"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."

poetryrePAIRs v07.09:110

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JENNIFER COMPTON Making Up for Lost Time As all around the house nature groans urgently I lean into the secret wire that takes me to the world tonight, the frog will not hop like one wet gumboot along the verandah, no, nor the stiff-necked almost owl gaze into the heart of light that moths crave these were occasions on another night, before the frogs dwindled, hid under stones bogongs were not summoned by the rains there were no rains, and no frog song neither out in the paddock, and spreading further out a soundscape with a vanishing point the tap of my keys pattering like rain when our house was lit up to the skies tonight, a thread of silk is flung, I risk a shaded lamp, and a white-blue haze humming up off the liquid crystal screen darkness comes down from the cathedral ceiling covering me like a blanket as I crouch at the lens of the apparatus, apprehensive of the image to be captured in a flash in the pan, the ferocious blaze the frog songs begin again, as frogs succeed as the wheel creaks and stirs and begins to roll the seeking fingers locking like a pumpkin vine that has trawled blue vacancy and found a void seizing something! anything! and going for it coiling and grasping willy nilly – just like love Previously published in Quadrant (Australia) and Poetry NZ (New Zealand) online here with the poet's permission (©2007 www.poetryrepairs.com a.k.a. POETRYrePAIRS

"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."

poetryrePAIRs v07.09:110

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JOHN HORVATH jr.Paths to Becoming a Poet One story too often told is the one about the poet who could not be published in his or her own time. The other story is the one about a would-be poet who quits writing. I met the second-story poet in my email: “I've written many poems and started recording from 2002 but stopped when I reached deadends with regard to publishing.” Persistence wins the day! Every day. I suggest that poets send no fewer than three no more than six poems each day. This can be expensive offline; but, you can delay the inevitable costs (in envelopes and postage) by emailing your work. List poetry journals you enjoy; and, be mindful that the journals should publish your particular brand of poetry. If you have visions of apocalypse or are experiencing some form of religious ecstasy, poetryREpairs is not for you. Never worry. There are hundreds of online zines dedicated to almost any subject imaginable…just keep looking. In fact spend about a month or two searching for your kind of poetry and collecting addresses (and – importantly – the names of editors). 'Dear editor' once puffed my chest up in pride; time and use changes things, the salutation has become an unfortunate sibling to 'hey you!'. You need to indicate that as a poet you know something about communicating with your audience – in this case, the poetry editor. If you have a favorite poet, do a search for that person's name online. The results will show you where your poet is published. When you say in your message to cover the poem, “I enjoyed 'x poem' by So N. So in your April edition; So, I'm sending poetry that is in the vein of So N. So .” If nothing else, you will work toward being published with your admired poet. A list of the poet's success can lead to your own success. And, it is always pleasant business when editors receive poetry in response to poetry published – it shows you know what's going on, unlike hundreds of would-be poets who send everything everywhere. Don't be afraid to have an editor actually edit your poetry. Most poets hate the slightest suggestion to change a poem. I have had poets withdraw otherwise excellent poems simply because I wanted to change misspelled words. Beware the publisher who accepts everything and will publish anything: You're not the recipient of a kindness. In another instance a young woman sent in a set of poems on the edge of a forceful voice. She nearly buried her observations in “The” “Then” “They”-the sisters of Stammering- an overuse of to-be verbs that merely point at equalities and identities: “she is Jane” tells you nothing about JANE! Beyond spelling, punctuation, and grammar there's a broad spectrum of poetic devices and metrics you should attempt. Once you've prepared yourself to accost the editors of the world, send 3 to 6 poems to editors of online zines. As I do on poetryREpairs (at http://www.poetryrepairs.com ), most editors will carry a 'guidelines page' detailing what the editor prefers. For example: poetryREpairs avoids publishing rhymes that do not evidence a broader knowledge of poetics/mechanics. If you are opposed to forms, to structure, and/or to 'formalities', be intelligently opposed. A poem written a certain way (as in 'it can't be changed because I dreamed it so' ) is not poetry but psycho-therapy (yes, there ARE journals just for that too). By the way, an editor who first accepts your poems should be given the first opportunity to publish these poems; in fact, simply avoid simultaneous submissions. It gets to be a records-keeping chore and you want to be a poet not a file clerk. My last advice: if it is your native language, play with it. The most idiotic thing I've heard is people in an English speaking country bewailing 'I'm not good at English.' Writing is communicating, have fun with it or take up knitting.By the way, poetry for poetryREpairs should be sent to Editor@poetryrepairs.com Contemporary' and 'International' poetry lover! Opportunity to edit non-English poetryREpairs subdomain (fr.poetryrepairs.us). Editor chooses/earns from affiliates. Send a paragraph 'about you' to editor [at] poetryrepairs.zzn.com

