poems here.)
A victim of its own popularity, the Gothic poetic style that was so groundbreaking in its own day has become overly predictable in ours. Because "Note to Van Helsing" doesn't reinterpret those conventions, some mainstream literary journals might reject it as "genre" work. However, I admired its lyricism and emotional range, which make it a fine example of its genre.
The narrator speaks with bold assurance from the beginning, as befits a seducer. Even the title is cheeky, calling this elegantly worded challenge to his opponent a tossed-off "Note" rather than a letter. He can spin out verses without even trying, as smoothly as he weaves an irresistible web around his victims.
The vampire-hunter Van Helsing, like the readers of Dracula, wants to believe in his own basic decency, in flattering contrast to the vampire's boundless self-indulgence. The narrator of this poem mocks that self-image by asserting the universality of his dark impulses. Despite himself, the reader becomes aroused by the images of the girl's ravishment, and discovers within himself what the vampire has always known: that sex is dangerous, and death is sexy.
I particularly liked the passages in this poem where Donaghy reaches beyond the stock imagery of blood, sin and purity (is the vampire myth Catholicism-as-fetish?), such as the stanza beginning "An unmarked page, floating in the rain". This cooler and more contemplative moment provides a refreshing pause between scenes of overheated blood-lust. As the tension builds, the water imagery identified with the girl changes from a tranquil baptismal pool to a torrent of orgasmic release: "Crying on the edge of eternity,/For the thunderous release of the storm." She claims sexual agency, it seems, at the price of her life.
This coyness about female desire is a common and, to my feminist mind, disturbing convention of romance writing. The woman must be overpowered, either literally, as in the vampire scenario or other rape/seduction fantasies, or psychologically, by the man's charisma, in order to yield while retaining her virtue. Her flipping back and forth between the roles of victim and enthusiastic participant absolves both parties in the seduction drama.
But these strategies of self-preservation are all in vain, in the world of the poem. Between "her flower opened" and "her womb curdled" there is scarcely a breath. Meanwhile, once the narrator's thirst is sated, his coldness and emptiness return. Whereas before, the girl appeared uniquely desirable and important ("A heartbeat unique among millions"), she is now only another notch on the bedpost ("She seemed familiar,/Did you know her, Abe?"). The nickname, used here for the first time, could be another sign of the narrator's contempt for Van Helsing, but it could also be an invitation to bond over the shared experience of sexual conquest. The two are not mutually exclusive, since male friends often express their affection through teasing insults.
This emotional shift improves the poem, saving it from becoming a cliché erotic fantasy. In real life, coming down from the high of sexual union can stir up feelings of sadness, emptiness, even disgust for one's self or one's partner, as blissful self-forgetfulness is edged out by the self-conscious and separate ego once again. Sex reminds us of death because it makes us notice our embodiment, and bodies perish. What then does it mean that even immortals experience this sense of loss? Perhaps the source of our post-coital suffering is the changeableness of our own moods. We can't sustain the peak experience. The dead girl, alone, never has to face the morning after. That may be why she is such an enduring figure in Romantic literature.
For more reflections on the cultural meanings of the Gothic, check out Golem: A Journal of Religion and Monsters.
Where could a poem like "Note to Van Helsing" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Poetry Society of South Carolina Contests
Entries must be received by November 15
Twice-yearly contest offers prizes up to $500 for PSSC members, $200 for nonmembers, for poems on various themes; no simultaneous submissions
Abilene Writers Guild Contest
Postmark Deadline: November 30
Texas writers' group offers prizes up to $100 in a number of genres including rhymed and unrhymed poetry, short stories, articles, children's literature, and novel excerpts
Wild Violet Writing Contests
Postmark Deadline: December 18
Prizes up to $100 and online publication for short fiction and poetry; longer poems accepted, up to 200 lines
Another publication that appreciates "genre" writing includes:
The Copperfield Review
Online literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction
This poem and critique appeared in the October 2009 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
Nothing Changes
By Gary Beck
I sit at my desk
with my iPad,
send an email
to a friend in France.
It gets there in seconds.
Across the street
at a construction site,
immigrant laborers
who can't speak English
put up a scaffold,
the same way they did
in ancient Egypt.
Down the block,
four large men
carry a heavy rug,
just the way they did
in ancient Persia.
At the corner,
two men load a truck
the exact same way
two men loaded a cart
in the Middle Ages.
The progress of civilization
has given us
powerful machines,
electronic devices,
yet everywhere I look
we still do things by hand.
Nothing in the Rulebook
Nothing in the Rulebook is a UK-based online magazine that includes competitions listings, writing news, and feature articles about literature and culture.
Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market 40th Edition
From Writer's Digest, "the 40th edition of NSSWM features hundreds of updated listings for book publishers, literary agents, fiction publications, contests, and more." Includes interviews with bestselling authors and tips for fiction writers.
