poetry - Lightning Droplets

Call for Submissions: Places to Stand

July 24, 2013February 25, 2022 JaclynLeave a comment

Saw Palm, the University of South Florida’s literary magazine, is calling for submissions for its series Places to Stand.

I found this call for submissions while working on my Submission Bonanza!, an attempt to submit work to thirty literary magazines in the month of July.

Since a huge part of my interest in writing and words is place-based, I am in love with this project and I wanted to share it with you all and encourage you to submit too!

Even if you don’t have writing about Florida, it’s a really lovely prompt.

What Is It?

Places to Stand is a literary map of Florida, using words instead of photos. Each pushpin marks a point where a contributor has written a short nonfiction piece about what it’s like to stand at that particular place at a particular moment in time. Some of the Places to Stand pieces are memories. Some are written on the spot. Some are written as poetry. Click on the pushpins and take a literary tour through Florida time and space!

Places to Stand in Florida (appears on sawpalm.org)
Please tell us what it’s like to stand at a specific place in Florida at a specific time of day in 500 words or less. While we enjoy the unusual, locations should be public and accessible (so not your bathroom!) Please include GPS coordinates.

Unlike other categories, current or recent USF students and faculty are welcome to submit pieces for the Places to Stand series.

Poems submitted as part of the Places to Stand series are welcome but should be justified left and otherwise not have complex formatting and spacing. This is due to technical limitations in Google Earth.

You can submit here!

Notches on the Bedpost: Unexpected Lessons Learned from Submitting Writing to LitMags Every Day

July 17, 2013February 25, 2022 Jaclyn70 Comments

Notches on the bedpost - scratches on the back.

Earlier this summer, I was inspired by the devilish number 66 on a list of The 100 Best Ways to Become a Better Writer. Rack up rejections. The phrasing and sentiment behind the idea played over and over in my mind and I was captivated by it. I started imagining pieces of my writing marching out into the world dressed to the nines in their Saturday night best, and returning home (accepted or not) to put another notch on the bedpost. Perhaps they would have short-lived flirts with editors who didn’t want to take them home, or one night stands with litmags where they weren’t accepted but, hey, at least they were being read, even if only ephemerally. Or maybe they’ll find the editors of their dreams and fall in love together, being read again and again, put into print to show the permanence of their mutual devotion. In any case, they were going out, having a good time, and meeting some new people.

So, I encouraged myself to bring these absurd reveries to fruition by setting a challenge for myself. In the month of July, I would submit work to one literary magazine every day. I called it Submission Bonanza! (and yes, the exclamation point is quintessential – I’ll take it as one of my five) because it was by far the most submitting I’ve done, ever. I’m a little more than halfway through my challenge and I’ve learned quite a bit from it. I’ve learned some basic, practical, and incredibly necessary skills, like how to write a cover letter for my work or what to include in my author’s bio (look out for posts on these in the future). But I’ve also learned some things that I didn’t quite expect to learn.

1. I’ve been introduced to more contemporary writers and magazines.

In trying to decide which pieces to send to which magazines, I’ve been doing a lot of reading. In this digital age, a lot of literary magazines have either full issues or teaser bits and pieces of issues on their websites. Thankfully, I’ve not had to buy year-long subscriptions of every magazine I’ve submitted to (I am a poor grad-student-to-be, after all) in order to see what kinds of writing might be a good fit for the magazines. The interesting thing about all of the reading I’ve been doing is that it is very contemporary. It’s very now. Though I love me some Pablo Neruda or Sylvia Plath, they have become quite canonized. It’s incredibly interesting to read what people are writing now. It’s also really useful to get to know the magazines and publishers that are working with these things. You can see the magazines I’ve been submitting to at the original post about the challenge and read what they’ve been publishing.

2. I’ve become a better reader.

All of these pieces I’ve been reading, I’ve been reading incredibly closely and critically. I don’t think “Gee, that poem makes me feel… (warm, angry, fuzzy, whatever).” Because I am reading to find out what editors might like in my own writing, I have to ask myself a myriad of questions about everything I read. What did the editors like about that piece? What does it have in common with the other pieces that were chosen? How does it compare to pieces I’ve written? Reading critically like this has forced me to turn the same discerning eye back on my own writing, which brings me to…

3. I’ve been motivated to edit more.

We’ve all heard the mantra again and again about how important editing is. And yeah, I know it’s important. But usually when I write, I become inspired and it takes off on it’s own. It’s like I’m being filled with some spirit that’s vomiting words on the page that are beautiful and make me cry and the muse has me speaking in tongues and finally when I finish I am exhausted. I feel good, sure. But I also feel done. Reading the works published in some of the magazines I’ve read feel so polished, though, so purposeful. In some ways very different than the literary upchuck that I produce in my frenzied first drafts. Don’t get me wrong, I love my writing as if it were my little children, but children need to be raised and tended, nurtured and loved.

