Magazines I read:
"Times" Magazine
National Geographic
The Atlantic Monthly
New York Post
Poetry Magazine
Ploughshares
The Paris Review
Threepenny Review
Monday, April 06, 2009
What Is Wood.
the light from the lamp shines
on my desk
it is such a great desk
made from polished wood
I don’t know what kind of wood
it is
maybe it is brass
but brass isn’t a kind of wood
I’ve heard of brass organs
brass rings
brass silverware
maybe the wood is made from oak
but an oak is not a desk
an oak is a tree you find in
the woods
and sometimes squirrels hide their
acorns in holes
just before they go into hibernation.
(Written age 23.)
on my desk
it is such a great desk
made from polished wood
I don’t know what kind of wood
it is
maybe it is brass
but brass isn’t a kind of wood
I’ve heard of brass organs
brass rings
brass silverware
maybe the wood is made from oak
but an oak is not a desk
an oak is a tree you find in
the woods
and sometimes squirrels hide their
acorns in holes
just before they go into hibernation.
(Written age 23.)
Raphael’s Rhapsody.
There is sage in the brush behind my house.
I put a pie on the windowsill. The day comes pouring
in through my window, it is so warm I am wearing a shortsleeve t-shirt.
I am waiting for a call from my brother,
Raphael, who just moved to Brazil.
He is nervous, as he is wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He just proposed to
his girlfriend, Roxanne, who had thirteen boyfriends before him;
I assured him she would say yes, it was perfectly obvious
she wants to marry him. But even as I said this,
I had my doubts, for Roxanne is one to change her mind.
I wondered if it would work out; she is a
fashion designer,
he is a real estate agent, sometimes it does not work out
because the man cannot stand it when the woman
makes more money than he does.
I am contemplating what to have for breakfast-maybe a bagel,
maybe a bowl of cereal, Shredded Wheats, or Cornpops,
I haven’t decided yet. My cat wanders in, meowing like a cow,
hungry for something to eat-I sigh in exasperation.
He had
just pounced on a mouse this morning, dragging
the remains into the barn, sucking out its inner goodness-the
heart and the limbs, the liver and lungs, as gross as it sounds.
This makes me think of how
strange life is, and how I don’t know what it means to be
alive, only partially alive, eating fruit and vegetables,
and watching an occasional movie on my DVD player.
One day I hope to know.
I put a pie on the windowsill. The day comes pouring
in through my window, it is so warm I am wearing a shortsleeve t-shirt.
I am waiting for a call from my brother,
Raphael, who just moved to Brazil.
He is nervous, as he is wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He just proposed to
his girlfriend, Roxanne, who had thirteen boyfriends before him;
I assured him she would say yes, it was perfectly obvious
she wants to marry him. But even as I said this,
I had my doubts, for Roxanne is one to change her mind.
I wondered if it would work out; she is a
fashion designer,
he is a real estate agent, sometimes it does not work out
because the man cannot stand it when the woman
makes more money than he does.
I am contemplating what to have for breakfast-maybe a bagel,
maybe a bowl of cereal, Shredded Wheats, or Cornpops,
I haven’t decided yet. My cat wanders in, meowing like a cow,
hungry for something to eat-I sigh in exasperation.
He had
just pounced on a mouse this morning, dragging
the remains into the barn, sucking out its inner goodness-the
heart and the limbs, the liver and lungs, as gross as it sounds.
This makes me think of how
strange life is, and how I don’t know what it means to be
alive, only partially alive, eating fruit and vegetables,
and watching an occasional movie on my DVD player.
One day I hope to know.
My current taste in fiction books.
I feel like reading a very thick novel. I have the last Harry Potter book, but I do not feel like reading a fantasy at the moment. Maybe Michael Crichton, or Tom Clancy, Elizabeth Moon, or Nelson Demille.
Winter Falls On Cedar.
Bright winter morning, the snow flies,
sticking on fir trees and windshields. I trudge
through miles of winterland (just the driveway, really)
I open the door
to my automobile, but it is too cold to start. I trip in
the doorway as I go back inside the house, take off
my hat and coat, and call for a
taxi to take me to work.
The taxi is late;
he calls me fifteen minutes after I'm supposed
to be at work and says, "I can't make it, I'm stuck in the
driveway," with me knowing all the while he is not
stuck in a driveway, frantic to
get to his customer. I know,
at this hour, he has better things to do:
he is at home sipping a brandy in his Spiderman
pajamas, watching a rerun of The Early Morning Show.
(Written Age 22, or 23, forget.)
sticking on fir trees and windshields. I trudge
through miles of winterland (just the driveway, really)
I open the door
to my automobile, but it is too cold to start. I trip in
the doorway as I go back inside the house, take off
my hat and coat, and call for a
taxi to take me to work.