Novel Writing Advice from Caro Clarke
Fiction writer Clarke offers helpful tips on plotting, pacing, revising, and other nuts-and-bolts aspects of creating a novel, in a series of 30 articles originally written for the online magazine NovelAdvice.
Now What? The Creative Writer’s Guide to Success After the MFA
Published by Fairfield University's MFA Program, this multi-genre writer's guide features essays from numerous published authors about their postgraduate career paths.
NPR Poetry Games
In honor of the 2012 Olympics, National Public Radio features contemporary poems that honor the ancient connection between the arts and athletics. The website includes the text of the poems plus audio of the authors reading them. Contributors from around the world include Kazim Ali, Monica de la Torre, and Mbali Vilakazi.
Nullipara
By A.M. Thompson
nul·lip·a·ra (noun) A woman who has never given birth.
I am gill-less in a sea of the alive,
an ocean of female forces, dark and green.
This deprivation is ancient, biblical,
back to the days of fire pillars, ashes.
I feel too modern to be sistered back
to Sarah, to Elizabeth to time...
yet time is the deep that drowns the heart:
I see a burgeoning belly and cannot breathe.
Too basic to explain or understand,
I can only strive not to inhale the sea
then struggle up to gasp unholy air
and catch lost lullabies above the surf,
A primal music sorrowing this loss:
My songs of unforming—
ungrowing, and unborn.
Numinous: Spiritual Poetry
This online journal based in New Zealand publishes poems of a spiritual nature written in any style. Contributors have included such well-known authors as Annie Finch, Barry Spacks, and Martin Willitts Jr. Authors may submit one group of 4-6 unpublished poems per year.
NY Book Editors
NY Book Editors matches authors with experienced publishing professionals for manuscript critiques, from developmental to line editing. Initial fee is refundable if author is not satisfied with sample critique. Their blog features articles about the basics of writing and publishing.
NY Times: Rise in Self-Publishing Opens the Door for Aspiring Writers
This New York Times article from July 2011 discusses trends in self-publishing and how to choose the right publishing package.
NYC Midnight
Founded in 2002, NYC Midnight is a writers' forum that offers free writing challenges with themes and time limits to hone your skills. Each competition begins at 11:59 PM New York time, hence the title, and can range from 24 hours to 8 days to complete. Authors must use the writing prompt and submit a polished piece with a maximum word/page count by the deadline. Winners are published on the site (with their permission). Genres include flash fiction, short stories, and screenwriting. Sign up for their e-newsletter to be notified of the current challenge.
Objective Correlative
By David Holper
"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion." T.S. Eliot
Imagine a poem about the old Germany
the one in which you had to pass to through
Checkpoints A, B, C to travel
from West Germany to East Berlin:
it would by necessity be an act of faith,
dividing what we remember with what you feel obligated to tell:
it would require, too, a certain anxiety: the clock's hands frozen
just past midnight, a scene replete with klieglights, razor wire, guard towers,
armed Russian guards just barely old enough
to shave, or kill. Being young yourself, you would
remain stoic. Dignity is required in transit out of the known world
into the wintery ice fog. With your orders in hand,
you must enter the little green hut, just beyond
your car, slide the paperwork under the mirrored glass
and wait in the silence, with Joe and Vladimir
frowning at you.
No one will speak,
whether you say something in Russian or not,
whether, as you go out, you wish the guard a good evening
or offer to trade the open Playboy on the dash
for a belt buckle or a fur hat. Afterwards, you must drive directly
110 km from A to B: until you enter Berlin, you cannot leave your car,
whether you break down or run out of gas. At that point,
the poem must advance the alphabet in its proper order,
the landscape undoing all that you think of civilization
so that, if the poem does not confound us
with anything that challenges our faith in the world we know,
then and only then, the car will pass into the city—and beyond
Checkpoint Charlie, through the last barrier, and you will discover yourself
in East Berlin, the dirty fog drenching everything in doubt.
Once there, you'll find a troubling belief will manifest in the lines
of wet laundry strung outside the windows, the raw bullet holes
from decades before, the anxious gray faces. If you hear anything
resembling a scream, do your best to ignore it. Tell yourself it is only
your imagination. Maybe later you will stop at the Alexanderplatz for a souvenir,
(though aside from the vodka and the Cuban cigars, there will be nothing worth buying)
and watch the snow pile up in gray slush, effacing everything,
everyone. If you notice the man following you in the charcoal colored suit,
you must not make a scene. He will not bother you,
as long as you don't ask about what is torturing you. Keep moving, keep pretending
that the dead are not following you with every step. Only in this way
will we ever believe this nightmare to have been true.
Originally published in Third Wednesday, Spring 2012
Obscura
Obscura, the literary journal of Lehman College in the Bronx, publishes poetry, fiction, artwork, and drama that reflects their community's vibrant multicultural and Latinx influences. Open to submissions from current students and alumni.