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from vMM.10:109 RALPH MONDAY The Hollygrail Johnny Blue had been spiritless since birth. Even his mother noticed when he popped Out like a sleek seal - sorta sideways - That boy ain't got no soul. She traded him to his father for a couple Of tickets to Disneyland and future Remuneration to be named. Johnny's father had a soul once, but Lost it fishing for salmon in Alaska. The jeans do tell. Totem poles and grizzly bears quickly Became boring; then his father either Died, or went away—choose the story. There poor Johnny was, like a convict Out on parole, already doomed for a Crime not quite sure of. He had never even heard of Kafka or castles. He sensed something was amiss, but like A lemming turned the wrong way He never could quite make the leap. Children threw mudballs at him. Critters shunned him. Johnny scratched his head and went to The chief totem guy. Blueboy offered Some tobacco but the major pole folk Wanted cold Uncle Sam. He gave him What he had, which wasn't much, threw In his best slingshot. Dude broke out his premium feathers and Consulted the hawk sitting blind and Mute on top of the pole. No soul, said the man. What? No soul. Nuff said. Wander on down to the heartland, My chicken dumpling; look for it there. MTV, devil music filled him up for awhile, As well as bad blonde sitcoms and an occasional Western or two. This became unsatisfying. He went to the black Clubs where there was plenty of soul food, Tried his best at a whirling dance dervish. Brothers only sadly shook their heads. No soul. He tried the gay bars and floor shows. The powdered, skirted butterfly boys Looked better than he did. No soul. He tried political rallies; bad mistake. Politicians and lawyers definitely have No soul. Skunks got better jive. Finally found it: at a Kmart blue light Special right between cheap lingerie And last year's Christmas lights. The Hollygrail, a plastic goblet, a bit Tattered and stained with manufactured Holly leaves sticking out the top. Man, it shone like a TV's dead channel Late at night. Cheap, too. Buck fifty. Blue man polished that thing up like A brass general, put it under his pillow, Took it out every day to examine like The tooth fairy's golden gift. His life changed; even got a girlfriend And a cat. Picked them up foraging in one of the Best downtown dumpsters. Knew he was on a holy roll Because the electronic preachers Spat out his schtick like an animal Control officer on a better day. Till his pavement babe started to Feed the cat chittlings out of his Hollygrail. Definitely changed his attitude. You don't touch god thing, baby. It got soul. He kicked her out, but kept the Cat, better pussy anyway. Cat died; Johnny couldn't find the Hollyheart. So he called 900 numbers, The psychic network at least a Trinity of times. Bennie Hen put him onto the trick; Springer zeroed in like a Kamikaze Planting Shinto for the Pope. That's when he went on the show. That's when he sniffed the scent, Took to wearing Old Spice Got a gig of his own in Nashville. Sported a California tan, hustled advice To the Scientologists, dug the genie Out of the bottle, ran the game on infomercials Sold soul to a million freaks Before the feds busted him Because his garbage girl (the faithless twit) Turned him in on a technicality and Slick Willie Became his guru. poetryrepairs.com seeks volunteer editors to expand PoetryRepairShop via "language".poetryrepairs.us into a true 'Contemporary' and 'International' site. If you are fluent in a language other than English and you wish to help, please edit a one or two poems; send the poems and a paragraph 'about you' to editor@poetryrepairs.zzn.com .

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