THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 2, No. 4            An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society        1 April 2003

   IT'S SPRINGTIME, TIME TO RESURRECT DEAD POEMS!

Like many of you, I occasionally send poems to editors in hope one will be selected for publication, though I know there are at least 100 poems submitted for every poem chosen.  In fact, one editor told me, he uses about five poems for each issue of his semiannual literary journal.  He said he reads until he finds five good ones and shelves the others for a later issue, but of course eventually for the sake of space he throws out the accumulated stack.  This seems cruel--to kill a poem before you even know its name--but, as we all know, editors are almost human and almost live lives.  My main concern this month, however, is not cruel, heartless editors.  Rather it is a guideline that is my concern--the guideline of publications and of many contests that requires that submissions be unpublished.  Once a poem has lived in ink, it is as good as dead.  Had the rule applied to Edgar Allan Poe, poor Poe would have had one half-book of poetry instead of four books in his body of work.  He wrote only 48 poems but managed to collect them again and again, changing the title of the book to feature his new poems, but not changing the titles of the formerly published poems.  To me, a poem--mine or another poet's--gains an ambiance with time, so that it is enriched when I return to it.  It becomes different from the poem it was originally.  It may cry out for revision--and what work doesn't? Or it may not seem to have found its proper niche, and therefore seeks a new home or at least proper recognition.  It should be resurrected in its newly modified form, I feel, so I am delighted to find publications and contests that carry the line "Previously published poems accepted." Practicing what we preach, Missouri State Poetry Society allows previously published poems as entries in our summer and winter contests, in Spare Mule, even in GRIST, our state anthology.  Although we don't repeat poems in the same publication, we do allow poems from one venue to appear in another.  So, send along your "golden oldies" or your "brand newies."  Share them for the first time--or the next time-- with us.
                                                                                                                --Tom Padgett, Editor      

            CONTENTS:

            Previous Issue
                       
            Next Issue

            Poems by Members

            Workshop

            Missouri State Poetry Society
   
            MSPS Summer Contest

            Spare Mule Online

            National Federation of State Poetry Societies
 
            Strophes Online

 

ONLINE NEWLETTERS ARE NOW AVAILABLE NOW

Remember to read Spare Mule Online and Strophes Online at the addresses given on the Contents menu. You can keep up with members who get newsletters by mail by remembering to read them on the Net.  You get a slightly better issue anyway, since we are always finding mistakes in the newsletters and correcting them, which we can do easily on the Net but not at all on the printed copies.   If you, however, feel empty-handed without a hard copy, print you one.

Remember to read Spare Mule Online and Strophes Online at the addresses given on the Contents menu.

 
DANA GIOIA, HEAD OF NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS
 
Recently named head of the National Endowment for the Arts, Dana Gioia is also at the center of a controversy over the place of poetry in today's world.  Learn about this man, read some of his poems, and read his essay that sparked the controversy
 
Visit the site at this address for Gioia's biography and four of his poems:
www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=436
At this same site find his controversial Atlantic Monthly essay, "Can Poetry Matter?"

 

POEMS BY MEMBERS

THE DESERT
(Tammie Bush)


Do you think
anyone
who has loved Georgia O'Keefe
would not understand
need driving someone to
the desert?
 
I have raised wild animals
and seen that same
distant, hungry look
in their eyes too
I have been here
before
 
"if you love something
set it free;
if it comes back to you
then it is yours;
if it does not
then it never was..."
 
I believe that
even if my body
sometimes doesn't.

 

TO THE LAWN AND GARDEN SHOW
(Tania Gray)


I would have a magic garden
where sparkling fountains cool the air—
this is my desire clandestine.
A minute by this flowerbed
is splendid time most coveted:
this is my desire clandestine.
Where sparkling fountains cool the air,
I would have a magic garden.

 

ANIMAL BEHAVIOR
(Tom Padgett)


"I scampered on the wire above the road,
still just a bit too young to do it well.
I did not see the pellet rifle's load--
my mother did not see me when I fell."

"My baby hopped the busy avenue
when she was hardly fledged enough to fly.
I tried the one distraction trick I knew.
The trick I did not know was I would die."

