In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody- Then-ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define- Nor Love-although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.
So when we announced our 2012-2013 list,* we hinted that we'd be doing a few other things too.
And this is one of those things.
We will be instituting an Open Reading Period for Poetry Chapbooks.
No fee. No bullshit.
Details to come once NaPoWriMo is over. But you can start thinking about it now, if you're that sort of thinker.
We also have 2014 forming a beautiful nebula of awesome in our minds.
So basically, we're just teasing you right now? Nah, we're just so excited we had to tell someone.
*Note that things have changed a bit since then. For instance, Shanna's book is now two books Brink (2012) and The Seam (2013). The chapbook(s) we choose from the open reading period will be published in Fall 2012 and/or Spring 2013. TINA by Peter Davis & Natural History Rape Museum by Danielle Pafunda are still both on track for 2013.
Last night read a poetry book full of pseudo-philosophic musings. Life enemies, is boring!
Some sort of giantess shot out of the lake with a yellow feather attached to her big toe.
Made me want to drink and listen to country music even though I'm pregnant. Doc says son you can’t do any more of that cocaine. Have I become this southern and trashy? Can the paw of a tulip grow from the mouth of a dead dog?
Little shepherd boy of the valley, oh little Christian checkout boy, oh little green apron boy with the crappy gray eyes, lets watch the sun rise over Georgia.
Gave poetry book five stars on Goodreads. I am such a liar!
What if I get pregnant or step on a syringe and contract AIDS? Who’s going to give me a lot of money
so I can quit my day job and joke around? A log truck rolled over on my commute and out spilled a lake who was trying to communicate by dragging his circular pilgrims underwater.
Why do you keep asking about the Indian burial ground of my childhood? Growing collards is easy: you toss some seeds into the dirt and… voilà!
This life that I hate more than anything. “Here Pepito, have a 40.”
This apartment that I despise more than life. “Here Mark Strand, have a 40.”
The founder of a large corporation wished to buy me a plate of spaghetti. This lake: just the rambling-on of an idiot.
No one word contains inherent magic, Child Lake! Let me reiterate:
You have my friendship, but how will you take my word?
Twin girls throw balls of bread at the blue heron standing in the lake.
One woman wears a shirt that says “Property of Jesus,” another wears a shirt that says “Je t’adore.”
Pink hamburger slime. Ammonia on the heaven sent, on where we went. Disinfectant. Move six stones
to the left. War trope, Vietnam-era helicopter, heliotrope. This is my token of friendship.
By the end of this poem, the heron will fall over on his side and die.
There's nothing official about NaPoWriMo, and that's the way we like it. It's not invented, supported, or sponsored by any organization. Anyone can participate. (Sign up here, or don't sign up--it doesn't matter!)