Rejection Slips, Part II.

Now, why do my poems keep getting rejected? I have been sending in poetry since I was a child and I thought my newer ones are especially good. Some well-established magazines say they like "my poems but they are not appropriate for the next issue" which is a fairly loose response, I think. I think many poetry magazines often lack in sales so they stick to people who are familiar, like Billy Collins, Martha Rhodes, and Maya Angelou-however I do not see Maya Angelou's works in very many magazines. Okay, Louis Gluck, then, I saw some of hers in the current issue of "Threepenny Review."

If poetry sales are lacking, then the publishing business really is in deep trouble-most of the people I know rarely read books; I say, "Do you read Tom Clancy?" They say, "Not lately." I say, "Do you read Anne Perry?" They say, "Who is she?" Never mind ancient poets like Rumi or Wu ti or 70s poets like Elizabeth Bishop. People like "Twilight" and "Harry Potter" now, which is okay, but there are more books than that.

Just sayin.'

New blog I like. Poetry.

http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/

In the Winter.

Like open doorways, I mix and mingle, I drive soiled tears
Through linen sheets. Peace is not with me; a heart is not open,
I quietly rekindle my tears, the heartache beats steady.
I wish I could bring myself out of this stupor, but nothing
Will relinquish this pain that is held on me, when my heart beats
Steadily, the thrum thrum of my heart. Who am I.
Shadows are thrown on open doorways; daylight moves in through
The open window, where a flower has fallen on a cold moaning
Of wind. This life is not forbidden, this love is not forbidden,
Nor is my heart, it beats like shadows and rivers,
Words are tossed into open wounds.
Clouds move and shift;
Secrets plummet into the world like warbled voices,
Caught in an updraft of makeshift promise. I do not know how
To say this, do not know how to speak the words that claw
Inside my chest, to say the things that must be spoken.
There is only the window, and the flower on the sill-
The darkness that thrums, and a cold winter chill.