4. I feel part of the writing community.

Ok, I know. My work is not being published alongside Billy Collins and I am not sharing martinis and discussing themes of displacement in literature with Salman Rushdie (yet). But there’s something about just having your writing out in the world (even if it’s not being published – just having it out), that makes me feel like I am part of the community of authors trying to make sense of the world in words. If all literature is in conversation, I feel like just by submitting work to magazines, I am becoming part of the conversation.

5. I am more inspired to write.

Perhaps most importantly, the more I read and submit, the more I want to write. In this exercise of trying to get something out there every day, I find myself wanting more writing that I can put out there. It’s been like a soaring spiral on updrafts of wind. I am reading more, I am editing more, I am thinking more, and I am writing more.

I haven’t heard back from the literary magazines yet. That should come as no surprise as some of them have reading periods of up to six months and so far, it’s been a measly seventeen days since my first submission. So, I don’t know yet if this Submission Bonanza! will be a successful endeavor in terms of getting published. But I do know it has been incredibly successful in furthering my development as a writer.

And to think, I’m only halfway through.

Thanks so much to http://debitch.tumblr.com/ for the incredibly apropos photo.

Submission Bonanza!: Racking up Rejections, or 30 LitMags in 31 Days

July 3, 2013February 1, 2022 Jaclyn122 Comments

I found this thought-provoking post the other day about The 100 Best Ways to Becoming a Better Writer on thecopybot.com. Some of them are interesting ways to meet characters, such as “74. Sell insurance, cars or newspapers face-to-face for two months.” A lot of them are imaginative and funny. Some of them are just things you know you need to do, like “3. Write over a thousand words a day.”

But the one that really stood out to me and inspired me most was Number 66.

Rack up Rejections.

I haven’t been doing a lot of this. I haven’t really been doing any of it. In the past 10 years, I’ve maybe submitted work to 5 literary magazines. At this rate, all my writing will sit quietly on my computer and collect digital dust until I die or my computer dies, and either way it will be lost forever. (Note to self: remember to back up hard drive.)

That’s not really how I’d like it to go.

I write because I care about inspiring people, about connecting with people in a more meaningful way than normal day-to-day conversation allows. That’s not gonna happen if everything I write remains for-my-eyes-only-on-my-measly-little-laptop.

So, I’m challenging myself to rack up rejections this month.

So, self:

Put yourself out there, knowing that you will get lots of rejections. Not everyone likes to read what you like to write and that’s ok. Think of each rejection as a battle scar, a symbol that you’re fighting the good fight, getting closer to being who you want to be.

So here’s the plan: I’ll be submitting work to 30 LitMags this month, one for each day (with one day off, just to make the number round!). To try to keep myself honest, I’ll be posting them here as I go. Feel free to join me!

Aaaaaaaand, we’re off!

1: Fourteen Hills

2: Flash Frontier

3: The Round

4: Bat City Review

5. Swine Magazine

6. The Minetta Review

7. Camroc Press Review

8. Black Warrior Review

9. smoking glue gun

10. The Journal

11. The McNeese Review

12. Mid-American Review

13. Front Porch Journal

14. Exegesis

15. Columbia

16. Yemassee

17. Clarion

18. The Southeast Review

19. Silk Road

20. The Portland Review

21. Reed Magazine

22. The Louisville Review

23. The Coachella Review

24. Rio Grande Review

25. Saw Palm

26. Switchback

27. Camera Obscura

28. Northwind Magazine

29. Slice Magazine

30. Post Road Magazine

My First Alaska (Summer 2005)*

June 22, 2013February 25, 2022 JaclynLeave a comment

It started with the lake

and the spruce trees leaned

in for a better look.

My toes wandered

into the water,

which threw out

glacial-silt blue

and reflected a grey sky.

Toes exploring further,

ahead of myself so that

the snow-born water crept

up my legs and I was soon

on my back.

Mushrooms popped tops

of heads up through

moist dirt to peep.

My toes led the way,

becoming glacial themselves

as the Alaskan current

carried me out of the lake and to

the river.

I flowed.

Mist began to fall

and I became

a blue totem:

beaver knees,

eagle mound,

moose-antler breasts,

grizzly-bear hair.

My skin crystallized,

forming snowflake stars

over my fingers,

shins,

then finally

my middle.

Cracked.

As a close summer sun

came out

my blue star

skin melted

and I became the Kenai.

