Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 48, May 2021

SONG

by Januario Esteves

Song Deilirium

I sing grief with joy So that life is not just heartbreak
Nothing about me anymore And don’t give in to capricious arbitrariness
The Charm of Melancholy It is vital to raise the spirit to
To boil how much it ravages the limit of the symbol
To the soul the frenzied chance Bringing from this strength the hidden deities
Place what columbine And the cruel stupor that brings the disease
Laughter that gives grab Advance without fear the song of praise
Search for lamp For the charm of the dream of modesty
Or another vegetable idea Settle doubts that clamor with clamor
Of those who perspire us Everywhere share the experience
And the obsolete practice That translates the transfigured life dream
Pusillanimous gives us the wrath In the most intimate and painful experience
And what happens? In chaos do not fall or be vilified
Love hopelessly Bringing customs and signs very close
The being, a being, who dies Disguises of others not wanting
Love hopelessly. Sweet and warm memories of my parents
Juxtaposing correctly in crescendo.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
Chat 21st Hour

Hello how are you doing Shine the mind in diaspora
In the rigor of the night awake The constant quibbling
- I bring hidden things from the chest That opens Pandora’s box
Secrets that shut me up And makes her belligerent
And what do you like about libido
Tempted by lustful voices In heavenly domains
- Ah, there I am unwary, uninhibited Travel by creating planispheres
I surrender to impulsive prayers Between stars and portals
And when alone, what do you date Leave the seed of mysteries
From within the light of thinking
- Then I run to look for the hours Myriad kaleidoscopes
That light me in a fire Throb in the substrate
And what reaps in amazement By the Pleiades
Of the fading memory Seeking the Desiderate
- I will seal my tears
That vanishes in the gloom. In paranormal hallucinations
Of body and soul
Supernormal Experiences
Horizons without a soul?

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Revista Literária Adelaide

Phosphor

Now it was light for who was burning
Do not be late, but
Leave our say
Who does not fit here
Stuck with himself
The poet with the world goes
It is veiled greasy
From the same filthy body
24 hours and already cocoon
Phoenix, subtle butterfly
From the brief null gesture
The glorious life is born.

About the Author

Januário Esteves was born in Coruche (1960) and was
raised near Costa da Caparica, Portugal. He graduated
in electromechanical installations, uses the pseudonym
Januanto and writes poetry since the age of 16. In 1987 he
published poems in the Jornal de Letras, and participated
over the years in some collective publications.

201

I AWAIT HIS
RETURN

by Alex Koong

If there’s one thing I’ve learned Leaving nothing
from the hours spent staring but the distant humming
at the tiny airplane on the edge of the airplane
where the sky breaks the rock, now past the break in the edge.

It’s that when scenery passes Maybe one day
between two realities, flashes of I’ll finally learn.
what was slowly replacing what is, But for now,

his gnarled smirk fires directly I await his return.
through the mirror, my gaze suddenly
confronting a foreigner in the window. About the Author

But where did the airplane go?

Chilling blue eyes pierce
my spine; a shiver forms;
shuddering at the inevitableness of it all,
and –

Suddenly he’s gone. Alex Koong is a junior in high school, whose
work has been honored by the National
Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. In his free
time, he enjoys playing tennis and hanging
out with his dog.

202

THE SHAKESPEAREAN
SONNET ABOUT MY

DOG

by Pawel Markiewicz

Ephrastic poetry

Picture of Abraham Hulk
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The dreamery inshore Adelaide Literary Magazine
The Shakespearean sonnet about my dog

A dreamed ship has gone aground You hound are a starry night over fog,
at the most marvelous and dreamiest afterglow. fallen in love with the Epiphany.
The mast adverts to orientation of The moon may be mine! Told the moony dog.
a tender Morning star. With you tender garden – is so dreamy.
Seafarers died at midnight
feeling the sea-like fantasy. Bewitchment of stars, your ability.
The wind wrenched a canvas, Your hunting is dearer observation.
such a Golden Fleece, A moonlit night is your eternity.
to the piratical islands. May the soft ghost be in adoration!
The sea is waving in
the rhythm of siren-like Roses awoken in glory – starlet.
Terpsichorean art. You can taste, listen and feel them galore.
On the sandbank Enchant the nectar like druidic glade!
a letter in bottle lies with It was drunk from Ovidian amphorae.
a sonnet to king Poseidon,
written by a dead sailor. Be, you dog, a heart-shaped meek poet!
A rock inshore - like Broken wings of loneliness are dead.
a custodian of the eternity
is waiting for Apollonian dreams.
A cloud is as If it came from
the meek paradise-heaven,
it manifests a weird-like seriousness
of the moments.

About the Author

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland.
He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender
poems, haiku as well as long poems. Paweł has published
his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and
German.

204

VISION WEST

by Rachel Cloud Adams

September as Afterthought
Harvey Mountain, Columbia County, New York

On Harvey Mountain, far north of here, We listened to the mountain
snow is seeping into rock crevices with our teeth, with the cilia
bordering the path, and lichen in our noses, through the exposed
is lining the feet of a denuded pine, spaces between glove
its root system upturned, and thick coat sleeve.
open to the air, an unbuilt The mountain warbled back to us.
house’s foundation.
This fall is quiet, abstracted.
The snow foams into pools, In the silence, Harvey Mountain forms
popping open and re-forming like an indigo wave in the darkness,
as embers of sharpening sound. guards us at night.

What we left on the mountain
comes to me in secret,
in the chambers of a squirrel’s nest
concealed by leaves,
in liminal time between
summer and autumn, before
the cold packs itself in.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

Distancing Fire Weather
December 2020
The tree spokes circulate,
Woman with waterbird voice — roil against vapor
a promontory that gaps and folds,
gaps and folds.
from this outcropping of brick
and vinyl, the boxwood necklace A fantastic spill.
A burning
backlit down the cul-de-sac — in the webbing
hands in her young son’s armpits, of our fingers.
Speak to us in a whorl,
props him against the deck fence storm, magenta figment,
to wave at a slow car dried tangle of hair.

while the houses stand Churn your language
in rigor mortis of ash
into our own.

Vision West Itinerary: Color

In California, Color of plastic bird feeder
at the sloping museum Color of sun filament
infused with daylight, Color of glass within asphalt
this oblong canvas Color of eye that is bloodshot
is significant blue, Color of fence’s metal shadow
trail-marker blue Color of reheated coffee
ripening in the forest. Color of wood paneling
Blue that spills and spreads Color of buried slab of marble
behind the back of the eye. Color of darkening day
Color of mapped road
Color of sleep
Color of time before forgetting

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Revista Literária Adelaide

About the Author

Rachel Cloud Adams is the editor for an advocacy association and the founder/editor of
the journal and small press Lines + Stars. Her poems have appeared in The North American
Review, Big Muddy, Salamander, Dialogist, The Conium Review, CAROUSEL, Memoir, and
elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of three chapbooks: What is
Heard (Red Bird Press, 2013), Sleeper (Flutter Press, 2015), and Space and Road (Semiperfect
Press, 2019). She lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and received her MA in writing from the
Johns Hopkins University.

207

DANCE DIVINE

by Peter W. Yaremko

Old Yaller Dance Divine

He’s more pink than Nothing is nothing
yellow. But I couldn’t static. We’re atoms
very well name him at dance
after a girly color in the void of
could I? In the old days God’s universe,
when he was roused stepping lively to music
at the mere sight of a of spheres unheard, the
frisbee he’d work himself up cadences of creation
to almost purple and recreation.
with pent-up energy and And I? I’ll gavotte
single-minded focus. till kingdom come and
He mostly sleeps these my dance card’s full.
days and nights and he’s
content with an occasional
petting when the mood strikes.
And he’ll still come
when I whistle. But I can tell
his heart’s not in it anymore.

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For a Time Revista Literária Adelaide
But Wait

I was loved, What to sing as day is darkening
for a time. and simplest breathing comes heaving
and moving me is moving weight when
More than you can say seventy is for the sleek and strong?
who labor through, What to sing?
bodies, minds Cadenced lines of loves recalled? Illicit
not knowing, never known, scents under unfamiliar sheets?
until finally you bore yourself. Tongues and tastes and lidded eyes
and salty, scalding flesh on mine?
For a time. That, that was But wait. Wait.
good enough. So much of life is mine to make, not
just commemorate. Within me yet
before I pass more paths to take
to break to celebrate when
seventy is for the sleek and strong.

Undies Always

There was a time when I made sure my undies were clean because I was going on a date. Then I
married and it made no difference if my undies were clean because my wife washed them. Now I
settle for simply having undies always on because if I drop dead I don’t want to be discovered butt-
naked. They’d think me weird.

About the Author

Peter W. Yaremko is author of three non-fiction books: A
Light from Within; Fat Guy in a Fat Boat; and Saints and
Poets, Maybe. His novel, Billy of the Tulips, was released in
2018 by TouchPoint Press. Published poetry: Allegro Poetry
Magazine, Ariel Chart, Avalon Literary Review, Boston
Literary Magazine, Dual Coast Magazine, Loch Raven Review,
Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Third Wednesday.
He blogs at www.pametriverbooks.com.

