Remember that poetry contest I entered a few months back? The one with a hefty cash prize, a trip to New York City and a meeting with an editor about publication?
They rejected me.
I find that pretty comical. As if they couldn’t just go with one standard, “We regret to inform you, but out of 7800 entries…” I didn’t cry or anything. MD gave me a mini pep talk and my darling husband expressed his disappointment in my behalf. I tucked the letters away in a special place to remind me of why it is that I write.
Why is it that I write anyway? The same reason I knit: A) to have a post apocalypse skill and B) to not kill people. Seriously. I knit in public because it keeps me from throat pinching idiots in cut off, acid washed booty shorts. I write in private to keep myself from laying on the floor crying in some sort of mess. These two traits we need in a post apocalyptic time too. It’s true! Well, wait, maybe not the crying part. However, you need clothes, right? You need people to write about the history of what happened, right? SEE?! Skills yo.
So I have a tendency to keep my pains close to me. I do this so that they can manifest themselves with words. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I do open up. I suppose it’s better than drowning myself in a bourbon while trying to write. Although that sounds pretty delicious. I kid, c’mon.
Last night I was laying in bed with the Hubs, we were snuggled up (which is one of my favorite parts of my day) and I said, “I guess people just don’t read poetry anymore. Maybe it’s just me? Or maybe it’s just the circle I run with.” Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
Perhaps I could combine all my poems into short stories, then incorporate the rejection letters somehow and then finish off the book with some sort of smut that requires a trip to Home Depot and the Fire Department to come rescue you because you don’t know how to properly take off handcuffs or treat rope burn. Amateurs, sheesh.
With that being said, here’s a few snip its of some starter poems:
Your eyes staring, remind me of dried and broken leaves in swirling stacks.
I sway like a boat. Your hands, the wake, that licks at my thighs.
My thoughts never make a sound, tip toeing through an open plain. This goes here, that over the counter. You on a shelf, you.
Also, if you ever chance upon me, curled up in the fetal position hugging a pen and some paper, just give me a pat on the back and a bottle of Basil Hayden’s. I’ll be alright.