"My grin fixed on the town, I left the wood
to while away the night, but then a wheel
crushed me and all my strategy.  How could
I know I would play dead this time for real?"

The lives of animals seem set to meet
their ends in violence on city streets.

 

AN OPTIMISTIC FELLOW
(Darwyne Tessier)

The life for which I had to wait
(which now belongs to me at last)
has been so simple to create.

All the things that make it great
were on the path that took me to
the life for which I had to wait

The path at first seemed a narrow strait,
but the wider road I made of it
has been so simple to create

with few questions or much debate
if this is what I wanted from
the life for which I had to wait.

Once I possessed my soul’s true mate,
a full house--one dog, three children--
has been so simple to create.

Now middle-aged, I can relate
to anyone surprised that it
has been so simple to create
the life for which I had to wait.

 

THE GRACE OF JOY IS FREE
(Jean Even)

Blessed is this day that You have given me.
It's a day for me to lift up my voice in praise,
A day to rejoice and worship in You.

Glory unto You and Your Son my redeemer.
I'm unworthy to praise Your Holy name,
But say the word and I shall be whole in You.

Pardon my sins and set me free in love.
Freedom to sing for the grace of joy is free,
It fills my heart with a song to sing unto You.

A song of joy is full of goodness and praise.
It's Your light that is the heart beat of my soul,
Your light that illuminates my way to You.

 

 

JUST BEFORE SLEEP--
(Gwen Eisenmann)

 
Of my oblique that slips a slanting plane
of selfishness across a day's good grain,
I think in silence, and am glad for night
soft-shoeing sideways making curious right.


SET TO FLEE THE FOG
(Harding Stedler)


Morning's fog,
in easy footsteps,
crawls across the water
and eats the ducks
not yet awake.
Hungry fog,
pulled to surface
by the dawn.
Without a splash,
it eases along
grassy shorelines
like a ghost
come out of hiding.

I feel threatened
by its approach
and try to gauge its speed
before I flee on foot
into tomorrow.

 

STATUETTE OF  ROBERT FROST
(Wesley Willis)


I stand, a statuette,
Within Robert Frost,
The stone of poetic knowledge
With ants streaming by
Carrying bits of granules,
from Robert's grave.
Each poetic brain cell,
Tells a story,
The statuette suffocating,
Trying to say,
"Good fences make good neighbors,"
And with a stony gaze,
Not seeing or hearing the words,
But knowing they're there,
The ants still streaming,
All in line,
Statuette whispers,
The line Gang,
Bringing my poetic prowess,
Mending Walls--of my mind.
 

 
IN DEW TIME
(Barbara Magerl)

The dew was my delight, my secret plaything
as I walked behind my mother
in her morning gardening tasks.
 
The shimmering flashes of color
on the dewdrops
reflected the brilliance of her flowers--
petunias, marigolds, larkspur of brightest blue,
and snapdragons--just for me.

In midlife now
I walk barefoot in the morning dew
alone in my garden
trying to call back lost mother love.
 


SPRING FATALE
(Todd Sukany)


Sheets of winter unsettle my dreams
While Trtanian prophecies fuel
Fantasies of dismemberment, drawing, quartering, even road kill.
Responsible rodent?
Punxsutawney Phil

 

I'M THINKING!
(Bev Conklin)


I sit by the kitchen window,
full coffee cup in my hand,
surveying the overgrown yard outside,
wondering how to clear all this land.

The new home we have just purchased
was vacant, untouched for too long.
That's why we found ourselves able
to purchase it "for a song."

There's an acre of yard to be trimmed,
and I've vowed to clear it today.
Do I start with the trees and the shrubs
or the lawn--now a field full of hay?

"I'm not procrastinating nor putting it off,"
I say as I take a slow sip.
"I'm thinking how to go at it."
My wife stands there, hand on her hip.

"Here's my suggestion," she advises.
"It might turn out to be fun.
Begin by putting that cup down
and get started on a dead run."



REMEMBER TO VISIT THE WORKSHOP PAGE FOR LESSON 6.

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