*As I was packing and preparing for my move, I found this little number that I had written my first time in Alaska. Revisiting it after 8 years, I can see quite a few revisions I would want to make, but I wanted to post it in its original. I’m wondering how my impressions and experience of Alaska this time around will compare with my memories.

Writing Challenge: When the Goddesses Come Out

May 2, 2013 Jaclyn12 Comments

Nymphs, goddesses, apsaras, maenads! It’s May. There’s a fresh exhilaration in the air. Mother’s Day is coming up. I have been incredibly inspired by all those bloggers who did the A-Z blogging challenge in April. These things all fit together nicely in a little challenge that I am setting for myself. This month, I am endeavoring to write about 26 strong, creative women from mythology. So, the goal is to write 26 short stories, one based on a female mythological figure for each letter of the alphabet. Feel free to join me, or to set your own goal for this month. New growth and new beginnings are in the air!

A special Creative-Commons “Thanks!” to itjournalist from flickr for the photo!

listening to icicles (Colorado. November 2002.)

March 6, 2012 JaclynLeave a comment

listening to icicles

they giggle softly

dripdripdrip

drop

drap

rods of burning cold

tensing their muscles

to break free of the shingles

crackackackackackle

they blind with the light

of a reflected winter sun

and mirror the calm

of soothing soft snow

blipblipblip

blop

blup

slowly melting now

making waves of ice

beneath them

to be suspended from

the sky the snow

anything but the roof

buckleuckleuckleuckleuckle

. . .

floating among the snowflakes

little brothers of ice

the ground beneath

comes near

the icicles reach

trying to embrace

crassssssssssssssssh

I want to feel (Colorado. Winter 2002.)

February 27, 2012 JaclynLeave a comment

I want to feel

your arms

spinning me as we dance

until the sun rises

and we must

fall as autumn

rays sneak over mountain tops

and caress our faces

lulling us to lay down

in grass sweating dew

I want to feel

your chest

sleeping pressed

against

my back

assuring

me of your presence

with no sheets between us

as I tell the secrets

you knew when we met

I want to feel

your hand

cradling my head

tangled

in my hair

so that he cannot leave

until my strands relax

safe

and let him go

Paper Angels, by Olive Twist

February 26, 2012February 1, 2022 JaclynLeave a comment

In my years living in Bangkok, I have found it difficult to meet others who also write in English (my Thai is not nearly good enough for Poetry) and are looking for a community in which they can work on writing. One of the things I love already about blogging is the immediate sense of community and camaraderie I feel with others who are also on here sharing their words with the world. It amazes me that this seems to happen so organically and easily on WordPress. In only a month or so of blogging, I have already met some inspiring, beautiful people who have encouraged me to write more and more.

One of these people is Sister Olive, at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/. Her ‘twist’ on spirituality and delicate words bring beauty and emotion to heavy situations. Olive nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award, which really warms my heart. I feel so appreciative, especially since I am new to this whole realm.

Not being a rule follower myself, I am not going to bombard you with facts about me or with a giant list of other blogs I like. Instead, I am going to take this opportunity to slowly share some of the amazing writing I’ve found floating out here in cyberspace. Check back on Sundays for writers who are making me smile.

This Sunday is dedicated to Olive. Thank you, Olive, for really making me feel welcome in the WordPress community and also for encouraging me.

Here is one of my favorite gems from Olive’s blog.

Enjoy!

Paper Angels

http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/2012/02/23/paper-angels/

by Olive Twist at http://olivetwist.wordpress.com/

(The Iris Diaries)

The wind began sending messengers to Iris when she was very young. Wandering artisans always surrounded her, giving her poems and art and stories. One day as she sat in a café filled with smoke and laughter, a man with faded denim pants and a worn plaid shirt approached her. He had a familiar mystical flame about his brow, and his reddish hair was curly and matted.

Iris had been inking a picture of a snake climbing up a tree in her sketchbook when he approached her, pointed at her drawing, and said, “Get rid of that snake.” Then he handed her a piece of dirty folded up paper and went out into the street, as the wind blew open the door. She unfolded the paper and found these words written in blue ballpoint pen:

So long on this road back to the wall,

I’d pray I’d die before I’d fall;

Death wish in a land of hell,

Don’t want to cry, search for the well

That gives to me the truth of truth;

In it’s sweet light (don’t need no proof).

Walking middle ground

I found my song in a silent sound

Where eyes don’t hide behind

Masks that make you laugh when you should have cried,

That let you live when you should have died.

So long on this road but I hear the call,

I see the truth and with it walk tall.

It aint the stand I’m afraid to make,

It’s the illusion the world wants me to take

That sees the light and clouds the truth

With its lack of faith and search for proof.[1]

She could feel soft flowing air and a rustle of wings. There was something comforting and kind about the man.