Observatory
Clear-sighted, modest and wise, the narrator of these poems takes us to London, China, Japan, and post-Katrina New Orleans, always with an eye for the moments of common humanity that open up intimacy between strangers.
Obsession
By Janet Ruth Heller
I walk down the hall at work
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I go to his office to ask a question
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I speak up at a committee meeting
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I teach a composition class in front of him
and my boss stares at my breasts.
I submit my letter of resignation
and my boss stares at my breasts.
Octavo Digital Rare Books
High-quality digital reproductions (PDF or CD) of important rare printed works. Catalogue includes medieval illuminated manuscripts, Shakespeare folios and more.
October Full Moon
by Marilyn McVicker
Standing on the hill, I look down the cove.
The roof glows radiant in the moonlight. It is
so bright, tonight I can see this page, clearly.
Stars canopy above. A chill in the air.
Dark forest forms a fringe to the scent
of rotting leaves, decaying grass. Last remaining
katydids sing their fading ostinato. Air is
electric with light, life at its zenith.
Inside my fleece jacket, I am warm. My blood
pulsates the liquid music of my life. Alive
in my veins. Electric.
When I am too old to stand here any longer,
will I wish I had stood here more?
Odd Mercy
By Gail Thomas. This elegantly crafted, life-affirming chapbook won the 2016 Charlotte Muse Prize from Headmistress Press, a lesbian-feminist poetry publisher. Thomas' verse knits together several generations of women, from her once prim and proper suburban mother descending into Alzheimer's, to her young granddaughter surrounded by gender-bending friends and same-sex couples. She grounds their history in earthy details like the taste of asparagus, locks of hair from the dead, and old newspaper clippings of buildings raised and gardens planted by blue-collar forebears. The centerpiece of the collection, "The Little Mommy Sonnets", poignantly depicts a sort of reconciliation at the end of a thorny relationship, where differences in ideals of womanhood fall away, and what's left is the primal comfort of touching and feeding a loved one.
Ode
By Luci Shaw
The stillness of last night's dew, falling,
The ripeness of a perfect peach,
The coupled sound of two loons, calling,
My friends' connections, each to each.
The thorny rose's sharp perfection,
Forgiveness offered to a foe,
The firmness of a son's connection
Though seasons come and seasons go.
A violent thunderstorm retreating,
A candle's flame, however brief,
The sudden joy of kindred meeting,
Or autumn's colors, leaf by leaf.
The promise of a friend's arrival
To share a meal and dream a dream,
To work together for revival
Of some beloved, forgotten scheme.
Life's rhythmic pulse forever thrumming
in tune with love's eternal song.
Forgive me, if you hear me humming
for joy that you and I belong.
Ode to a Fallen Sparrow
By Helen Leslie Sokolsky
I stand riveted
within a circle of sparrows
feeling like an immigrant
trespassing on their gathering.
Squalls of white swirl around us
the snow falling steadily
in an unchanging rhythm.
One sparrow starts wandering away from the others
limping slightly
making his way to the park benches
now camouflaged in winter's coat.
He seems to find comfort on those pillars
so many stories carved into the wooden slats
voices of summer's past.
I toss some crumbs, my alms to him
he sprinkles me with down
the two of us, twisted vines
pulled together across all this stillness.
Carefully steadying himself on his podium
hurt leg tucked in feathers
the sparrow begins to trill some half notes
and from that tiny frozen heart
a fugue clamoring to wake the earth
resounds in all its splendor
his resurrection symphony.
Ode to the Forty Year Patient
By Andrew Mercado (writing as Chris Smith)
They held a patient at the hospital for over forty years, yes they did!
He was committed to the hospital when he was barely more than a kid.
They held him here, excessively, for no good reasons,
Do the math; they held him here for over 160 seasons.
They held him locked up, not to go free,
Even though he was acquitted of a crime on a not guilty plea,
For year after year and day after day,
O'Lord have they made him pay.
They took away more rights and lowered the quality of food,
To the point that it is indigestible and overall rude.
He cannot sleep due to the light,
That peers into his room each and every night.
They took away hours at his patient job, so money he could not make,
All the while, the hospital just kept on the take, take, take.
For all the while, the hospital stole his life,
And replaced it with worsening continuous strife.
The hospital won't let him go, not even now,
They want to drive him for their "pound of flesh", like a horse and plow.
From the world, the hospital kept him hid,
Until they can bury him and say, "Good Rid!"
of dementia nonsense before departing
By Simon Peter Eggertsen
my grandmother licks at a dried red peach,
thinks of her life still and the rust crush of age.
distracted by the jumble of weakened sense and memory:
she tastes the delicate blade of a gray winter knife
shave through the dense white matter of summer light;
she smells the prismed edges of sugary autumn sand
slip from the dull languor of blue summer dew;
she sees the glee of a thousand green spring wisps
chase away the doubt of black autumn shadows;
she hears the red-fire frenzy of a summer morning sky
subdue the cold aquamarine hues of winter-splayed 'cicles,
she feels the yellow veneer of a spring wind merry-go-round,
glaze into the orange haze of autumn's plumes;
she re-senses, without knowing, the color and order of her seasons.