209

SUNSET OVER
LARAMIE

by T.M. Boughnou

For My Mentors,
Essayist George R. Clay &
Professor Emeritus Stanley Cavell

PART ONE
A CALL FROM BEYOND

I sat watching the space of sky and the surrounding countryside just before twilight came.
Everything appearing as though to have come more alive now with the last of a late afternoon’s
blushing wink of day, in a bright fusion of golden, amber light. As the sun was westwardly bound,
it shone radiantly onto the dazzling greenery of the young fleecy, thousand shades of green
of May growth, seeming to touch everything, individually: one by one into fertile life, as with a
magic wand, infusing them with a profound vital glow. And I felt a great call, a stirring deep from
within, that remained throughout the night into several more days and following evenings. It was
not a feeling that was in anyway incongruous, to my peace of mind; but rather something from
beyond my ability to grasp and explain so readily. Which to me—I felt was a good phenomenon:
some thing that was not germane to the surface of my existence, was where existed the true
nature of my being; and there, was where my answers for a rich full life, and placed aside dreams,
now forgotten, could once again be realized and lived full-measure; if I still possessed what it
took to see it all through: to where it might lead. And so now, after many days I awoke with the
renewed sun, and was beckoned on; believing, rather instinctively: that more than just a small
part—perhaps the greater balance of me still remained. With this in mind, I called upon a friend
to meet me down by the river’s edge, to seek his wise counsel, while enjoying his company.

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8
Beneath the flawless blue skies of a May day, and the new green 12
Of the season, wavering in the breeze: feelings that I’d not known, 16
Or, feared to be too closely allied, began to return after so long, 20
As the amber-light of the day’s close intensified, as twilight came.
28
Wasn’t it good. . . .was not the feeling so right for one to sit in repose, 32
After an arduous life’s road, and look around at the sky and the expanse
Of countryside, and to just know. . . .sense. . . . to feel, faith, penetratingly,
That even more of these triumphant feelings were to come;—

To exhale, and know, that you were still very much alive; undefeated;
When after you assumed that this was only a salvage attempt; now
At living: sensing, all that verve and vim that’d formerly been suppressed
Vying now to come to the fore, as the more defining qualities?

For me, there’d never existed a more favorable place and time
Of year, than May, at the Quad Cities. Where the
Temperament in climate was suited just right; the skies overhead:
Blue, bright, cloudless and fantastic; full of sunshine, creating a mood

That seemed clearly suggestive that in the here and now, life: wasn’t a
Phenomenon to be guessed at,—but in actuality to be lived, full-measure;
With the individual spirit; the possession that always summoned deeply
From within; calling us back to our original thoughts and desires and

Hopes and dreams; a call deep from within, so far beyond the self,
Of current knowing, that becomes so intertwined, misguided; buried
Beneath the rubble of the day to day goings-on of guessing at life.
Taking one’s cues from externals. I’d faltered. Somewhere. So now— 24

Under the influence of some strange, fascinating and wild, most liberating,
Powerful impulse, in the evening so gentle and close, like a species of
Wild-things, being drawn towards some propagating ground: so it was that
I, awoke with a passionate notion, of urgency. Not to flee; but to discover.

This sudden motivation, was all a surprise; being as it were
I had only recently returned to my home that I’d longed
For so to be reunited. But the magnetic attraction that drew
Me, was profound. And now. . . .drawn toward what and where?

. . . . I could not elaborate. . . . I did not know;
Only that it was of a strong, magnetic pull, irresistible—

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Adelaide Literary Magazine 36
40
Slightly, exceeding my current grasp of knowing: and like any, 44
True, man of exploration—this captured, and held fastly, my attention. 48
52
But, sensing further, I understood, that now, the time had come: finally; 56
At long last, that I’d always anticipated, but had lapsed from memory, 60
While dreaming when living in the East-land, promising myself that 64
I’d explore the lands westward of my home, sometime upon my return. 68

And now it would seem, that perhaps, that time had now, come.
It was as if something primitive that seriously urged me:
So without much delay and little forethought: I made ready,
First my mind, as best I could in preparation:

Then, I’d to seek counsel of another: which is always prudent.
And that be, my friend Donaldson, who was like
The brother, that I’d never had, agreed to meet me,
Down by the river’s edge—to talk and consult.

His advice was sound, as I knew it would be, for twenty-five years
Of friendship, never survived: without mutual respect, and confidence,
In one’s ally. “Following your feelings: is the first true step—I’ve
Always believed,” he said supportively. And that was sufficient enough.

“The loss on this expedition, will be minimal, the rewards great,”
He said. “At least then you’ll unequivocally, know.”
My mind had already been made up, but like all things
In life, this exploration was enhanced by the positive reinforcement.

“Thank you,” I said to him: “you’re an honest man, and a good friend.”
“And you, a good model of example,” Donaldson said: “It’s always
Better to follow your own path than to just do what others do; uniquely,
For you—and not by some set, staid, worn-out standard.”

“That, I’ve always believed,” said I. “Makes the man—his own.”
“Be true to you—while you still have the strength to be,”
He said. “I wish I had while I was still your age. Full of strength
Muscle and vigor.” As it were, he had sons, close in age to me.

And must I say, it was so good to have his support,
As he’d always been there for me, without prejudice, or judgment:
So his comforting words, that entered soothingly at my ears,
Were like sweet nectar to the soul of my adventuring heart.

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And before finally parting: “Go out and seek what you 80
Want; sate your curiosities,—but don’t shrug your Atlas’s 84
Responsibilities; in regards the bigger world: at-large. 88
That few are rarely aware. It’s what you owe to your fellows; 92
96
Whether they are forever in dark oblivious or not. 100
Believe in yourself, as I have always believed in your
Goodness, kindness—compassion; thoughtfulness: those
Are your strengths, not a weakness!—your shield and buckler.

Trust in yourself; and that stems from feeling: feel after it;
Let that be your guiding principle. If it’s not right
You will certainly know. One should always know; if they’d
Follow—feeling: that initial sensation, before too much thought, corrupts.

Remember, no matter whereabouts you end up touring: and among
Those whom you shall meet, love, and form acquaintanceships, that on
Very few instances, seldomly, is a man, righteous
Of heart—rarely seen as such. And do, leave some things,

Out in the world, up to mystery. Come back, soon,” he said.
I nodded. How well did he know me. I was such, that if
A Great power that determined all fate, were to tell the very
Moment of my departure from this realm, and if I had one last

Book that I desired to read: I’d start—and I’d be
As productive in that endeavor as possible, being conscious
Of that scheduled departure hour. And at the final sentence,
I’d cease. Such a being was I: to leave a tad for curiosity’s sake.

And now—so fast, so soon, already: another adventure
After only just a year of returning, to these shores,
Was almost underway; but then, this had always been a dream
Put on hold for far too long.

And not knowing how long I’d be gone, as best as I
Could, I put my affairs in many months order; then, with
This done, and a round of good-byes, delaying no further,
I set off from the familiar surroundings of my native home.

Home, along those fertile banks,
Of that most famous of all earthly rivers—

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Adelaide Literary Magazine 104
108
As far as I was concerned, and meant the most to me, 112
That divide east from west. 116
120
This ancient, majestic Mississippi River, a body of water so great 124
And powerful, yet springing from that small, little fountain 128
Body of a lake at the North land, then flowing 132
Steadily, rapidly onward down into the Gulf at the South. 136
It was more to me than just a river.
It was more likened to a sense of place:
A place whose memory had drawn me,
With visions of my youth, back home again.

And with so much I considered, to be gained,
I weighted in counter-balance: that there could be loss.
But, then I thought, we only lose: what impedes growth. So—
Like the river’s flow, without haste; I swiftly begun my adventure.

Across the lush and rolling hills of my homeland, Iowa,
My internal compass, some inborn guiding trait, beckoning,
Leading, coaxing me onward, westward. Trekking me
Over the flat and badlands, and sand-hills of Nebraska.

And never before had I desired so much, as now: to be a writer,
An artist, a sculptor, a painter, so that I might create, to forever enjoy
What my eyes were seeing, and showed my mind; by imitating, through
Those various mediums, what my mind couldn’t drink of enough.

It was a learning adventure, thus-far: seeing these new scenes;
Navigating the rugged terrain of undomesticated land; prairie dogs;
The tumbleweeds, that changed course with the wind, bringing to mind,
Faces of the multitude, that are without ballast, to steady their course.

And the wild pronghorn antelope: that ran wild and free, at play:
Grazing, in unattended rings; and bison herds too; with their primitive
Galloping, stampeding the plains; coming at last I did, to the windy outpost:
High up on the plateau, Cheyenne. Here, the air was dry and pleasant;

The inhabitants, here, unobtrusive, friendly—there inquisitiveness,
Reasonable: at first impression. Perhaps, thought I, that this could be
A home away from home, but. . . .wait a little yet, I thought;
Only time would tell. . . .with more impressions to come.

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144
At this juncture, I was now two days, twelve hard car hours’ ride 148
From home; and this was the farthest—I had ever ventured 152
West of the Mississippi River. . . .and now, I was truly 156
Getting into the West. I could feel the change in atmosphere. Here, was 160
164
Tempered just right for a mind that needed to contemplate— 168
The Beyond. Having always been a thinker, I needed a place
To serve in capacity of a stable dwelling; but also, like any explorer,
So often I had to roam. Might I discover what lay beyond Perception?

It was truly good, I thought, so often to do so,
Because it was the true nature at the heart
Of man; because if he dreamed, more than fitfully so,
Following the heart’s dictates: he wouldn’t so often: go wrong.

This much I knew to be so true about myself;
And for so long, I did the opposite: that’s how I knew;
Falling into a place of conformity, of a work-a-job, for a time,
And emulating, without further thought, what others did, I ruined me.

So this wandering into the wilderness was me trying to find myself, again;
Maybe even—for the first time. To realize my childhood dreams; having
Become mislead by the adult-world, that lacks a child’s will, or tenacity;
And was but a trap: this pretentious, grownup world.

