Wednesday, July 25, 2012


Before my departure for New York a few weeks back, I received word from an editor that he was accepting several of my poems for publication.  This is the first time I've had a "batch" of poems snatched up, but I was elated to know that this editor found all of the poems to be of such quality that he gave his official okie-dokie to the entire recipe.  Furthermore, I was told that I would be one of the "featured poets" in that winter edition.

I don't think of myself as a poet, especially since my mother would never allow me to help mix a batch of cookies, but in this instance I guess I'll have to go along with this editor's good graces and thank him for his willingness to bake this batch of poems and keep me in print.

This batch was an interesting mix.

One of the poems is entitled "Breast Implants".  It's one of the few poems my wife has read in the past year and when I showed it to her she described it in phrases like "very good" or "stimulating" or "completely wacky".  I have no idea what my wife's opinion means, but since she reads so little of my work, I'll accept her opinion as more than just nepotism.  (After all, she believes I only write poems about Goober or Andy Griffith.)

This editor also liked several other poems, including a longer, rollicking poem about life's cadences and changes, written from the vantage point of looking out a kitchen window.

Later, when the editor wrote back asking me to send in a description of where my poems originate or where I found the inspiration for them, I discovered I had nothing to say.  Where did these poems come from?  I have no idea.  None. 

I had to tell the truth:  I wrote back telling him that most of these poems were written in the boredom of moonlight, written in the cracks and interstices while I was working on longer projects--books, stories and memoirs--and I had likely whipped these poems up before falling asleep, or I may have composed some of them in my head while driving, or written them, originally, on mustard-stained napkins at a restaurant or on scraps of toilet paper that I removed from men's room stalls when inspiration hit.

It's safe to say I don't remember when or where I wrote many of my poems (accept the ones I write in my daily journal and record by date).  And I certainly don't know where they come from.  I just write them and send them in, heaping batches at a time, sometimes by the boxes, hoping that someone might want to lick the poetic batter off the spoon.     


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