Off the Yoga Mat
By Cheryl J. Fish. Three New York intellectuals on the cusp of their 40th birthdays fumble toward maturity as Y2K looms. Every environment in this gentle yet deep novel is fully realized—from the anarchy of the "freegans" in Tompkins Square Park, to the domestic rituals of Finnish sauna culture, and the Black community of pre-Katrina New Orleans. The protagonists' lives and loves intersect repeatedly, like complex and shifting yoga poses, hopefully leading to a bit more enlightenment by the time we reluctantly bid them goodbye.
Office Depot
Free delivery with qualifying orders.
Ogden Nash (1902-1974)
Master of American light verse. "How are we to survive?" asks Nash. "Solemnity is not the answer, any more than witless and irresponsible frivolousness. I think our best chance—a good chance—lies in humor, which, in this case, means a wry acceptance of our predicament." Bio. Celebrating the 100th anniversary of his birth.
Old Book Illustrations
Images from this searchable database of vintage book illustrations are free to download for your graphic design project. The site attempts to ensure that all images are public-domain and legally accessible in your jurisdiction, but the risk is ultimately on you to confirm permission.
Old Graveyard
By Richard Eric Johnson
Gnarled roots creep beneath
The old leaning trees still shading.
Faded epitaphs and names from other eras
Hide now on tilted, fallen, weathered stones.
Stark are the remaining angels and
Obelisks trying to stand this stillness.
A small stagnant, algae-thickened pond
Meditates a barely discernible sky above.
Insects crawl, buzz in flight and
Beg a swatting of the hand.
From this point one sees an old road of
Crumbling asphalt stretching for neighboring hills.
A grand new super highway drones
Somewhere out of sight.
No one has been here
In a very long time.
Older Writers and Finding Success
What to say when older writers ask me, "Am I wasting my time?"
https://pshares.org/submit/emerging-writers-contest/Annie Mydla, Managing Editor
Despair is a common theme in many writers’ lives, but that despair is usually linked to fears of growing older and losing one’s mojo, or losing the interest of agents and publishers, or the ability to generate a living from writing.
- Writing Into Your Seventies and Beyond, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett for Gotham Writers
Earlier in the year, I completed a critique for a well-written memoir by a writer in his mid-sixties. After reading my comments, which were largely positive, the author wrote back that the critique was too generous. He told me that I had failed to answer his only question: "Am I wasting my time?"
While this is a question that nearly all writers face, it can carry a special urgency for writers over retirement age. There's often a sense that time might be running out for the hit, the blockbuster, the artistic and social triumph that will justify years of hard experience. There's a lot riding on the manuscript. It can mean more than just itself.
Maybe that's why some of the most dissatisfied critique feedback I've gotten has been from older writers who seem disappointed that I didn't tell them to put down the pen. Is it their fate to slog on alone, racking up pages that no one will read? Maybe a scathing critique would provide some kind of release.
Doling out scathing critiques is not the role of a developmental critiquer, though. My job is to read a manuscript and tell the author the strengths and growth points. Often, this includes expressing genuine admiration for what the writer has accomplished.
When a positive critique receives the follow-up question, "Am I wasting my time?" my response is most often, "Of course not!" But I have the uncomfortable awareness that to the author asking the question, my response might be inadequate.
"Am I wasting my time?" I wonder if there are other questions hidden underneath it: "Does anyone care about my writing?" "Will I find commercial success?" "Does anyone care about me?" "Am I worthwhile?" "Do my thoughts matter?" "Am I creative, or just a fake?" "Have I accomplished anything in life?"
If I read your manuscript and thought it was good, then my critique will make that clear. And yet—something about these situations makes me feel like to the writer, I'm a surrogate for the wider world. It's as though my affirmation as a single reader and critiquer can't replace what the writer feels like they need, but can't get, from the reading public.
I think a lot about the experience of the older writers among us. And, fortunately, other people do, too. I recently had the pleasure of reading an article by Denise Beck-Clark, The Elderly Unsuccessful Creative: On My Deathbed, I Will Still Want to Write. In the article, Beck-Clark writes,
Ultimately, there's the question, "Have I lived a meaningful life?" Or, given all the time I spent writing, not to mention learning, thinking, and talking about writing—identifying as a writer—has it all been one big, sad waste of time and effort?
For me, the pain of this question is its underlying contradiction of the personal versus the interpersonal. On one hand, it's a question that virtually every writer will ask. On the other, it's a question that virtually no one else can answer. I would venture to say that no mere reader, critiquer, agent, publisher, or horde of fans would be able to respond to any writer's satisfaction. Some of the most successful writers have also been the most unhappy. The problem of self-worth, self-expression, and public recognition remains incredibly thorny.