I felt myself right now fortunate, to have questioned what I saw,
In everyday life: the feigned happiness, the ill-content,
So many unnecessary stressors and dramas that did nothing, little else
But delivered up, one into old age with so many vain regrets.

So now, if there’d been furtive, lingering doubts and misgivings,
They were slipping away. There was no-one who could cast me the
Chiding eye and point the stern finger of conformity, making me feel
As if, I squandering life. If I did—I did as an individual, of my own accord.

And briefly, profoundly: I considered what Donaldson had said, “Feel after it.
Let your feelings guide you” : Now I thought that I really understood—
It wasn’t at all simple, it was: unique,—and I realized now, that feeling
was key—sadly, in an entire lifetime: most never did conclude this realization.

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PART TWO
JOURNEY INTO THE WILDERNESS

All my life I felt as though there was something that I ‘had’ to do—was destined to do: a certain
place or many places that I ‘had’ to travel to,‘had’ to see; ‘had’ to experience—sometimes
for both good and ill; and once there, the reason why, would simply come clear; or, a specific
person I was to meet, and then ordained events would commence; or, a theme that needed to
possess me—and the acts, for my part scheduled to be performed on the Universe’s stage of
my life would become known; or, simply my heart’s desire demanded more than the standard
routes so many men travel and are so oftentimes satisfied with for just being carried along,
caught up in the wakes of the momentum of the activity: and nothing more sustaining.
Or, perhaps some thing that had been willed by something beyond me and far greater than I
could ever imagine: that had decreed that I would be part of certain events and happenings;
and nothing on earth would prevent their coming to pass: no matter what length of time it
took. And not just the few standard things either, that so many men seem to find such comfort
and ease in doing, in conformed complacency; but something truly unique: unique because it
was created from within and not from, and a part of the goings-on from the outside world of
savorless palates, and ill-passionate hearts, and ill-compassionate minds. And for far too long
out east—the years that numbered the same in total amount as Odysseus’ years, of trying to
find his way back to Ithaca and Princess Penelope, so did I, struggle to make it back home, from
that place of unwavering Puritan heritage that will forever be; and past Revolution and Tea-Party
history did I exist in barren, fruitless waste, of all my most potent energies suppressed. Around
those that feared to live passionately, yet were green with envy—(one of man’s most horrific
sins)—towards anyone who did embraced life with passion. And longing did I, for the shores of
my upper Mississippi River and the Western-world that was unexplored by me, that lay spread
beyond its shores; and had so possessed my dreams. And now—like one who had dreamed a
specific dream for so long, and thinking that that was all it would ever be; and now seeing that
it was playing out on the screen of space, manifesting much the same, as it had been dreamt—I
had to gather myself with poise, and not flee out of fear—from the joyous sensations of success as
many sometimes do. So with this in mind, and coming to and under control: I was ready for that
next, one giant leap; my journey into the wilderness not only of the land but in my heart and mind.

Thought, the ability to think, when confronted with pivotal decisions, 4
Was a gift, a worthy course of action. And no matter to what depths
One had felt himself descended and plummeted, into the various
Tortured cells of human-hells: of guilt and notions of time wasted,

Within the haunting planes and divisions of the mind: it was never too 8
Late, as I now believed—if they had but a ray of hope; not
In the outside world, but in themselves to make a course correction.
When once they came to realize, that the creative energy of the

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Universe was infinite. So, better late than never, I thought now, as I 20
Was beginning to come again into my own, and in the fairness, 24
If that word be true, and not just some hypocritical-sputtering 28
From my lips, I’d to begin with the honesty, of what’d been: 32
36
In truth, not all the two decades, groaned in agony, back east. 40
I had seen a lot, to give theory to life; but I hadn’t lived, really.
Working to beget meat and bread—was no fair exchange: for suppressed
Vitality. Life was to be lived. And that life, came out of living.

Jet-setting, traveling to places, far and wide, just because, was not living
As many pretend; glancing at things, hurriedly: historical landmarks;
Sculpted figures; fountains still flowing from long ago
In ancient foreign lands, but really not seeing anything:

The good of it all, if there be any—a plane that departed,
Arriving on time as scheduled; a stamped passport to show
Ohers who boasted, revealing too, their aimless earthly wandering:
Nothing meaning anything, lest we should ever be forbade to brag.

Sure, I’d made love to many a Circe, and Calypsos, too—and
In their enticing bed-chambers, of Back Bay, Beacon Hill, and
North End dwellings: those Chthonic-regions, I’d succumb to their flirtatious
Charms, and all whims of delights; so aggressive and pleasing

In the physical; yet so debilitating and thwarting and draining of heart;
That took me for a time—too long, completely away from myself.
Why had I hurt myself? I knew deep within, that it was just no more
Than just lowly rounds of unfulfilling acts. Yet, too enthralled to act otherwise.

In the process, so much of me had become misplaced; my boyhood perspective,
Jovial outlook, of what was paradise, had been lost. I wanted redemption.
I knew now, standing in this West wilderness: that if not for this
Collision with consciousness: what would’ve come of me?

Enticed, I was then: by smooth words, that flowed like oil; warm
Flesh and satin evening. Drugged by the opiates of coitus; to blissful
Heights beyond the calls of reasoning faculties; fully incapacitated,
By this most addictive man-fix—I was, after each encounter and episode.

So allied to beautiful nature: this intimacy, in propagating the species;
Yet so wonton in desire; as to become reckless, fiendish:

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Adelaide Literary Magazine 44
48
If gone to limitations unchecked: taken so far to extreme: 52
As to reach de Sade-like enticements. 56
60
That world, such an antithesis to a country boy such as I: 64
That hard, driving life: cold; its manipulative smiles of denial; its 68
Indiscriminate nature, no one’s special; easily replaced—a sentiment 72
That said, ‘Anyone is better to couple with, than no one at all.’ 76

What was I thinking? I thought, staring around at this Mountain-West,
Where I now found myself, in such awe. That was it, I told myself: You
Weren’t thinking at all. It wasn’t the physical acts—just your distorted
Choices. It happens—to the most noble! Even Prince Odysseus, succumbed.

It was life, I considered, after-all; and being so—some times
There’s just no way of sidestepping its Comedies or Tragedies;
The greater balance of its whole: for so very cleverly well are they
Kneaded together. More real, than at first glance one might imagine.

Your extra curricular activities wasn’t by the nature of things,
Inherently fiendish. . . .no; on the contrary, I said to myself, reflectively;
You only strayed, when you attached, notions of love being in it:
When there was a distinct difference—a common, human error.

Sometimes, there’s a risk when a man’s away from his home, he
Loses sight, becomes an amnesiac to the passing of time, place or,
objective, and all prospection: fades; as he’s strayed off course,
By the many distractions: perhaps, for ceasing to believe in himself.

And like Odysseus, whether fairy-tale or real, such things happen,
To the best of us: we lose for a time, the vision of our dreams;
So, ease up on yourself. It’s never too late: if the will’s intact,
And Will, to succeed has always been your greatest attribute, I believed.

So—that’s how it’d been. I’d lived thoughtlessly, recklessly.
Only to come to, weeks, months, sometime years later: impaired;
Regretful; shameful of me. Not knowing if I go hither or thither:
All my goals and the recollection of time, having been lost; distorted:

Squandered in debauched illusions, that these intense, love-making
Orgies, incapable of ever bearing fruit: was somehow, love! That took me,
Many times, “Beyond the Pleasure Principles” of those theories,
Postulated by that Titan, the greatest of all psychoanalyst.

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84
“Why are you rushing so at life?” once said a mentor, 88
Who was so like a mother, who had daughters 92
Herself, near my age: “Why do you waste you vital-self, 96
In these lonely pursuits, of those that can ever only heartlessly take?” 100
104
And I to her: my shameful response: “Life must be lived, where I am…” 108
With a chiding motherly stare, “You don’t have to rush; this is not living.
Just as I tell my daughters: ‘Loving at eighteen is no more worthy,
Or more blissful, than doing so, at eighty. Observe moderation.’”

In my shame then, I knew she’d been right, and wholly so now,
I was certain. I’d been running all along, from me, it now seemed.
Yes, I’d clearly wasted myself, a vital part, at least. But why. . .had I?
I now asked myself, then, there at the plateau, just beyond Cheyenne.

Fear it was; it’s always man’s greatest motivating drive,
That makes a fool of us all—at some juncture along our way.
But that was then, this was now: a hard lesson learned, understood.
I couldn’t go back one day, or even one minute, or a second;

Just the living forward could I do, and hope to undo. . . .the
Damage; restoring fully my beliefs in self; righting, in a mammoth
Undertaking, the perpetrations committed against myself: if, indeed—
Such a thing of so vast an epic proportion of undoing existed.

Something beyond my current knowing, stirred, within: like
Some creation. I sense it. Something that’d been mine, meant for me:
But delayed. Was vying to come to the fore.
Maybe. . . .just maybe there was more of me in reserve.

Was there something always to look forward too—to give hope?
Even in the most remote places, of the heart and mind;
There was still a ray of hope: that something, even lost years,
Could be redeemed. . . .wasn’t there such a phenomenon: delayed gratification?

I had to believe. How else, after so long. . . .two decades, did I find
My way back along the shores of that most famous river;
And once there, for awhile—my boyhood dreams of venturing here,
And beyond, in this West-land, had been revived, and born anew?

Something was calling out in this wild unmolested wilderness, to me.
And some innate-thing within, with equal innocence was answering, though

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116
Yet: just out of grasp. Then it must be good, unalloyed with fear, 120
Free, unabridged, untrammeled—and without a mind’s conformity. 124
128
I was here now, all I had to do was to not rush; chill, enjoy, 132
Be natural. . . .look and see. Let it happen. And I heard the voice 136
Of another mentor, after I had asked: “What’s the key to it all?”
His reply had been: “To never give up after the first, failed attempt.”