The taxi is late;
he calls me fifteen minutes after I'm supposed
to be at work and says, "I can't make it, I'm stuck in the
driveway," with me knowing all the while he is not
stuck in a driveway, frantic to
get to his customer. I know,
at this hour, he has better things to do:
he is at home sipping a brandy in his Spiderman
pajamas, watching a rerun of The Early Morning Show.
(Written Age 22, or 23, forget.)
Geese Pond, 1985, and a Photo of My Daughter
In the summer, when the wind chimes shiver,
the light over the hills is like a beacon going south.
It can't be going south for the winter, not yet, for
the
geese are still here. My daughter is feeding the
geese
at the pond, laughing, smiling, talking to them as if
they
could talk back. And sometimes they do.
I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of her
feeding the geese, so she could look back upon it when
she
is twenty or thirty and smile. Or better yet, I wish
I had a canvas
and paints so I could draw my daughter, a still
portrait that has come to life
before my very eyes.
I write about geese in poems, I write about the long
grass
around the banks and
my daughter's jeans pushed up tenaciously around
her ankles so she
can walk into the water a little ways,
her hair in her face as she gives
a piece of herself to the geese,
and the small, shallow pond.
(I wrote this when I was 22, 23.)
the light over the hills is like a beacon going south.
It can't be going south for the winter, not yet, for
the
geese are still here. My daughter is feeding the
geese
at the pond, laughing, smiling, talking to them as if
they
could talk back. And sometimes they do.
I wish I had a camera so I could take a picture of her
feeding the geese, so she could look back upon it when
she
is twenty or thirty and smile. Or better yet, I wish
I had a canvas
and paints so I could draw my daughter, a still
portrait that has come to life
before my very eyes.
I write about geese in poems, I write about the long
grass
around the banks and
my daughter's jeans pushed up tenaciously around
her ankles so she
can walk into the water a little ways,
her hair in her face as she gives
a piece of herself to the geese,
and the small, shallow pond.
(I wrote this when I was 22, 23.)
Opal Rain.
The rain drenches the world in diamond colors,
red, opal, pink, pale green. The colors graze on
water lily pads, shelter things unseen, destiny
without reason, a sky without a name.
I hold you close, like there’s no tomorrow,
I hold you in my heart like words-a thumb,
a fist, a fingerprint, a beam from someone’s flashlight.
The river knows nothing, speaks nothing of rivers;
it shakes and shudders in times long lost.
The black cat creeps on its four paws, to a spot
below the river Nile, drops on all fours, and
evaporates rapidly into thinning air.
I am not light, nor color, nor tears,
the light is not green, I am not opal.
I am multi-colored, I see myself in smoky mirrors
spread out before me like cropped pollen.
It is me, I am myself, I crawl inside myself, and dwell,
hoping to rest awhile. No clocks tick here.
The spiders have spun silky spinning webs,
they are all spun out; shadows echo in spurts of gray.
I know not colors, they are not words I speak.
Light follows through, reasons unheard.
Unspoken, thoughts, dream of ‘morrow.
Forever and after,
I dream of home.
red, opal, pink, pale green. The colors graze on
water lily pads, shelter things unseen, destiny
without reason, a sky without a name.
I hold you close, like there’s no tomorrow,
I hold you in my heart like words-a thumb,
a fist, a fingerprint, a beam from someone’s flashlight.
The river knows nothing, speaks nothing of rivers;
it shakes and shudders in times long lost.
The black cat creeps on its four paws, to a spot
below the river Nile, drops on all fours, and
evaporates rapidly into thinning air.
I am not light, nor color, nor tears,
the light is not green, I am not opal.
I am multi-colored, I see myself in smoky mirrors
spread out before me like cropped pollen.
It is me, I am myself, I crawl inside myself, and dwell,
hoping to rest awhile. No clocks tick here.
The spiders have spun silky spinning webs,
they are all spun out; shadows echo in spurts of gray.
I know not colors, they are not words I speak.
Light follows through, reasons unheard.
Unspoken, thoughts, dream of ‘morrow.
Forever and after,
I dream of home.
autumn harvest.
streams rush by in flowing rivers.
golden like footsteps and crimson
as peonies.
water rushes past old ears, pretty girls
flick their dresses to the wind,
storms are drive(n) to the point of
resuscitation.
an old man pleads for the corn to
stop growing-he hears it from where
he stands. he watches Oprah
and the Bad News Bears,
and,
on sundays, he stays up all night,
playing solitaire with an old deck of
cards.
harsh winds blow in straight lines.
the poet in her old house putters about,
moving this way and that to the
tune of the wind.
this is nomad’s land, tears fall
like ash and silk.
golden like footsteps and crimson
as peonies.
water rushes past old ears, pretty girls
flick their dresses to the wind,
storms are drive(n) to the point of
resuscitation.
an old man pleads for the corn to
stop growing-he hears it from where
he stands. he watches Oprah
and the Bad News Bears,
and,
on sundays, he stays up all night,
playing solitaire with an old deck of
cards.
harsh winds blow in straight lines.
the poet in her old house putters about,
moving this way and that to the
tune of the wind.
this is nomad’s land, tears fall
like ash and silk.
