New Year's Poems

New Year's Poems by The Editors of Poetry Foundation

Collective-Evolution – Just A Thought On The Ego

Collective-Evolution – Just A Thought On The Ego

Christmas Poem by Robert Frost

Christmas Trees
by Robert Frost
A Christmas Circular Letter The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to lie And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, Yet did in country fashion in that there He sat and waited till he drew us out A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was. He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas. He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods—the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires. I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees. I doubt if I was tempted for a moment To sell them off their feet to go in cars And leave the slope behind the house all bare, Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon. I'd hate to have them know it if I was. Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except As others hold theirs or refuse for them, Beyond the time of profitable growth, The trial by market everything must come to. I dallied so much with the thought of selling. Then whether from mistaken courtesy And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while." "I could soon tell how many they would cut, You let me look them over."                                     "You could look. But don't expect I'm going to let you have them." Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close That lop each other of boughs, but not a few Quite solitary and having equal boughs All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer's moderation, "That would do." I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so. We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over, And came down on the north.                                     He said, "A thousand." "A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?" He felt some need of softening that to me: "A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars." Then I was certain I had never meant To let him have them. Never show surprise! But thirty dollars seemed so small beside The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents (For that was all they figured out apiece), Three cents so small beside the dollar friends I should be writing to within the hour Would pay in cities for good trees like those, Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools Could hang enough on to pick off enough. A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had! Worth three cents more to give away than sell, As may be shown by a simple calculation. Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter. I can't help wishing I could send you one, In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

So Many Ideas, Too Little Time!

One thing I have figured out about myself as a writer is that instead of not having enough ideas I have too many! I maintain an idea file and I am always adding to it. But the problem is that I have so many ideas that I procrastinate about writing, so what good does it do me to have all these ideas for poems and stories if none of them are getting written?

Do you have this problem? I am trying to figure out how to tackle it. Do I write one story or poem a week, a month? Do I submit as soon as their written? Should I trash the whole idea file and just write something?

Too Many Choices

As I stub out the same cigarette I've been smoking for the last half hour, my head filled with dreams and plans until after one am and here it is not even 7 and I'm up already, I realize that my problem is that I have too many choices.

Ok, yeah, that's something to bitch about, huh? Most people don't have many choices about what they want to do everyday, many people have none, so I'm blessed, right? Wrong! I have so much shit spinning around in my head that I can't make a decision about where to start. I have put this writing thing off for so long now, my first excuse being the death of my son, well, that's a pretty damn good one, you have to admit, but it's been eight frigging years, ladies!

It's Monday morning, and I spent the weekend researching and making a nice list of poetry chapbook publishers and also found a couple of young adult publishers, making big plans about getting both of mine published. So what am I doing this morning, now that I have these great lists? I want to write a short story!

It's fear I guess, beginning again. Eight years ago, when I wrote my young adult novel, I was totally consumed by it, so much in fact that even before my son died I had lost my husband due to my obsession with writing and didn't even know it. I think that's part of the hesitation, but the deal is, I have nothing to lose now. I have rid myself of the three year distraction of a bad relationship, have a nice place, bills are paid, money is not a big issue, the closest thing I have to a relationship is the cat rubbing against my bare legs, good health, food in the fridge, and still, here I am, waffling about what to write, or procrastinating about reaching out to these publishers, or finding things I 'need' to take care of besides writing. Maybe I don't think I deserve success, hell I don't know. I am tired of analyzing, for the danger in that is that I can convince myself of just about anything and make it totally valid. I'm flaky, ok, I'm flighty, I change my mind like I change my underwear.

In the wee hours of morning, or wee for me anyway, I decided to hold off on contacting publishers and get up this morning and write a short story. I have so many stories to tell! My life reads like American Horror Story, or a juicy romance novel at times. But here I am, sitting at the computer, bitching to you on this blog about having too many choices. Which story should I tell first? Am I really a writer, or just a wanna be? Can I just put the shit down and quit worrying about whether some literary journal is going to accept it, or how much they pay?

My whole life I have been a business woman and I can't seem to get rid of that accountant in my head. I want to just write for the pure pleasure, for release, to tell stories I know people would want to read. Dammit all to hell, I get frustrated like this and then I find something totally different to do, like selling stuff on Ebay.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

1st Annual Flash Fiction Contest at Giggle Water Review

Giggle Water Review is now accepting submissions of poetry, short fiction, essays, art and interviews for their November 2012 issue. There is also a flash fiction contest, deadline Nov. 15, 2012.

A Favorite Poem

The Layers

by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

The Thrill of Life Dedicated to Poetry and Writing in General

I began writing poetry as a teenager. I will never forget the thrill I felt the first time someone in the know told my I was good at writing poetry. My English teacher in freshman year, Mr. Coletta, loved my poetry and even sent one off to be published in a textbook. I can't remember the details, too many dead brain cells since then, and I didn't realize at that time that it might be important later down the road. You see, I wrote that sappy kind of love poetry, the purple prose of the adolescent. But it got me writing and that was what was important.

Now, at 57 years of age I have decided that it's time to make poetry my number one focus, although I will continue to blog professionally several times a week. I have never stopped writing, and have had many poems published both online and in print, but I never really said to myself, "Poetry is my career. I AM a poet." Things are different now. I was motivated toward this decision when my chapbook made the first cut in the first poetry contest I entered. I will find out tomorrow if I made the second cut in the Mary Ballard Poetry Chapbook prize competition. I don't expect to, but in the back of my mind I know it's a possibility.

Either way, poetry is now "what I do" when someone asks, and "a poet" is who I am. As well as a blogger, I will always be one of those too. I was watching MIDNIGHT IN PARIS a few nights ago, for the first time, great movie, and Ernest Hemingway told Luke Wilson's character, "You have to say you are the best writer." I have to claim my spot in the world as a poet or how can anyone else claim me as such?

I started this blog to journal my journey, to share helpful info with other poets, and to propel poets and writers in general into living their dreams. This life is a beautiful one and I couldn't be more thrilled.

A Must-Read for Women Poets

This is a fascinating round table discussion on women and poetry, women poets, poetry around the blogosphere, women poets getting published, with great input from poets such as Sina Queyras, Elisa Gabbert, Shanna Compton, Juliana Spahr, Vanessa Place and Danielle Pafunda. Gotta read this one.