These words of his wisdom, that I had long forgotten,
Now streamed through the currents of my mind:
And now, after all these years having past, and my mentor gone,
They were serving me well. Like a trusty guide, his words, there,

Were to me. I had asked him, then, because I felt trapped, lost;
As though, at that time—my life had become suspended between
Walls in time, as the past, present and future, revolved around
All my worlds, fragmented. But upon remembering his wise words

Like a man who had been reprieve from all wrong-doings: so was
I, now in this wilderness, feeling renewed in my heart, stirred inwardly
Into believing, that all manner of things, all seeds, flowered
And brought forth proper fruit in their proper season. So there,

I stood on the flat-ground of this high altitude plain, looking
Up with that youthful, fluttering sensation of anticipation, in my belly,
At the Vedauwoo’s eighty-two hundred feet summit. And I, one who
Had always been leery of heights, grew ready for the challenge

That marked the way, and would be the defining moment, for that paradise
So desired, which lay up ahead—I was sure; as no true course was
Ever so easy to mount. But not knowing how it would be done; yet by
An unwavering faith in my undiscovered self, that somehow it’d be.

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PART THREE
MY NEW LIFE BEGINS

My time here was oh so pleasant, underneath these Big Skies and starry nights camping out on
the high plains, at Vedauwoo. What a scenic earthy place, that the heavens created here: this
rocky outcrop, so rugged! This here was life, like I had never before seen, but had been a dream
in my boyhood’s heart, for always: and lulled me to sleep on many a night; even in adulthood;
dreaming of these wide-open Westland spaces. This here, was life to be lived. And it was truly
spectacular for a mature boy like me to now see. I was a flatlander, as those here in these elevations
referred, in their kind and hospitable way. So easy it was here to become acquainted, not just on
the surface, either. But really engage folk on so many level through so many layers, down to the
core. Life here seemed to open itself up, like spring flowers to rain and sunshine, and free and
liberally so. And just over a month as I was discovering the place and who and what I was along
with it, as I looked about listing in my mind for memory, as I was trying to discern my place in the
big scheme of things—I made such an intimate acquaintance, and the pleasure it brought, had been
so much mine. And we began exploring together a portion of this vast terrain, and the Medicine
Bow-Routt National Forest, that she had grown up around, being a native from nearby Laramie.
I found a Penelope, in this wilderness-world which had now become my true ‘Acres of Diamonds’.
And this time, just revealed to me, that those two decades at Boston, Massachusetts, had been but
a necessary thing, no more now than: just a previous condition. . . . and that the true delights in life
were never won by an easy course—but a steady one. And that the lives of those who ‘did’ manage
to glide along smoothly, never encountering any obstacles, was a forever: inchoate life: built upon
the grounds of shifting sands of unreality;—and was thereby, but an illusion. And without challenges
to overcome, how could anything ever mean, ‘anything’? What would Hercules have been
without the wild-things: the trials and tribulations with which to struggle against, and, ultimately
overcome, defeat? And so—it was likened unto my very life. The metaphors were oh so clear! And
now—just as Prince Odysseus had been privy to discover, from his travails—I also now knew, with
pride, for my new life to come—the value and true appreciation of things won by never giving up.

There’s no more potent, healing-balm to a man’s spiritual-constitution: 4
Than to lay out on the floor of the high plains desert, at night,
In so wide open of spaces; and from his back gazing at the starry skies
Winking across the darkness in their orbits,—made me a bastion of privilege;

Where only after some nights of contemplating the heavens, 8
The crackling sounds of campfire, and calls of wild, truly free-things
Echoing across the night; soothed two decades of conflicts from within;
Taming the wildness of my temperament; any doubts—subsiding.

Perhaps, there was something to it, I thought, of what I’d once
Heard. That truth, more readily gave up its mysterious secrets; and that,

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16
In so much darkness, as I’d experienced on my earth-bed, lying 20
On the floor of the desert plain, surrounded by darkness— 24
28
Was where existed, in that fecundity of blackness of night, 32
Some true beacon-light. There was now, a renewal of sorts; like freshly 36
Planted seeds, germinating in my breast. And I was now, more certain 38
Than ever, that in the proper season I would reap a beautiful harvest. 42

Sure, I’d rushed at life, foolishly so; and, in doing—failed to productively
Get the living. Only here and there: fitfully so; only seeing
Glimpses, as one sees images peripherally from a train’s window
As it speeds past much too swiftly, distortedly so.

And in such a panic-like course as I’d existed: never finding
What would be renewing, sustaining; only draining, and thwarting;
Limiting; noting no permanency, only conditions, and conformed popularity
There, existing in its stead, among the unaware masses.

In their instinctive beliefs, that they submitted to, without
Further analysis and review, but believing, the more and bigger
The better; and, an even more ancient and distorted view: of flawed,
Premise: “That which is pretty must by that nature, be good also,”

How ludicrous a thought! Now though, with that mad-dash world, I
Knew was behind, and with sighs of relief my heart was gladly filled:
There had always existed more, if even up till now, only did,
In my dreams. But if the fitfulness of that past life was gone,

Then now, the manifesting of dreams, could only ensue unencumbered.
The days were adventurous, positive and sure; as I’d met Cristen now
On the plateau, seeming to be translated just there at my side, when my
Want was pure and great; and my neediness was null. The Universe’s

Timing, as always, even when we do not understand: being absolutely,
Right.
A call now not so uncontrollably wild, but still yet—profound,
Existed. And of a truer, worthier nature. It was the subsiding of

The untamed summer seasons of my life, giving way to all those
Grand possibilities, of the fall-times to come, in seasons of change.
And there, in my mind’s eye, in the midst of our exploring the land
As we simultaneously, became fairly well-acquainted each with

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50
The other, pleased as we did, with no regrets for the rapidity 54
In which the affair commenced; I revisited, with 58
A daring and resolute heart, days gone by; seeing the motherly 62
Face of Mrs Newcombe, my mentor, who was so like 66
70
The mother I’d not known. Hearing her say, with her 74
Caring eyes never leaving mine, the son I was, to her,
A sentiment she’d confessed, with a tender glow in her Nordic eyes,
Gladness in her soul, that she had always wanted, as she said:

“Loving in mature years is no less worthy than in youth, my son.”
Her words to me just then, motherly, loving—
Full of truth and concern: even though I heed not as
I should; were always there to aid me when needed most.

And that, Cristen and I did: love! Like the celestial bodies above
Moving so infinitely well together: in unison of flesh,
Allied by a commonality of heart, unlike anytime in my past,
That I had once come to regret. But there, under the starry nights,

Near the campfire, natural and as pure as nature ever intended,
Were we, on the blanketed earth-bed. Wild things called, stirred
And stimulated by our faint murmurers, to all their readiness
Around, in the near distant darkness, howling in rapturous climax:

Triumphant at the night, these nocturnal creatures,
There, and near, and all about—veiled in shadows.
And her blue eyes, reflecting the flickering campfire light
In a reddish-like glow of loving eeriness.

She asserting her female dominance, like Lilith
Adam’s first wed, as it was written in the Zohar. But,
I, unlike it was spoken of he in that ancient text, didn’t dare
For one moment deny her role at the superior of the top;

As his male assertion, commanded that she was forever
To remain missionary, in that paradise world; and her
Great refusal: had brought them to part. But the adventurer
That was I, harkened to her roar, submitted to Cristen’s wont.

Now to make this portrait complete, to the eyes that will
Ever read this saga, and that enhanced my imagination, in the throes

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82
Of that moment, that we lay and forever etch it in my memory— 86
Is only to view John Collier’s painting of Lilith’s nakedness, all enrapt 90
94
By her serpent, her long hair flowing, to know what bliss we achieved, 98
Time and time again, coiled in our own passion, so close to that 102
Campfire, yet no brimstone and hell-scene here; and no expulsion from 106
This heavenly plateau realm. Only an initiation into paradises reclaimed. 110

At first, trust knew a little difficulty—but only in me; for past
Images, of smooth, soothing words in bed-chambers of all
Those Circes that so did corrupt my heart, tainting my visions
Of my real purpose and dreams: still, at intervals—haunted me yet.

This contact, so soon, the epitome of intimacy that had now
Been between us, served to bring about a oneness, a union,
Allying us together, as is known among but a few creatures
That has one solitary, lifetime mate, so it was drawing upon us

The very same universal theme.
This fascinating fate, in the passionate heritage of man and woman;
Now condoned by nature and the heavens above.
Unlike any experiences of either one of our past.

It had served, and still yet had purpose—meaning, of parts
Yet to be performed, playing-out on future stages in front of worlds.
Yet unknown to full extent: I sensed it, as did she—individually:
And together we felt it, and both ourselves: thought deserving;

Now allied and bonded in the present-time:
It would most surely seem,
To a future fate that neither one of us could ever achieve
Alone, and certainly not attainable with any other, a notion now,

We would most certainly concur, at present, our incapability of conceiving;
A thought of another. When so much had already come to be,
Yet was only but a prelude, the introduction, a gateway
Through which we might enter into a future long ago destined.

And owing to the sounds of the songs that now, and continued
In the mind to play throughout the month, and replaying; those romantic,
Jazzy-tunes from growing passions for Cristen whose heart seemed
Forever true, from each of the nights before that we’d lain:

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120
“A little further westward,” it summoned, in my mind, the soft voice: 124
“Follow me there, you man from the flatlander-region.” 128
And who was I, but a mortal man: on this Universe’s pilgrimage: 132
Not to oblige. . . . these impulses that seemed attached now to heart-strings? 136
140
Maybe, there sincerely existed, great things undeniable. 144
Then for real in the midst of it all: “You are coming to Laramie, with me,
Aren’t you not. . . .to visit awhile there with me?” she asked, now dangling
Before me, that proverbial Apple. “Of course,” I answered, with no delay.