But that's no reason for a writer to give up—let alone ask someone else to tell them to give up.
Finding Success Outside the Manuscript
One thing I have noticed as a critiquer is that many older authors who ask, "Am I wasting my time?" do so in the context of their first or second manuscript. At that stage of the career, a manuscript can feel monumental, a milestone, a monolith. So much has gone into creating it—a lifetime of emotional processing, for starters. Traditional publishing might seem like the only way to do this monolith justice.
Moreover, the writer may have been told their entire life, "You know, you could write a book!" Completing the manuscript and getting it traditionally published could seem like the fulfillment of a social vote of confidence. If the writer doesn't get the book traditionally published, it might feel like failing the people who believed in them.
In the context of modern publishing, though, this "all or nothing" attitude might be putting more pressure on the older writer to succeed with the book manuscript, and nothing but the book manuscript. That's a tough bind to be in. Selling an agent or publisher on an entire manuscript is inherently difficult, because it's such a big investment for everyone involved.
Meanwhile, there are so many smaller, less-investment-heavy, and just-as-professional publishing opportunities besides full-length book publication. If you are an older writer looking for ways to get your work in front of readers, take a look at the four methods below.
1. Try flash nonfiction
Have you been wrestling with a book-length memoir manuscript? Chances are, your document contains an abundance of passages that could stand alone as flash nonfiction (creative nonfiction, memoir, fictionalized memoir). These very short stand-alone pieces range from 100-1,000 words. With just a few strokes of a mouse, you could paste likely-looking passages into a new document, tie off the beginnings and endings, and send them to journals.
It might be worthwhile doing some research on flash nonfiction to get a feel for the genre. The publishing cycle is more rapid than with full-length books, so there are more opportunities, and feedback typically comes more quickly. Some places to start with your research might be:
Writers on the Move: What is Flash Memoir?
Writing Women's Lives Academy: The Benefits of Writing Flash Memoir
If you read about flash memoir and like what you learn, you might want to experiment with submitting excerpts from your existing work to flash nonfiction journals such as the ones listed on these sites:
Erika Dreyfus: Where to Publish Flash Nonfiction & Micro-Essays
Submittable Discover: Flash Nonfiction Markets
Writer's Digest: 5 Flash Fiction and Nonfiction Markets
Brevity: Flash Creative Nonfiction Markets (link opens a PDF)
Flash memoir thrives on momentary impressions without larger context, so it's likely that little, if any, additional editing would be needed before submitting each excerpt to a journal. I'd encourage you to send each of the excerpts you select to at least ten journals and see what happens. You might get a better result than you expect.
2. Seek out publications that are looking for older writers
"Writers 40+" is a thriving market all its own, with many publishers and a solid reader base to keep it lively. Agents, publishers, and journals are actively looking for writers in middle age and beyond.
Opportunities for all genders:
Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magaine
The Speculative Literature Foundation's Older Writers Grant
Lambda Literary's J. Michael Samuel Prize for Emerging Writers Over 50
McKitterick Prize: For a first novel by an author over 40
The Next Chapter Award for emerging writers over 40
Opportunities for women:
Shirley Holden Helberg Grants for Mature Women
Hosking Houses Trust writers' residencies
Two Sylvias Press Wilder Series Poetry Book Prize for women over 50
3. Make writing social
Face-to-face interactions allow writers to cut through the abstractions of "finding their audience" and witness their work's impact directly on readers and listeners.
Joining a writers' group or class locally or online is a great way to get work in front of others. Older writers are welcome to participate in groups for writers of all ages. This article from Artful Editor has great ideas on making writing social: How to Connect with Other Writers.
There are also groups specifically for older writers to meet and enjoy each others' company and experience. Both local, in-person groups like SWit'CH, and online venues, like the Senior Planet Writers' Studio, are great ways to connect one-on-one about writing.
Going to author talks and readings, open mics, book clubs, and writers' conferences can also be a great way to meet and network with other writers.
If you're looking for ways to get involved with other writers face-to-face, it might be a good idea to get into the habit of checking local listings on a regular basis. Lists of upcoming writing gatherings and workshops (both for all-ages and for older writers specifically) are often available at libraries, community and senior centers, and meetup.com.
4. Get involved with anti-ageist activism in the arts
When I asked our head editor, Jendi Reiter, what they thought about the topic of older writers and success, they immediately wrote back:
My first thought is that you should check out the Twitter account @noentry_arts which highlights unnecessary age restrictions in literary and arts applications. They've been successful at pressuring some sponsors to be more inclusive of older writers, amplifying opportunities for older writers, and spreading the word about articles and opinion pieces touching issues of ageism in writing and the arts.
