June is hopefully not all gloom and hunkering down waiting
for tornadoes. June is changing the calendar on the first – if you don’t have a
calendar that makes you happy to turn the pages, start thinking about a better
one for next year. Sometimes it’s the little things.
I did not have a great showing in May. Your Queen of
submissions only sent out four submissions this month, partly because a lot of
journals were closed, and partly because I had nothing for the journals with
themes. You all know I am a “plain-speech narrative poet of place”. In English,
that means I write like I’m sitting on the front porch with you, chatting in
words that are understandable. I didn’t have anything for some of the themes
out there.
 |
| photo by Chelsea Ouellet |
But some themed journals still take regular submissions too.
If you want to submit to journals with some odd themes, and you have nothing
for those themes, check their websites. If they don’t spell out “we only take
poetry on theme”, contact them and ask them.
Be respectful and professional. This will do three things:
get your name on their radar, and answer your question. Then, you can get on
your social media pages and tell all your writer friends too. It’s a
win-win-win.
If you’re a submitting writer, a lot of windows open June 1st.
Get your work in shape. Do that final edit, find out the real spelling for that
one word that’s been driving you nuts, or whatever you need to do.
Last June I did seventeen submissions. Seven of those poems
were accepted. I’m happy if I have a 30% acceptance ratio; this was 41% and
honestly? It doesn’t matter. I’m just happy there were some journals that
opened, and they liked my poems. Keep track of what you send where – we’ve
talked about that before.
Even if you don’t like to submit, you are still a writer. Let’s
use glorious June to give us some inspiration. You may be going on vacation.
Your friends may be going on vacation. There will be pictures to see,
wildflowers in bloom, conversations ripe for eavesdropping. You’re hopefully
not going to be bundled up, unless you go to Norway.
Trawler of the Northern Lights
There’s something about a love
letter
delivered by the mail boat’s
semi-weekly run.
First offloaded are haddock and
cod— some flash
frozen miles offshore, some faltering
in creels and traps.
Lobster, their tendrils winding
through
the metal mesh like leaves tenderly
climbing a trellis,
heaved up on deck by men in rain
slickers
over thick wool sweaters knitted by
wives—
home, by fireplaces, accustomed
to being alone while their men
bring a piece
of their lives to the counties of
Northern Lights
and endless darkness. Next
offloaded,
the hardware. Boxes of screws,
beams,
parts for cars once driven by our
grandparents,
cars that found their way north,
drivable only a few weeks each
year,
when the snow melts, ancient tracks
uncovered
and dried in weak sun. Then medical
supplies,
always needed, newspapers now weeks
old,
books read by the crew and
exchanged for the ones
from last trip, and finally, the
mail. Soggy, fragile,
stinking of fish but never
unwelcome,
a reminder of patience, mottled
with raindrops
posing as tears, a checkmark on the
calendar.
You will be together soon. Soon
enough.
The boat of the bringer will take
you home.
(previously
published in Poetry Salzburg Review)
 |
| photo by John Huang |
No jackets with hoods—your ears will be uncovered. And with
sunglasses on, no one will be able to see what you’re observing to put in a
future poem or fiction piece. Sunglasses are awesome! They help you study
tattoos, watch people flirt and generally see how they treat each other. Even
what people have in their shopping carts can inspire a poem or three.
Another great thing about sunglasses is they will help you
master the art of secret espionage photos with your phone. You don’t want to be
in a diner and obviously take a picture of an older gentleman in jeans and a
regular plaid shirt, sitting alone, staring pensively into his coffee, the sun
from the blinds striping his face, a poem just waiting to be written (or used
as a “living woodpile” for a completely different poem later). But you can
pretend to take a photo of the old car just outside the window. No one will
know where your phone is actually pointing (I realize this will be impossible
for some people, depending on their phone. Sorry).
Once the Dues are Paid
He worked in the mill.
Until he didn’t.
Now he works the chair,
inside the door, at the Alamo Bar.
It slouches in all the right spots
for his aching, defeated frame.
Light streaks in through the glass,
crosses his toes, lays a track
on the black and white tile.
A thin strip of sun shines
a stripe on the counter, just where
he reaches to pick up his drinks.
Beer in the morning. Boilermakers
at lunch. Whiskey straight, by
evening.
He’s got coins for the jukebox,
smiles
for the waitress, creaks and
mutters
for everyone else. Booze and small
kindnesses. Till quitting time.
(previously
published in Connecticut River Review)
 |
| photo in JTNP by Nightowl |
If you love to drive around on back roads taking photos of abandoned stores, old
grain elevators, signs with no buildings, oxidized cars—the worn down Americana
so dear to Jeff and to our wonderful poet and photographer friend Justin Hamm,
BE SURE there are no lived-in houses nearby. No cars that actually work. You
may be trespassing. This can get ugly, and very expensive. If there is any sign
of life, ask permission before you photograph anything. And please be careful
driving. Pull off the road if you need to, but be sure there’s a shoulder. The
last thing you want is to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no signal on
your phone. You’re taking photos for inspiration, not filming a Hollywood
tragedy. And take water.
Welcome to June! Safe and happy writing 👩
Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.