My heart’s curiosity for Knowing, leapt. And though the time had been
Not that long, just more than a year in turning over the pages of the
Calendar; owing to my meditative, contemplative nature—now, in
So short a span, more than many decades I had matured;

For not more than a moment, for the year past, since I’d arrived at the
Shores of my beloved upper Mississippi River, at Davenport,
Had I spent the vast portion of my time other than
The necessity of sleep: the remainder in study and philosophical thought:

Now having created of myself, like an enigma,
And entirely different person, with far-reaching perspectives.
A new man, I’d become in that short span, one that I was
Now but fairly familiar: but was growing proud to know.

So now, in the epoch, and my introduction of things to
Come, in knowing Cristen,
Was the beginning of a life, as though all prior, had been little
More than a preview of some great coming attraction;

And any time heretofore, that I thought wasted in trivial
Pursuits, spent in debauched idleness—was but little misplaced
Footsteps upon stairs in total darkness, as I was mounting
The stairway that led into the light of perfection.

And so now down through the thick and ancient Phantasia of woods,
Like traversing the years of life, that stream back to mind,
My mind’s eye seeing the now, intertwined with yesteryears,
And all at once the future; this adventure so real seeming a fantasy;

As I descended full of anticipation, along this winding evergreen forest:
Dotted here and there, I glimpsed bold tints of the Crimson King

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152
Maples’ leaves, that appeared out of the nowhere of this vast wood, 156
Like Nature’s own spying eyes; of the evergreen Medicine Bow Pass 160
164
From the heights of Vedauwoo’s eighty-two hundred feet, arriving at last— 168
I did, down into Laramie 172
My present destiny, at last—set in place, perhaps, long ago; 176
That I should at last, descend down into this high plains desert; 180

Far be it though, this grassy desert-meadow,
From any Dante’s Inferno realms; vastly populous with festive,
Colorful desert flowers: sprightly yellow, orange and violet, as it were.
There’s no exaggeration, here—my heart palpitated,

On high, for the sheer exhilaration of the thought and ride;
Of having descended, and still yet, to remain at such heights;
Was bliss. The land here, giving a more enduring impression,
Than Vedauwoo up above, yet subdued,

Ever so unassuming;
The permafrost snowcapped mountains range stood tall and unmoving,
Forever, as they were all around in the distance: as I turned round;
Fixed against the backdrop of the Big Sky; the mood

Of the encroach of evening now having set my tempo. . . .
Perhaps for life: beyond just any outward aspect, too: I knew.
Here, no mechanical time piece, would ever be necessary:
“It’s the universe’s doing,” I stood saying to myself, and not

Too quietly and subdued either, did I declared.
Sunset was commencing: change across the sky space was inevitable,
And now, I too conceded, to the intuitive calls, from within;
That beckoned me, beseeching, entreating—that I must oblige;

Lest I should want to be left, just marking time,
Fixed and congealed, by a past that I didn’t have to
Fear, or regret any longer—that it was all where it was,
And had to at one time be, but could not reproach

Me again; its lessons thoroughly learned,
Now acknowledge by me, that the time had come
Time to set it all free, the past. So there, standing out on the
Mountain West plains of tumbleweeds, among prairie-dogs,

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188
And buffalo, and where antelope bowed alertly, 192
At cool flowing streams, meadows strummed with desert-flowers; 196
All this life and me a part along with it, all 200
Moving freely and unabridged in unattended rings: 204

The festive flowers, and the tumbleweeds coaxed by the breezes;
The animals by instinctive impulses; and me by
Internal heart-felt emotional drives and authentic loving dreams,
And whose to say, which is supreme. . . . ?

The evening sun was sinking low, on yet a much further
Horizon: lowing as it were in a brassy-orange
Filling the atmosphere of twilight to come with a golden-orange haze;
Where the floor of the sky, looked like upturned embers smothering

On the horizon where it was sinking, from this world’s view,
Leaving a trail behind, mottled here and there
In patches of rustic gold, lavenders and crimson interwoven—
And eastward of that scene a shimmering of darkening blue.

And I, an overawed witness of this splendor, was made ready now,
To take the next Giant leap of faith into the new life that beckoned
Me onward, into the never-ending adventure; the continuing Saga to
Know, those ever increasing depths of me. My Hercules’ tests throughout

My life, up till now: proved that no true course was ever won by an easy
Route; and no future was ever etched so in stone, that it couldn’t be molded,
Simply as the potter’s clay, into whatever we so choose of our own lives to be.
Challenges, no more than the smithy’s forge, shaping our authentic-selves.

So, far from the droning-chants of maddening-crowds, at sunset over Laramie,

Et Incipit Novam Vitam Meam. . . .

About the Author

T. M. Boughnou was drawn to the writers and thinkers of the ninetieth and early twentieth
centuries. After years of a dedicated reading and writing regimen and journal-keeping of his
thoughts and observations of his daily routines and personal travels, he began to write. He
splits his living-time between Davenport, Iowa and Boston, Massachusetts. He works as a
wellness specialist.

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DG TURD

by William Barrett

dg turd

New days ahead and worlds of wonder.
Riding on my bike and looking for my plunder.
I ride around a lot, and girls have nothing against me.
I just never try to get close to them then they can’t scorn me.
What a day, what a day, what a day to do (singing).
Think a little bit about then a little bit more and then soon your day is through.
Throwing newspapers on doorsteps once again,
That’s what I used to do.
Sometimes we don’t want time to end. But what is time?
I suppose it’s what is put into numbers on that watch or clock
and shows a 12 at the top and a 6 at the bottom.
When we die….oh well, who knows what that is.
Give it a chance, that thing at the end, and it will come to fruition
Sooner than you think.

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A Brief History of the Old and New Autobiography
(a prose poem)

Ah, speak, memory. For all the hindrances and times not spoken of formerly.

Of all the babies born to no hospitals and islands and streams and mountains and foothills undesir-
able to naked babies’ population.

Resurrect the dead of old and return the damage to the skin graft today (that’s DNA).

Keep things packaged for future use. Keep old things hidden. And new things new. Keep running like
an electric racer toy car.

Boys in the foothills being crazy on their bikes. Hot rod snot shots keeping castles watered by their
panty wastes. Buick boys revving up parents’ engines while their friends speed by on their ten speeds
going miles and miles ahead of them.

Ah yes, you were roasted by your buddy who thought he was a comedian, but unfortunately one does
not have all the answers. Only one answer at a time.

Beware.

Dad was afraid to get ahead but still kept the engine warm enough to not die and got me through my
newspaper route and then on to school. Bullies were waiting in the dark spots of the hallways, lockers.
There. Toilets were torture chambers. Yet no teacher heard my screams.

Moms and the milieu of being hidden on the streets and avenues just going down. Down. Quick shops
and thrift shops were everywhere, every corner, and then ablaze by the new kind of terrorist—using
gas and a match. Kids played with matches. Burned their families’ homes down good.

Honed down, we went to watch them. What a mess. Kitchen products done on time and timely. Un-
wanted rats got drunk on that Bourbon drops your friend’s dad threw away, and then boys did nasty
things in their basements.

Old tv shows still in black and white, all through 1967 and beyond, so how could we see the colors, the
flowers, the power, and the days beyond?

It’s all about a transition, a transition from old to new. It started with the first man on the moon, and
then went on from there. So we were roasting hotdogs over the fire while wondering why we weren’t
using the latest gym equipment and spandex, instead of thinking the dusty hills were going to whip
us into shape yet?

Ongoing thousands-sawed off shotguns, they killed hostages in the Olympics and brought home ba-
con-fried billy goats for their hungry dogs.

Throughout the war, American farmhouse widows saw it all. Their husbands dead, the horses, the
hogs, the dead bugs and all the rest. The cat lapped up the sup, the frozen turds and fish in the fridge
were just there waiting for the next time the family went starving, and stopped short of killing their
kids in a Hansel and Gretel manner because the Church had taught them to prepare, and have some
food put away. Thank God. Spare the rod and spare the kids!

Towards new beginnings we now think, Chicago and some old rock from the early seventies will be
our far-laid prophesy property, yet Nostradamus has no effects on the hippies with their blackjoints.

So join us, won’t you?

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Speak memories!
If you are wondering what this is all about, just remember that the memory does not always right
itself as it should. It is like the rain is right, isn’t it? How can it be otherwise? How much clearer could
impotency be? (a clear wet spot on the crystal clean pavement).
Well, slam it, damn it, I’m almost there. You said, go have fun, while I say, “almost done!”
“Almost done!”
Take the frozen pizza out of the fire already. You can’t eat it like that! Modernization is the key (a time
that is no longer 1960).
Eat the slices of the bat instead.
……Ahh haa! Remember? We’re starving already! (Remember?) It’s 2020!!
–- V.W. Barrett

About the Author
V. W. Barrett is an infrequent travel writer and has published poetry in Daedalus Flyer
and the Utah Herald Journal. Born and raised in the American west, he has an MFA from
the University of Arizona. He is the author of the travel guide, Greater Than a Tourist: the
American West, published in 2020.

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INTERVIEWS



JOHN SWEEDER

Author of UNTHETERED BALLOONS,
a Poetry collection

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

I grew up in Northeast Philadelphia in a densely populated blue-collar neighborhood call
Oxford Circle, playing stickball, half ball, touch football and other makeshift sports that were
played on the streets and alleyways. Like most childhood Philadelphians, I fell in love with
the Phillies, Eagles, and 76ers.