It can be wonderfully heartening to see how we can fight back against artificial limitations against older writers. Getting involved with anti-ageist activism can be an affirming way to assert one's own right to creativity, as well as to meet and support fellow creatives. Read @noentry_arts's posts here: https://twitter.com/noentry_arts
Have any thoughts on finding, or not finding, success and satisfaction as an older writer? Write to Annie at annie@winningwriters.com to share your thoughts.
On (Not) Tracking Movement
In this 2021 essay in in CRAFT Literary, fiction writer and teacher Mike Goodwin advises eliminating mundane action from your narrative. Too many beginning writers waste space with step-by-step descriptions of routine behavior, without using those moments to reveal character or plot. Using the work of minimalists like Raymond Carver as examples, Goodwin breaks down how to write a straightforward scene where every detail counts.
On Battery Hill
I push snow with my feet,
suck ice cookies off one mitten
while dragging the sled
behind like a stubborn dog
on an icy leash
to reach the tin drum bonfire
crowded with Big People
laughing, warming hands,
their faces lively
over the fierce coals.
My dad brings me;
he loves the outdoors. His skin
is thick and ruddy, his voice booms
out, a baritone with basso rumbles.
He stays up by the fire, smacking
his hands for warmth, lets me take the hill
myself. The hill is a test;
fly fast enough to go straight down,
but not slide into the frozen lake.
Footsteps
show me where I've been:
all mixed up, criss-crossed
with the runners and feet
of others. Bundled
in big coats, caps, scarves,
anonymous, you can't tell
if I'm a boy or girl—
even I'm not sure yet.
No one knows me here,
my wet bed, my little lies,
how easy it is to make me cry.
Copyright 2009 by Niki Nymark
Critique by Tracy Koretsky
It is winter here in the United States and the beginning of a long season when we will be reminded of Christmas at every turn and thoughts for many move to family. Perhaps that is why I find myself so drawn to this dramatic persona poem by Niki Nymark, of St. Louis, Missouri, author of A Stranger Here Myself from Cherry Pie Press.
Unlike my last two critiques in which I focused upon a few lines or phrases, the issues with "On Battery Hill", as I perceive them, are more systemic.
Let's start with what's working. Nymark has constructed a durable underlying narrative structure. In three stanzas divided roughly in half in terms of plot, she moves the story consistently forward. First she places the character, then gives her a goal—in this case, a visual target. Stanza two begins by introducing the next character (father) then raises the stakes both emotionally and physically with "the hill is a test".
Notice the restraint of the placement of that phrase. Many poets would succumb to the dramatic effect of ending the stanza with it. Nymark makes a more subtle choice.
She then returns to her protagonist and has her drop her gaze. This completes the action—the visual target—begun in stanza one. It also creates a springboard to move the poem into metaphor, the mixed-up footsteps akin to the protagonist losing herself, then questioning herself, then doubting, arriving finally at her touching confession.
This is enough plot for a short poem. Need to tell more story? Write more poems.
So, plot settled, what this narrative will need is a distinctive voice and a setting. With these, I think, Nymark comes up against some problems.
The voice as it currently stands is inconsistent. "Big People" for example, is not the same level of diction as "a baritone with basso rumbles"; "anonymous" not the same as "ice cookies". The author needs to make a choice. Is this a poem in the voice of an adult remembering or of a child experiencing? Remember, there's no law in any country as far as I know that says you can't write two poems and save your favorite phrases!
If the author does choose to adopt the dramatic persona of a small child, she might try simplifying the verb tenses and shortening the sentences. Run-on sentences can be very effective when writing in a child's voice, but even within these run-ons, try and stick to just the present and past tenses.
We are always taught to be perspicacious in poems, but with dramatic persona, this can make the voice unnatural. At least to my ear, "bonfire inside a tin drum" sounds more childlike than its current, more economical, structure.
Remember: dramatic persona is acting. Before beginning to revise, the author may want to use a few theater techniques to help ground her character.
Probably Nymark already knows everything she needs to know about her young speaker: how old she is, how stable and safe and happy. Nevertheless, it might be useful to locate a few pictures of children that age and ponder them.
Next, even though it may not be included in the poem, she might take some time to fill in the family background. For example, where's Mom right now? Has the little girl seen the hill before, perhaps been on it during another season? What is her relationship with her father?
Now it's time to imagine being there. Poll the character's senses. Nymark might examine in her mind the color of the sky, the sounds of other kids, or of the snow. How cold is the speaker? Is she hungry? What can she see of those coats and caps at her particular height?
In dramatic persona, setting is conveyed through props. These are the objects with which the character interacts. Nymark has given us mittens, sled, tin drum, bonfire. Actors take time to explore their props, to handle them, even though that may just mean pantomime. Through this exercise Nymark might find more fresh and specific details—perhaps something about the sled. She might even find more objects to add, though, in the end, for a poem this brief, the three she has named might prove the perfect amount.