River Of Lost & Found.
One day the river will stop flowing.
I will be there to witness it.
I will stand on the bank of the river,
knee deep in the crabgrass, and watch the water
swirl slowly down, down, down, to the last
bit of water, until there is nothing,
nothing left anywhere.
One day, I will see the river, and it will
not be a river any longer.
The fish will be all gone, eaten or starved;
their skeletons littering the ground like
a graveyard,
and the bottom of the river will be a dried
bed.
Pigs will sleep in it. Beavers will move
in it, up, down, or across, and they will
sit and stare, their tongues hanging out
of their slacked mouths.
One day the river will stop flowing-
One day I will no longer be here,
one day my memories will fade,
and I will sit and think of things that are
lost.
I will be there to witness it.
I will stand on the bank of the river,
knee deep in the crabgrass, and watch the water
swirl slowly down, down, down, to the last
bit of water, until there is nothing,
nothing left anywhere.
One day, I will see the river, and it will
not be a river any longer.
The fish will be all gone, eaten or starved;
their skeletons littering the ground like
a graveyard,
and the bottom of the river will be a dried
bed.
Pigs will sleep in it. Beavers will move
in it, up, down, or across, and they will
sit and stare, their tongues hanging out
of their slacked mouths.
One day the river will stop flowing-
One day I will no longer be here,
one day my memories will fade,
and I will sit and think of things that are
lost.
THE FIELD OF QUIET.
the field of quiet is a withered rose
in a mesh of field (s) a mystery wrapped
in shroud when clouds shiver in an arc
and fade glistening like a glass (pass)
movement is/
in a mesh of field (s) a mystery wrapped
in shroud when clouds shiver in an arc
and fade glistening like a glass (pass)
movement is/
Winding Down the Hours.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
She wonders what time it is. She does not know.
Her mind sees deep within herself, the sunlight
That falls on the ground, she forces herself to move
Forward.
Time is never still.
Lost worlds and lost words, I protect myself from the tick-tock
Of the clock. A black woman walks outside to get the mail;
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
Who’s to say what we will see, today and tomorrow?
Who’s to say what we will know, one minute from the next?
The ticking of the clock is all we have-it sounds like motors
Running, it sounds like clocks ticking.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.
She wonders what time it is. She does not know.
Her mind sees deep within herself, the sunlight
That falls on the ground, she forces herself to move
Forward.
Time is never still.
Lost worlds and lost words, I protect myself from the tick-tock
Of the clock. A black woman walks outside to get the mail;
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
Who’s to say what we will see, today and tomorrow?
Who’s to say what we will know, one minute from the next?
The ticking of the clock is all we have-it sounds like motors
Running, it sounds like clocks ticking.
A black woman stands on broken rocks.
A pickup truck rumbles by, sounding like firecrackers.
The clock ticks in the kitchen.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
We Prosper.
When we prosper, we prosper from here to somewhere
else,
without a shadow of closure, a ring of doubt.
It surrounds us, envelopes us in wisdom we cannot
quite catch-the wisdom of wanting something that is beyond
your reach,
the wisdom that comes with the knowledge of it.
We await each day, thinking as it comes,
questioning the realm of this or that, trying to figure out
who we were before.
Even if I had told you before, you would not have listened,
you would have thought it was not a good idea.
I told you it would end up like this, you ignoring me
my entire life, me trying to find my way through the void,
the darkness, the endlessness of a dark room.
I am not Sylvia Plath. I am not a sick fiend, nor a liar,
just a woman who is trying to be who I am.
It is hard. The walking is hard, the fighting is hard,
harder than you can imagine, especially when no one knows
it’s you, when everyone fears you are missing.
I am not missing. I am at home, watching the days go by,
looking at the world outside a window that does not
belong to me. It belongs to a book. A strand of knowledge.
And your reflection.
else,
without a shadow of closure, a ring of doubt.
It surrounds us, envelopes us in wisdom we cannot
quite catch-the wisdom of wanting something that is beyond
your reach,
the wisdom that comes with the knowledge of it.
We await each day, thinking as it comes,
questioning the realm of this or that, trying to figure out
who we were before.
Even if I had told you before, you would not have listened,
you would have thought it was not a good idea.
I told you it would end up like this, you ignoring me
my entire life, me trying to find my way through the void,
the darkness, the endlessness of a dark room.
I am not Sylvia Plath. I am not a sick fiend, nor a liar,
just a woman who is trying to be who I am.