My first job was working in a corner store located across the street from my row home.
There doled out Breyer’s ice cream cones and made cheesesteaks and Italian hoagies for
neighborhood customers. I attended Saint Martin of Tours, a catholic grade school, Cardinal
Dougherty High School, and La Salle College. My Roman Catholic education has strongly in-
fluenced my memoir writing and poetry. This fact has surprised me to no end.

During summers, my family usually vacationed for one week in the Pocono Mountains or
one week “down the shore” in southern New Jersey. A one-week stay was all my family could
afford. Some years we stayed home because we could not afford to take a vacation. Once or
twice per summer my dad would take me flounder fishing on a head boat, which I loved. I
still fish to this day and now own my own small boat. Life is good. The Jersey Cape, where I
now live year-round, also influences my poetry.

My graduate degrees are from Temple University, where I began take my writing more
seriously and received a good deal of “private” recognition from my professors.

Having taught at La Salle University for 30 years, most of my writing had been academ-
ic in nature and expository/analytical in form. I worked closely with two colleagues in my
department and learned a great deal from both. My scholarly writing and professional ex-
pertise dealt with the fields of rhetoric, composition, the writing process, linguistics, educa-
tional technology, child and adolescent development, educational psychology, and methods
of teaching and learning.

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2.  Do you remember what was your first memoir or
poem about and when did you write it?

My first “real start” in creative writing—memoirs and poetry— began after I retired. Attend-
ing writing workshops sponsored by local libraries, I discovered I had a talent for making
others smile as I read chapters of Breathing Through a Straw which dealt exclusively with
memories gleaned from my childhood and adolescent years. When I turned to writing po-
etry and read my work aloud in workshops with other writers, I found I earned ever greater
amounts of acceptance and positive feedback. The first few poems I sent to an online poetry
journal located in England were accepted and published. The first one was entitled “Septal
Defects” which was published in November of 2014. This greatly boosted my confidence, so
I decided to focus more on writing verse instead of prose.

As I continued to audit other writing workshops, I also began attending individual lec-
tures, learning more about “how to get your work published” and “what is an editor looking
for.” In addition, I started to attend virtually free online courses sponsored by the University
of Iowa Writer’s Workshop.

Simultaneously, I began to attend and read my work at monthly “open mic” poetry read-
ings sponsored by regional poetry societies, such as South Jersey Poets, Beach Bards, and
Jersey Cape Writers. As a member of these societies I listened to other poets—some good
and some not so good—read their work aloud and began comparing their work to mine.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?

My most recent work, Untethered Balloons, is my first book of poetry. No single person or
event inspired it really. I believed in my work and thought it was as good as much of the
poetry I was reading daily from online’s Rattle and Poem of the Day. I had up until this time
self-published my memoir, Breathing through a Straw, on an online blog and refined my
memoir writing, trying to make it “more literary,” learning as I was going along on my own.
I later created Faith Genes for the Blue-jean Generation, which I published online myself
through Amazon’s Kindle Direct. At that point I decided that I no longer wanted to merely
“self-publish.” So, I sought out a publishing house. Since I had some poems accepted and
published by Adelaide Literary Journal and received some modest recognition from them, I
inquired about getting my first book of 60 or so poems published.

4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

I am presently working on my second book of poetry which has taken me about two years to
accomplish. Since I am retired and not really earning a living wage for my poetry or memoir
writing, I am in no rush. I do respond to deadlines, however. Every two weeks I meet virtually
with a fellow poet online using a social media platform. I always have a new poem ready for
her to read and critique. If I were being paid, I could probably meet any deadline. I believe
in the power of deadlines. Seldom, if ever, do I experience writers’ block. I rely a great deal
on being ready to write at any time, always jotting down the “seeds” of my poems on post-it
notes. Readiness is all.

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5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

I do not think my writing habits are unusual in any way. I do rely, however, on what I call writ-
ing prosthetics: the use of an online thesaurus, dictionary, and rhyming dictionary. I research
as I write, especially when I need to know more about a topic or person or place or thing I
am writing about. My initial thought, as I indicated before, are often ideas I jot down by hand
on post-it notes; however, I use the computer for all other writing. I constantly revise, both
during and after drafting my work.

I am surprised, however, upon my increasing reliance upon intuition, which I use through-
out my writing process, from the inspiration to completion of a poem. I believe that my best
work—me best uses of imagery, metaphor, and sound—are intuition driven. Again, I am
surprised by this discovery.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just writing?

Although I am not a musician, I listen to a good deal of music and find myself singing aloud
as I move about the house during the day (to my wife’s chagrin). Lyrics to old tunes pop into
my head and exit from my mouth; sometimes those lyrics find their way into my poetry. I
believe humor is a form of artistic expression as well.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems and Letters, Billy Collins’ Whale Day, Mary Oliver’s A Po-
etry Handbook, Richard Wibur’s Collected Poems 1943-2004, e.e. cummings’ A Selection of
Poems, Robert Frost’s Poems, among others. With respect to memoir writing, I have found
Beth Kephart’s Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir enlightening.

8.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

I am presently working on my next book of poetry tentatively entitled, Untangling Knots.
The topics and themes I seem to keep returning to in my poetry include life at the beach,
family and culture, schooling—then and now, ars poetica, politics, world problems, the mod-
ern condition, illness, old age, and dying.

9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

I must say honestly, I do not dwell upon the “profile” of my readers. Having said that, I do
want to please, interest, entertain, and be remembered. I want my readers to respond pos-
itively to my work. I want to make them smile sometimes. I want them to ponder the big
questions in life, on occasion. I want them to say things like, “Wow! Those were just the right
combination of words!” and “Let me read that again” and “Thank you.” I respect, most of
all, what my fellow poet and online writing partner thinks of my work, along with my wife’s
views. I do not believe that all constructive criticism is equal.

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10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
I think most advice one can give new writers/authors is mostly generic: read often and write
even more often, use multisensory imagery and metaphor, revise and proofread, send only your
best work to literary editors, and so on. Any one of several books about writing share much the
same advice; some say it a little more artistically, some less so. Serious poets who wish to pub-
lish should purchase the most recent edition of the invaluable reference book, Poet’s Market.

Having said that, here is one tip I think any new writer should “go to the bank on.” Find a
writing partner, one who is as good a writer as you (or one who is a little better), a thought-
ful friend who will take your feelings into account and give tactful feedback. Meet with your
partner on a regular basis—face to face or virtually—and prove one another with thoughtful
written and verbal feedback. I believe this works especially well.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
Write every day. Read, read, read.

12. H ow many books do you read annually and what are you reading now?
What is your favorite literary genre?

Presently I am reading Anthony Bourdain’s World Travel, An Irreverent Guide, and Maggie O’
Farrell’s Hamnet: A Novel of the Plague.

I typically read 3 or more online newspapers a day as well as the daily poems from Rattle
and Poem of the Day.

I do not count the number of books I read annually. I spend that time writing or thinking
about new things to write about.

13. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your writing?
What is the most important to be remembered by readers?

(Please read my response to question 15 below, Why do you write poetry?)

14.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?

Today’s publishing industry is being challenged by the online world. Since time is money and
competition is so stiff, you can best fit in and succeed if you—not the editors—do most if not
all of the work yourself: the planning, the writing, the revising, the editing and proofreading,
the idea for cover art, the promotion to a good degree, and so on. Be realistic: keep your
day job. If you are lucky, you might make a few bucks. Write because you want to or need to.

15. Why do you write poetry?
Writing poetry gives me something productive and pleasurable to do during my retirement
years and offers me plenty of opportunities for self-discovery. Because I write poetry for

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others as well as myself, I receive a good deal of feedback, usually positive, from a variety of
audiences—friends, family members, editors, and former colleagues. I especially enjoy the
camaraderie and critical response I receive from other like-minded poets who are part of a
network of writers with whom I keep in touch.

Writing poetry provides me with a wide range of publishing opportunities—both online
and off—which opens possibilities for my work to reach a wider and ever-increasing au-
dience. Unlike longform novel or short story writers, poets typically have more frequent
opportunities for closure, which I find especially reenforcing. I feel satisfied after finishing a
poem.

I believe that writing poetry helps me improve as a memoirist and essayist as well by
sharpening my knowledge and use of words. Writing poetry increases my working vocabu-
lary and forces me to pay closer attention to the connotations, denotations, history, sound,
and rhythm of words and phrases. In addition, it helps me use language both economically
and figuratively, saying more in fewer words, and making comparisons using sensory imag-
ery and other tropes such as personification, paradox, etc.

Writing poetry helps me pay better attention to life’s small details, ones which I might
otherwise overlook, while also helping me to reflect more deeply upon my emotions, which
are often sublimated, helping me look inward as well as outward.

Writing poetry nurtures my curiosity. As I write, I often conduct research, exploring some
fact or concept I am using in my work, often in a domain or discipline in which I may not
necessarily have expertise.

Writing poetry helps foster originality, making me use my imagination, finding a new way
to express an old idea or universal human emotion, often using an image or metaphor to
concretize an abstract concept.

Writing poetry engenders both clarity of thought and introspection. It enables me to re-
flect more deeply upon my own thinking as well as the recurring themes and patterns in my
life that hold significance for me—and perhaps others as well, themes such as existentialism,
politics, nature, culture, death, virtue, nostalgia, human relationships and conflict, child-
hood and adolescence, war and poverty, poetry itself, the visual and musical arts, aesthetics,
the importance of sharing, humor, the significance of place and context, mundane activities
like shopping and praying, travel, health and illness, the role of religion in the world, spiri-
tuality, media and technology, remembrance, and the importance of honoring life’s heroes
and role models.