Interestingly, Nymark has not described the hill or the lake. This may be an artistic choice, because to dwell on a description of either would greatly change the poem by enlarging the importance of the setting to the point of metaphor, but I offer it as food for thought.
Finally, she is ready to tell the story out loud while acting her character. I suggest she plan to do so at least several times. It can be helpful to intentionally let go of one's own natural rhythm and experiment with others. For this poem, Nymark might even try affecting a childlike voice. Suddenly it may no longer seem natural to describe the father's skin as thick and ruddy as she discovers ways to convey the same notion in an authentic and consistent voice limited to a child's vocabulary and experience.
Warning: these suggestions will probably lead to a longer draft! Many of the best ideas in a dramatic persona poem come from an initial overwriting. She might even try forcing herself to write as fast as she can. Why? Because writing a dramatic persona is about giving up conscious control of the text and allowing the imagination to take charge—at least for a few drafts anyway. Such poems both require and foster empathy. Perhaps because of that, they are enormous fun, both for the writer and the reader.
Where could a poem like "On Battery Hill" be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Wild Violet Writing Contests
Postmark Deadline: December 18
Online literary quarterly offers $100 apiece for unpublished poems and short stories
Dream Quest One Poetry & Writing Contest
Postmark Deadline: December 31
This website featuring accessible work by emerging writers offers online publication and prizes up to $500 for fiction, $250 for poetry
Pennsylvania Poetry Society Annual Contest
Postmark Deadline: January 15
Top prize of $100 plus smaller prizes for poems in two dozen categories including formal verse, humor, and a variety of themes; no simultaneous submissions
Wednesday Club Poetry Prize
Postmark Deadline: February 1
Free contest offers prizes up to $700 for unpublished poems by authors aged 18+ who live within a 50-mile radius of St. Louis, MO
Memoir (and) Prizes for Prose or Poetry
Postmark Deadline: February 15
Free contest from magazine of personal essays offers prizes up to $500 and publication for "traditional and experimental prose, poetry, graphic memoir, narrative photography, lies, and more"
This poem and critique appeared in the December 2009 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
On Building a Poetry Manuscript for Publication
In this 2021 blog post from Cincinnati Review, poet and editor Sean Cho A. breaks down the screening process for contests and open reading periods, and suggests how to structure the beginning and end of your manuscript to showcase major themes. Sean Cho A. is an editorial assistant at Cincinnati Review's Acre Books imprint and the winner of the Autumn House Press chapbook contest for American Home.
On Entering Your Poems in Competition
Kurt Heintz advises poets on the kinds of online contests worth entering.
On Making the Poetry Manuscript: Advice from Tupelo Press Editor Jeffrey Levine
Jeffrey Levine, editor of the prestigious independent publisher Tupelo Press, offers solid advice on collecting your poems into a coherent manuscript and presenting them to best advantage.
On My Father’s Dashed Hopes of Returning to Normandy Fifty Years Later
Cold for June again this year.
Only in this stupid way
is her heart weak, but his
hale for her, so he won't go,
by himself, saying
it does not matter, those beaches
remain, great gun shocks will resound, strewn
litter of machines and men be again, the floating
harbors and bodies,
will always be there.
Sure a day that defined, refined him in its fire,
the fear, decks slicked by vomit, lip smacking waves, air rip of 88 shells, gun smoke
war fogs, the need for him
Rockaway lifeguard joined to a
life saving service
the need to pass the drowning men, returning
from the troop ships to the beach and back again,
—must get inland, link up, repulse counter
attacks to broom them back to the sea—(where only death is)
the count of drowning men dwindling,
melting into the cold sea,
this as good as any
image of war.
And he is right, what remains remains.
When they do go, they'll find some
of his fellows, some returning in every month
of every year, to remember what they were before
that day and place, what became.
And it is fit she return with him,
since for her he fought in that last good war.
Cold for June again this year. I
will go to Normandy some year
and they will all, all be there.
Copyright 2008 by Michael P. Riley
Critique by Jendi Reiter
Michael P. Riley's "On My Father's Dashed Hopes..." captures the stoic bravery of the generation that fought in World War II. Reticent about the horrors they saw in America's "last good war", these men and women now must call upon that same quiet strength to confront old age with dignity.
It's easy to imagine the narrator's father saying "Cold again for June this year," perhaps in a gruff Yankee voice, as his only comment on his cancelled plans. These are people for whom small talk must speak volumes. (As the military posters said, loose lips sink ships.) While their children and grandchildren, products of the therapeutic culture, are more in the habit of talking their feelings out, this veteran's wife might feel that the most sensitive thing he can do is spare her the reminder of her infirmity and avoid a conversation that would leave her feeling guilty.
His tactful sacrifice mirrors the one he made fifty years earlier, also (the poem tells us) for her. Then, he went to Normandy, plunging into the fear and chaos of battle; now, when that coastline is at peace, his sacrifice is to remain at home, supporting his wife in her fight against illness. The enduring tenderness of their marriage creates a small safe place amid the tumult of "decks slicked by vomit, lip smacking waves, air rip of 88 shells, gun smoke".