A mysterious long-haired lady with wintery eyes handed her a poem scribbled on aged brown parchment:

The one who weaves the wind

Stood grey before me.

The woods were dawn-grey

Dripping, soft, and so quiet.

The wind-weaver

Was catching shadows and mist

For her loom…[2]

A young man wearing a purple tie-dyed shirt gave her a little poem as he passed her one day, and she sensed that protective spirit again:

Love is the vine

Given mankind

To help him find

His home divine.[3]

One breezy morning while she sat upon a squeaky porch in the ghetto, a man with soft green eyes and glasses approached her and offered her a poem:

The flowers open

At thy feet

Beads of

Dew

Wonderful and new

Angel of light

How many dawns

Have I drunk from your cup?[4]

The affection that the Iris evoked from strangers was disconcerting. Why did poets pop up like flowers wherever she went? Why did they all speak of spiritual things? She felt that someone was calling for her and wanted to be her friend.

A young man handed her this poem on a small piece of white paper with only his name “Sunrise” on the bottom:

The princess in purple

Carrying her guitar…

She shares her music

With all who’ll listen

Her gentle ways could be an inspiration to all

If only they would take time.

Even her ring is purple.

I’ve seen her on the streets

I’ve seen her in the parks

Always ready to share her music

And her heart…[5]

Iris knew that people were drawn to her, but she wondered why all of the writings were spiritual in some way. Did people see something that she could not see at the time?

Now she can see how the wind loved her long before she knew him. He had been loyal to her in a sorrowful land, and had filled her life with meaning.

One morning she talked to a man in the donut shop where she worked. He wore glasses and had curly blonde hair and a beard. She told him of her dream of meeting Christ in an elevator. A few days later he visited and as she was cleaning the counter, she found a story written which he tucked under his napkin:

Immediately and noisily the doors opened, a mild shock far exceeded by the presence of a man, dressed in a loose white robe, staring directly at her out of the elevator—so directly as to imply he knew in advance where she would be standing…And so it was, and the surrounding city with it, corners dissolving into a blizzardy whiteness, glowing brilliant for a moment and then fading, edgeless as the voice of this prophet, into gray, into black, into liquid- no light, no sound, no scent, no feel, no taste- only absence, vacancy, and peace: only the consciousness of a smile, the smile of God.[6]

[1] “Back to the Wall” by Jude

[2] “The Weaver of the Wind” by Margaret

[3] By Kelly

[4] From Michael

[5] By Sunrise

[6] By Al

***********************

Agaonidae (Thailand. Summer 2006.)

February 24, 2012April 21, 2021 JaclynLeave a comment

Part I

It began with the fig. It will end with the fig as well. She was my mother, the womb from which I was born and she is my home. She gave life to the forest, feeding gibbons and hornbills, civets and barking deer. But only I am of her.

Before my time, she attracted a body swollen with eggs that soon would grow into me, my sisters and brothers, and him. This swollen wasp body forced her way home, losing antennae and wings in her struggle to enter the fig. They danced together, a dance which would end in death; which is to say, a dance ending in new life. The wasp would not make it out alive. She implanted her eggs into the flesh of my mother, knowing all along it was only a trap.

Part II

I had barely opened my eyes and he was there. It was my lifes first movement to reach for him, tiny legs reaching for his tiny gentle body. Though the fig was our womb, it was he who gave birth to me. He had eaten through the walls of the egg holding me in. For now, I could stretch my wings, and now I knew of a world outside of myself. My wings wrapped around him, enclosing us both, creating a tiny screen to shield from the hundreds of other wasp bodies performing the same frenzied ritual. The flowers of the fig caressed us and showered us with pollen, the holy water of creation. There was no such thing as close enough.

and i left him there

Part III

And just like that everything came undone. My whole world exploded in spirals of starry pollen, glistening with the reflection of a sun I had never seen. The powdery gold coated my abdomen and legs, turned my black hair blonde. Rattan palms turned their fanned gazes upward. Macaques tilted curious heads in my direction. The butterflies all were still. The whole forest held its breath as it watched life’s fairy-dust rain down from my mother fig.

Under these vigilant eyes, my sisters and I fly skyward, the new dilettantes of the forest, in a synchronized ballroom-dance search for purpose. Fig-pollen for lipstick and rouge, we shine. Our lacy wings make us the angels of new life. Drip-tip leaves offer their hands in marriage, strangler figs try to tie us down. But we know we are meant for more than that. We are swollen with the children of the forest.

Creative Commons love to http://www.flickr.com/photos/jingleslenobel/ for the amazing picture!