I write poetry to be remembered, to connect with humanity and leave behind a legacy of
work for others to consider when I have departed, realizing that in doing so I am nurturing a
form of narcissism—hopefully, positive narcissism.

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239

SUSAN SWANSON

Author of REBIRTH IN ACADI,
a Novel

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the official author’s bio?
I have been hard-of-hearing since birth and recently, at age eighty-four, received a cochlear
implant that at the moment makes voices sound like underwater robots. Having worn hear-
ing aids nearly all my life, I find this to be somewhat routine. What is quite wonderful is the
simplicity of locking (through a magnet lodged above my ear and under my skin) a simple
small “processor” that will, as this year progresses, sound less like an electronic device and
more like a familiar voice.

2.  Do you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

The first story I remember writing was in sixth grade, when I wrote about . . . what else?
. . . the “tragedy” of my hearing impairment, of course. That story was about nearly being
hit by a noisy car approaching from the rear as I suddenly darted into the street on a walk
home from the grocery store with my mother. Soon after that, on the brink of puberty and
the profound self-consciousness that went with it, I was presented with my first hearing aid.
Naturally, I felt a strong need to hide the earmold and wire and heavy metal box that was
pinned to my first bra. Breasts were cool; hearing aids weren’t.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
The title is Rebirth in Acadi. The inspiration came when, having moved to a small community on
the Louisiana River Road, I came across a newspaper article devoted to history of the area that
indicated the house my husband and I had bought was located on the lot where another home
– blown down in 1965 by Hurricane Betsy – had sat. That previous dwelling, the article said, had
housed a prominent doctor/state legislator who’d died in one of the last duels in Louisiana.

4.  How long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

I don’t count daily words.

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I started researching the book in 1987, when I came across the newspaper article. Since
then, I’ve experienced many transitions and reversals and the book has too. As well, in be-
tween times I wrote another book, a prequel to Rebirth In Acadi.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

I don’t believe so. I work at a computer and generally put off writing until I’ve finished chores,
eaten, and exercised. Sometimes I don’t get to my desk until midafternoon.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I was a church organist for many years and a piano accompanist for the Suzuki violin program
at the University of Minnesota.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

John Steinbeck once said that the writer should celebrate man’s capacity for greatness of
heart and spirit . . . should write about things like courage, compassion, love, and gallantry
in defeat. He spoke of the endless war against weakness and despair and how the writer can
rally the troops, so to speak.

His words influenced my reading habits. I’ve always looked for inspiration in what I choose.
Having borne this hearing disability throughout life, I have spent many silent hours thinking
about the unfairness of it all and pondering the lives of those equally or worse – often much
worse – off. So it was that when I found books that handled with sensitivity the treatment
of other “cheated” individuals, I read with intense interest. In time, I decided I could write
similar books. I had the skills, I thought. Steinbeck, after all, wasn’t the most talented author.
His strength, at least in the books I had read, was in his choice of material. He was a voice for
the voiceless. His plots, showing how social and natural forces like the Dust Bowl and Great
Depression often made life for the disadvantaged nearly unlivable, inspired me. If I were to be
a writer, I wanted to do the same. I wanted to instill empathy and understanding in readers
who would otherwise know little of that unpleasant side of life. My purpose wasn’t to preach;
it was simply to, like Steinbeck, involve readers in the disastrous lives of people like Lennie and
George in Of Mice and Men and Tom Joad in Grapes of Wrath. My thinking was that if I could
get readers to mourn and cry for such characters, I would make a difference and feel fulfilled.

Along the same lines, to write a book like Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird would have
pleased me no end. Of course, I knew I could never achieve anything close to that classic,
but if I could just shape characters somewhat like Atticus, this lawyer and father who has
respect for all people and who shows fortitude in the face of difficult situations, I knew I’d
feel justified in calling myself a writer, and even more justified if in addition to Steinbeck’s
marginalized characters there were those forces like Atticus who strive to make things better
for the powerless.

Light in August by William Faulkner, dealing with the marginalized and their defenders, is
another book that inspired me. In this case, the socially alienated, angry, and lonely mixed-

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race man, Joe Christmas, dies a violent death while another vulnerable character, Lena, finds
her salvation in Byron Bunch, a loner who makes it his purpose to stand by her.

In conclusion, the books that have often influenced me are meant to alleviate the social
alienation that makes many of us look on those unlike us as misfits and weaklings worthy
of nothing more than derision and avoidance. These books wrap us in the skin of those we
don’t understand. When I am reading and trying to write them, I am figuring out what I think.
Maybe, in the process, I am growing in courage, compassion, and love.

8.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

Nothing in the way of writing books.

9. D id you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

As regards, Rebirth in Acadi, here’s my list, and it’s a long one. (The readers of my other book
would have a different profile): Louisianans and Southerners, people interested in the Lou-
isiana River Road history and history in general, feminists, Cubans, those who like mystery,
those with hearing problems, mature readers, those interested in frustrations of homebuild-
ing, those interested in the human condition.

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?
Read worthwhile books – both fiction and non-fiction – ones that expand your knowledge
and understanding. A steady died of romance and gossip will get you nowhere.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?
Never give up. The thing about never giving up is that, over time, a writer – not just a writer,
but anyone pursuing excellence – can become quite adept, even accomplished.

12.  How many books you read annually and what are you reading now?
What is your favorite literary genre?

I suppose I read about twenty-five books a year. Right now I am reading two. Both are
non-fiction. One is The Dream of the Great American Novel by Lawrence Buell. I find it in-
teresting because it gives some idea of who has written a novel that might contend for the
title. More importantly, it helps define “Great American Novel.” The definition? Fiction that
embodies the essence of America, usually written by an American author and dealing with
America’s national character.

The other book I’m reading is Exhale by Dr. David Weill, the son of a friend. It’s the mem-
oir of a top transplant doctor “who rode the emotional rollercoaster of saving and losing
lives – until it was time to step back and reassess his own life.” Engrossing!

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My favorite literary genres are non-fiction and classic fiction. In the realm of non-fiction
that I have enjoyed recently I would include Successful Aging by David J. Levitin. (I think you
can guess why, at eighty-four, I find the book engrossing.) In it, Levitin “looks at the science
behind what we all can learn from those who age joyously, as well as how to adapt our
culture to take full advantage of older people’s wisdom and experience.” (I give a big YES to
that!!) The book, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl, about how Frankl derived
meaning even during the unspeakable horror of Nazi death camps, held my interest too. As
to fiction, The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck, “a brutally pessimistic commen-
tary on the American Dream and the lengths to which one must go to attain success,” was
enlightening. Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee, which explores the downfall of one man and the
plight of a country caught in the chaotic aftermath of centuries of racial oppression, was in-
teresting. A Bell for Adano by John Hersey, the classic novel and winner of the Pulitzer Prize
that tells the story of an Italian-American major in World War II who wins the love and ad-
miration of the townspeople when he searches for a replacement for the 700-year-old town
bell that had been melted down for bullets by the fascists, was a good read. White Noise by
Don DeLillo, about an industrial accident unleashing an “airborne toxic event” gave insight
into present day concerns.

Looking back at my list, I suspect some might call it a bunch of downers. Oh well.

13.  What do you deem the most relevant about your writing? What
is the most important to be remembered by readers?

Rebirth in Acadi is full of life’s lessons, not least of which is the fact that everyone has short-
comings. In the novel’s rich cast of characters we first find Louise who, on the one hand, is
relatable in that she wants to escape racism that holds her back, but on the other hand is
incomprehensible in that she’s planning to marry a wealthy bigot. And then there’s Mar-
garet who, definitely not a paragon of filial devotion, is guilty of holding a grudge against
her aged, dying mother. And what to say about the bigot Pierre? Wicked? Morally corrupt?
Evil personified? His influence over Margaret’s husband, Fred, who doesn’t stand up to him
until his hand is forced, shows not only Pierre’s clout, but Fred’s cowardice. The one truly
admirable character in the story is the Cuban immigrant, Cedro, who has trouble dealing
with his losses.

Rebirth in Acadi is the story of a passing African-American woman. But it is also the story
of another woman, a persistent matron pursuing both her dream home and the answer to
questions that intrigue her on a very personal basis. This “other” story really brings home
the similarity between gender, race, and age discrimination. The older woman is a “biddy,” a
“busybody,” has a “Shar Pei neck.” She spits, rants, jabs, snaps. She is frumpy and likely shops
at outlets, eats at cafeterias, and loves Neil Diamond and flea-bitten cats. More than that,
she is the kind of impulsive, blunt, and oftentimes unpleasant personality that is only tolera-
ble in small doses. Even her brothers devalue her, relegating her to the care of their mother.

But we love her, just more proof that this story works on many levels, blending characters
and themes and plot from seemingly different worlds into a singular story of great depth.
Rebirth in Acadi captures the human condition.

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Finally, so much of this novel is centered around the building of a house. From beginning
to end the house is a central part of the story, defining characters and the choices they make.
At first, the house is an empty shell in need of love and attention, with the greed and deceit
of a fast-talking scoundrel threatening its integrity. By the end of the story, however, the love
and attention of one determined (some would call it obsessed) matron turns what was once
a source of pain and hate into a source of comfort and celebration. Rebirth in Acadi is not
only a “who did it and why?” tale, but an invaluable guide to the pitfalls facing anyone who
has ever decided to build a house.
14.  What is your opinion about the publishing industry today and
about the ways authors can best fit into the new trends?
The big publishers have gotten larger and larger and are more concerned with making money
than seeking out really meaningful books. While they say they are open to debut authors, di-
versity, etcetera, their publishing record indicates otherwise. I think the publishing industry
needs to shift from the bottom line to focusing on the tastes of probing, reflective readers.
In the meantime, indie publishers, with their open attitude toward new voices, will eat
into the dominant position of big publishers. In doing so, they will fill a need that big pub-
lishers ignore at their own risk.
As far as fitting into current trends, I think that – especially for authors who have no pub-
lishing history – the best alternative is to seek out reputable indie publishers.