The poem's final lines bring past and present together, suggesting a completion that transcends time. "I/will go to Normandy some year/and they will all, all be there." In the end, there is no need for anxious haste. Whenever the speaker visits, the dead and the living will greet him, reconciled and reunited. The repetition of "all" assures us that death is not a permanent barrier—healing news for those veterans who remember, with relief and guilt, "the need to pass the drowning men" and continue their advance up the beach.
The ending echoes and resolves the earlier lines where the confusion of time periods was not so benign: "those beaches/remain...the floating/harbors and bodies,/will always be there." In a sense, he was not lying to his wife when he said he did not need to revisit the battlefield, since it is always with him, a part of his identity, that "day that defined, refined him in its fire".
What the veterans actually rediscover when they return to Normandy is their peacetime selves, "what they were before/that day and place, what became." Safe at home, they still carry the war inside them, and must go back to the scene of the violence in order to understand how peace feels. This is but one example of Riley's skillful use of paradox to weave connections between the wartime experience and the present day, crafting a war poem that is also a gentle love story.
Where could a poem like "On My Father's Dashed Hopes..." be submitted? The following contests may be of interest:
Wells Festival of Literature International Poetry Competition
Entries must be received by June 30
Prizes up to 1,000 pounds for unpublished poems; no simultaneous submissions; "poems must not exceed 35 lines of text in length"
Oregon State Poetry Association Contests
Postmark Deadline: September 5
Prizes up to $100 in open-theme category, $50 in other categories
Surrey International Writers' Conference Writing Contest
Entries must be received by September 5
Canadian literary conference offers prizes up to C$1,000 for poetry, fiction, essays, and children's literature; online entries accepted
Firstwriter.com International Poetry Competition
Entries must be received by October 1
Writers' resource site offers prizes up to 500 pounds for published or unpublished poems, 30 lines maximum; enter online only
Lucidity Poetry Journal Awards
Postmark Deadline: October 31
Prizes up to $100 for poems in "clear and concise English" that deal with people and interpersonal relationships
This poem and critique appeared in the July 2008 issue of Winning Writers Newsletter (subscribe free).
On Not Noticing
In this 2018 essay from the blog of the literary journal Ploughshares, novelist and writing teacher Adam O'Fallon Price analyzes how fictional characters can be individuated by what they notice, and fail to notice, in the scenes they describe. Since perception is selective, a description with too many details can make the scene seem less realistic.
On the Idea of Order: Manuscript Advice from Tupelo Press Editor Jeffrey Levine
In this blog series, the editor of prestigious literary publisher Tupelo Press offers advice on the ordering and editing of a poetry manuscript.
On Writing Fat Characters
In this Craft Capsule column from Poets & Writers, fiction writer Christopher Gonzalez (I'm Not Hungry but I Could Eat) talks about being true to the interiority of fat characters, portraying their bodies in respectful ways, and pushing back against the default image of queer men as white and muscular.
One Morning
By Margaret Gish Miller
My husband tells me You were laughing
in your sleep. Funny how nightmares haunt,
like an anaconda swallowing your sister,
but how illusive whimsy is.
Sister & I playing at midnight,
a guessing game we make-up with
O, our friend whose father is sleeping.
The night is dark. No moon, creek
running through buried black-
berries, crick of cricket
dusty roads, the pond.
In the freezer, cost-saving loaves of Wonder
Bread sit stacked, ten for a dollar; Hostess
Cupcakes, dozens, quick-sweet snacks,
two rounds of fudge cake, bitter-
sweet chocolate crust, white icing squiggle,
hieroglyphs of happiness. We play
Who am I? while O's father slept,
a pedophile same as our father,
a million files of defilement
in American homes. Yet I
knew no name for it then
and so we played.
First Sis, down on all fours, head swinging. Mickey
I guess right, Mickey, O's sway-backed old horse. Now
O crouches down, waddling on two feet, head jerking—
George Sis cries. Yes, George the duck, who even
at this late hour waddles, quacking Throw me
into the pond—and we do.
As for me, Maggie, I lie on the bed still as a chrysalis
balled in a ball. A turtle, O guesses. No. You slowpoke.
No. Remember—whoever misses gets cupcakes
smashed in the face.
Oh, what a smashing good time—screaming—laughing
waking his father, hearing him cry Get to bed you kids!
One Throne Magazine
Founded in 2014 at Dawson City, Yukon, One Throne is an online literary magazine published quarterly (always on the first day of each season). Editors say, "We showcase the foremost in writing, spanning genres, and running the gamut from elegant prose and poetry, to plot-driven stories, to speculative fiction." One Throne also hosts contests where entrants receive a writing prompt and have 24 hours to write their entry. The prize is a percentage of entry fees.