It is hard. The walking is hard, the fighting is hard,
harder than you can imagine, especially when no one knows
it’s you, when everyone fears you are missing.
I am not missing. I am at home, watching the days go by,
looking at the world outside a window that does not
belong to me. It belongs to a book. A strand of knowledge.
And your reflection.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Novel update.
I finished "Wizard's Alchemy" and turned it in to Baen. Now I am writing a new one, called "The Horn of Neverwhen." I am also working on the sequel to "Wizard's Alchemy," and it is called "Forge of Magic." I like it so far.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Update.
I have not updated in awhile.
I have been looking for jobs in North Carolina.
Was rejected by The New Yorker.
My fantasy novel is at 87000 words right now.
I bought the kindle.
I have been looking for jobs in North Carolina.
Was rejected by The New Yorker.
My fantasy novel is at 87000 words right now.
I bought the kindle.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
writing update.
I should update.
I now live in North Carolina.
I'm waiting for Samhain Publishing to re-open submissions so I can send them my novel "Into the Dark."
I won runner's up in a literary agent contest, and just entered a Best First Line Contest on an author's web site. If I win anything I will let you know.
I now live in North Carolina.
I'm waiting for Samhain Publishing to re-open submissions so I can send them my novel "Into the Dark."
I won runner's up in a literary agent contest, and just entered a Best First Line Contest on an author's web site. If I win anything I will let you know.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Rejection slip....again.
Got a rejection today from "2 River Review." How many times have I been rejected by them? Five times? Six times? Ten times? I have no idea. At least the Editor said "He enjoyed my poetry." That's a plus, I suppose.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
haven't updated in months.
I'm sorry I have not updated in awhile. I mostly use livejournal and myspace now, because all my friends use that too. Let's see, what's new? So far I have gotten accepted in several other different magazines, including "Whispering Spirits," "Dark Animus," and "The Houston Literary Review." I am querying literary agents about my YA horror novel, "Into the Dark." Zebra Books is currently looking at the first three chapters of the manuscript.
In other news, I won third place in a short story contest at "Static Movement." (www.staticmovementonline.com), and I published a book through lulu.com. Go here: www.lulu.com/apryl_fox
that's all for now!
In other news, I won third place in a short story contest at "Static Movement." (www.staticmovementonline.com), and I published a book through lulu.com. Go here: www.lulu.com/apryl_fox
that's all for now!
Saturday, January 27, 2007
an update, of sorts.
I have not updated my blog since November.
Forgive me, forgive me, for I have been busy-
first there was Thanksgiving, with
turkey and cranberry sauce,
then there was
Christmas, with presents and the cold.
Now it is nearing the end of January, and I am
sitting at my computer,
wondering where
the time went, wondering what I should
do now.
Oh yes. Edit my story for the contest,
work on the sequel to my
novel. These are the things I need
to be doing.
Forgive me, forgive me, for I have been busy-
first there was Thanksgiving, with
turkey and cranberry sauce,
then there was
Christmas, with presents and the cold.
Now it is nearing the end of January, and I am
sitting at my computer,
wondering where
the time went, wondering what I should
do now.
Oh yes. Edit my story for the contest,
work on the sequel to my
novel. These are the things I need
to be doing.
Monday, September 04, 2006
update-finally!!!
I am sorry I have not updated in like a month. I moved to North Carolina at the end of July, and I have not been able to get online much.
Well, let's see, what has been happening? "Dark Animus" accepted two of my poems for publication. It is an Australian horror magazine. I get a free contributor's copy.
I have been writing my YA horror novel for the last week, and have managed to write 23,000 words. My goal is to reach 40,000 words, I hope I can make it. I would be satisfied with 27,000 words if I could not think of anything else to write. I usually write the story until I can't think of anything else to add to it.
I am going to have a poem published here soon: www.alittlepoetry.com
Today I heard back from a publisher called Lemon Shark Press, they said they are accepting manuscripts of regional literary fiction, but I don't think any of my manuscripts fit that description. However, they have published poetry books, maybe I can convince them to look at mine. It would be better than going with an e-publisher, that's for sure.
Well, let's see, what has been happening? "Dark Animus" accepted two of my poems for publication. It is an Australian horror magazine. I get a free contributor's copy.
I have been writing my YA horror novel for the last week, and have managed to write 23,000 words. My goal is to reach 40,000 words, I hope I can make it. I would be satisfied with 27,000 words if I could not think of anything else to write. I usually write the story until I can't think of anything else to add to it.
I am going to have a poem published here soon: www.alittlepoetry.com
Today I heard back from a publisher called Lemon Shark Press, they said they are accepting manuscripts of regional literary fiction, but I don't think any of my manuscripts fit that description. However, they have published poetry books, maybe I can convince them to look at mine. It would be better than going with an e-publisher, that's for sure.
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