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PETER SCHEPONIK

Author of SEEING, BELIEVING AND
OTHER THINGS: POEMS

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will
not find in the official author’s bio?

I have always been drawn to the natural world. Its mystical, magical elements have always
lured me imaginatively and spiritually–even as a child. The need to believe is as fundamental
to me as breathing–whether or not that believing involves God, family, friends, or the sun,
sea, sky, forests, fields, and the lives that fill them. The sense or feeling of spirit imbuing
everything and everyone nourishes my will to live, to love, and to write. This one life I have
in this beautiful world is a gift I try never to take for granted. Every day is filled with mira-
cles manifesting among the sorrows and fears, like wildflowers woven among the thickets
of weeds. I make it my habit to see them. Nature has always made me feel at home, like I
belonged to something greater than myself, like there was some power far greater than my
hopes, my fears, or my dreams.

2. D o you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

My very first poem was about Easter. I wrote it when I was nine years old. I remember that I
ran in and recited it to my mother who was on a ladder in the bedroom, painting the wall. She
stopped and listened with her full attention and told me that it was beautiful. Someone heard
what I had said and told me that it was good. I think I knew then that I would always use
words to connect with the world and with people. I think poetry became “my thing” that day.

3. What is the title of your latest book and what inspired it?
My latest book is Seeing, Believing, and Other Things. I really am more of a poetry journal writer
than a maker of books. I write every day, usually in the morning. I have a steamer trunk full of
completed poetry journals. I tend to be very metaphysical in my themes. Beauty and truth and
their philosophical connections underpin much of my writing. Nature, family, theology, philoso-
phy, science, and the psychology of being all run rampant through my work, which is sometimes
confessional and often psalm like in its praise of the miracles and mysteries of being.

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I had submitted to Adelaide’s Anthology Contests numerous times and made the short
list once and was a finalist in all others. Editor Stevan Nikolic invited me to submit a man-
uscript to be considered for publication. So I went through various of my poetry journals
and poems that I had published in other literary journals and magazines. So many of my
poems were litanies to the beauties of the natural world (Seeing). So many others were a
thirst for or a quest after something I could have faith in (Believing). Still others were about
family, love, loss, parenting, growth, change, personal challenge, fear, and resignation (Other
Things). Thus, the collection’s title and chapters emerged organically to form the manuscript.
The editorial staff embraced the manuscript, and the book was born.

4. H ow long did it take you to write your latest work and
how fast do you write (how many words daily)?

As I said, my latest book was a compilation of poems already written and/or published over
the years. So I cannot give an exact time frame for the actual creation of the book. If I had to
be pinned down, I would say the poems came from my more recent poetry journals, maybe
over a span of 3-5 years. The actual selection process and organizing into themes, the typing
(all my journals are long-hand), the creation of the table of contents, the revising, the editing,
the selections of a cover and personal photo before submitting the finished manuscript took
about 1-2 months. Then it was about one year from signing the contract to actual publica-
tion of Seeing, Believing, and Other Things.

I write every morning anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. It depends how long it takes
for the poetry to take its shape upon the page. I usually write 1-2 poems a morning–each
one between 25-40 lines (most of the time). I average 30-40 poems a month and 105-170
per journal. Each journal is usually 3 months in the making.

5. Do you have any unusual writing habits?

I am what you might call a quirky writer. I always create my poems writing in long-hand, us-
ing a fine point Pilot marker. I like the smooth flow of the ink on the page, no drag to slow
my transcription from thought to written word. I choose my journals by three elements: the
cover, the finish of the paper (I prefer lined paper to unlined), and the durability-can the
back cover be bent backwards on itself for ease of writing and reading. Is the journal well
stitched or spiral so it will not fall apart. I often write in the 7/11 parking lot while drinking
my morning coffee, or at a table of The Beanery (a local coffee shop in Ocean City, MD, or
Northside Park, also in Ocean City, MD, overlooking the lagoon, or out on my veranda, over-
looking the sea and bay.

6.  Is writing the only form of artistic expression that you utilize, or
is there more to your creativity than just writing?

I also paint. I prefer acrylic on canvas, though I have painted a number of wall murals for
family and friends. I have also written and illustrated several children’s books-none of them
printed by any publishers. A couple of them were self-printed, years ago, when I was work-
ing in printing as an image assembler and plate maker.

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I think painting and drawing share many of the same characteristics as writing poetry. I
follow the colors of the paintings and lines of the drawings the same way I follow the words
that come to my mind–a chase after blends, beauty, imagery, truth, and story, be they on the
canvas, on the wall, or on the page.

7. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?

The authors who have influenced my writing are an eclectic group. William Wordsworth,
William Blake, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Walt Whitman, Alfred Lord Tennyson, T.S. Eliot, Sylvia
Plath, Karl Shapiro, Gerald Stern, Maya Angelou, and Sharon Olds were all seminal influences
who helped shape my literary tastes and visions. More recently, I have become enthralled
by the collected works of Mary Oliver. I return to them again and again. The sheer joy and
power of celebration in her poetry is spiritual and artistic nourishment for my imagination
and soul.

I often read my favorite poets whenever I hit a dry spot in my creativity. Inevitably, read-
ing the work of the greats, something Robert Pinsky called “monuments to their own mag-
nificence” always jumpstarts my artistic impulses and gets my creative juices flowing.

8.  What are you working on right now?
Anything new cooking in the wordsmith’s kitchen?

Presently, I am writing as I always do–when the words call to me, which is usually early
morning during my walk or drinking my coffee at one of my usual haunts. I am always in
the process of typing up the thousands of poems that are lying in long-hand journals in my
steamer trunk. It is a laborious process because there are always revisions to be made and
grammatical errors to be corrected. Maybe someday I will hire a typist to type up my poems.
Then I will only have to reread, revise, and correct any grammatical, punctuation, capitaliza-
tion, or spelling errors.

9.  Did you ever think about the profile of your readers?
What do you think – who reads and who should read your books?

To be honest, I really write for myself,to celebrate my joys, to help cope with my sorrows.
I suppose there is a part of me that hopes there will be others who see the world simi-
larly or who might find my views comforting, if not affirming. I suspect the sort of person
who would relate to my poetry would be inclined toward the many beauties in nature. My
readers would likely have a philosophical and/or spiritual bent. I imagine that readers who
would enjoy my poetry would have a well-developed sense of empathy, a deep reverence for
creation, and an affinity for the tragedy of the human condition. As Arthur Miller said, “We
revere our tragedies most.”

10. Do you have any advice for new writers/authors?

Always write from the deep center of who you are. Write about what you know–physically,
psychologically, spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually. Write from the joy, need, sorrow,

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desperation, celebration, despair, hope, and desire of your life. Then you are true to yourself.
Then your voice is your own. Then your art belongs to you. If the publishing world accepts
your verse–wonderful. If it doesn’t, you have lost nothing. You are writing because you want
to write. Your writing is your art. Art is its own reward. If you develop a reading audience,
that is grand. Sharing yourself can be a rewarding and affirming experience. Being true to
yourself first and foremost is a salvation in its own rite.

Be prepared for rejections. You will likely receive them in abundance. A great metaphor
for submissions to the publishing world is the sperm and the ovum–millions are vying for en-
try; only one to a few usually get in. Editors’ tastes, an issue’s thematic demands and spacing,
and the bottom line production costs and issues all come into play. There is no way you can
write for those all important elements, nor should you.

If you believe in a poem or piece of writing, and you have refined and revised it until
you can say, “I can’t believe I wrote this!” send the piece out no matter how many rejec-
tions you receive. If the piece is as good as you think it is, it will eventually find a home in
some editor’s heart and on some journal’s page. Speaking of journals, try the many won-
derful online and hard copy journals that exist. Don’t limit yourself to the most prestigious
ones. Often the “big name” journals are so inundated with submissions their response
times are a year or more, and the odds of getting accepted are slim to none. While it is
a great honor to be featured in one of the more prestigious journals, the satisfaction of
publication will more likely come from the many other fine journals and magazines waiting
to publish new work.

Always be respectful when submitting. Make sure your submissions are clean, error-free,
adhere to the journal’s editorial guidelines, and revised to the best of your ability. Always
try to find the editor’s name to include in your submission letter. Make sure your letter is
error-free, up-to-date with your publication history, and adheres to editorial suggestions as
listed in guidelines of the journal.

Many rejection letters are form letters. Whenever an editor sends a personalized rejec-
tion, always respond with a well-written and sincere thank you email or letter. If an editor
accepts your work, always respond with a well-written and sincere thank you email or letter.
Always follow all editorial directives for submissions. Finally, familiarize yourself as best you
can with the journals before submitting. You can do this by reading about them and perusing
sample works on their websites.

11. What is the best advice (about writing) you have ever heard?

Write from what you know. Revise. Revise. Revise.

Read authors in your field. Reread. Reread. Reread those authors you love. Try to write
everyday–even if only for 15 minutes.

Read and reread your own work.

Find the best places to write, places where you are comfortable and at peace. Learn to
appreciate your own ability as a writer.

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