I keep sending poems to this magazine
And it, politely, keeps rejecting them.
Ironic—‘cause I wasn’t all that keen
To publish there, felt my poetic gems
Too hot, too bright for their phlegmatic taste.
My scribbles rage, shout, argue, stamp about,
While they prefer their writers to abase
Themselves, evoke what’s grim, fashion the knout
Delivering sharp self-inflicted pain.
Those images of loss, of disconnect,
Of all the incidentals of regret,
Bespeak a panoply of lives in plain
Misery. Often, I confess, well done.
But poems must wound and heal, not simply bleat
Emotional distress, not lie meek, prone—
Advance rich fertile dreams—not drab retreat.
(12/06/07)