You may remember this poem from a year ago, when I published it on this blog as a response to the insanity that is Trump.
Germination is an unintended erasure poem (though I was delighted, if not a bit unnerved, by how its meaning eventually revealed itself). As I mentioned last year: “I believe it is an artist’s duty to speak out against cultural erasure, to bring light and truth forward through one’s art. Looking at the body of my erasure work, I think, in large part, that what I have been pursuing (consciously or not) is the gravity of survival, renewal and remembrance—poems that reveal the stories, suffering and mourning of all. Poems composed of glittering fragments of hope and love and compassion.”
Thank you, so very much, to the editors at Entropy Magazine, for publishing my poem on a much larger platform—giving it a second life, a place to sparkle.
No, I don’t mean that pause. Though I could write about it: how it hasn’t changed my life, hasn’t slowed me down, hasn’t made me crazy. (My children did that.) But I won’t. I could also tell you about the long pauses in my writing life. But I won’t do that either.
Instead, I’ll introduce you to a fun and daring literary journal based in Minneapolis that shares its name with this post’s title. (Titles can’t be copyrighted, you know. ;)) And I’m happy to announce that three of my erasure poems have been published in After the Pause‘s 2017 spring issue, alongside excellent prose, poetry and art. You can find my poems on pages k – m. Though do take time to peruse the whole issue (you may find a cosmic werewolf somewhere), it’s terrific.
Much thanks to ATP’s kind editors. 🙂
Today, thanks to the editors at Literary Mama—a fine journal that “publishes literary writing about the many faces of motherhood”—my poem Snow Angels appears in its January 2017 issue.
I wrote this poem almost a year ago, just after a terrible, daylong snowstorm swept through New England and I learned of its aftermath. Between the heavy snow and winds, Massachusetts and Rhode Island were battered. I scratched out sentences that evening. It was a hard poem to write because it’s a mother’s response to two different, yet interconnected, tragic events. I sent it out prematurely, I knew it wasn’t ready, and it was rejected by a few literary journals. Harder it was to cut—and I knew it was necessary as it was too long—but with feedback from a few good and faithful writer friends who read it, I was able to slash it nearly in half. And once done, I sent it directly to Literary Mama, because I couldn’t think of a more perfect home for it. I’m so glad they chose to keep it.
Pearls fell from the sky that day, painted the windows
opalescent, drifted against the front door. Tired
woodland hit silently the snow, and geese
honked overhead in the quiet spaces of a
cloud. In the Northeast, familiar is the weight of
winter. Power soon was lost, cars spun out on roads,
and the trees, the great pines of Canton, as day wore on,
wailed and groaned with burden, and began to spill like
discordant dominoes into yards, streets, over
homes, and upon a little girl, and a father, related
only by chance, two names in the paper, hours apart.
It blustered morning through night where we live…[read more here]