Monday, April 5, 2010

Rejected Poems [[Part 1]]

Poetry Submission for Booth - KB, San Francisco, CA
BOOTH - A Literary Journal Sat, Apr 3, 2010 at 3:34 PM
To: KB
Dear Karen,

Thank you for submitting "Subbasement," "Documentary," "Out, Out," and "Old Windows vs. New" to Booth. Unfortunately, they do not fit our current needs.

All the best,
Poetry Editors

And so I give you, The Rejected Poems.


With four days of digging
you are found – fried pad of flesh
formerly responsible for:
e flat
last bit of batter in the bowl

Who is surprised
to see you like this, hands
having held much now unwound?
the side of no
face will know

You were laughing:
last explosive pause
full of floating nails and bad math
recipes cook


Documentary (A Triolet)

This time, I am with you as your ship sinks
on-screen. The planks shudder first, then shatter.
Inside the safe circle of your arm, I think,
“But this time I am with you!” As your ship sinks,
that too-fast crash re-hashed, you never blink –
So clear from here, the warning signs (but they don’t matter
this time.) I am with you when your ship sinks.
Onscreen, the planks shudder first. Then they shatter.


Out, Out

I took it out back and beat it clean,
watched each word explode and dangle -
lack-luster dust in a sunny stream.
Entire phrases rotated in the gleam before the breeze
sent them screaming down the alley.

The blank page blinked and preened, grateful
to have been set free. All opportunity again, it seemed.
Breathless from the beating, I didn’t see
that bits of this still clung to me.

At last, the sleep of ignorant relief.

Nouns seethed and sneaked from beneath my fingernails.
So quickly, they found that pristine page,
formed a chain and let it choke.


Old Windows vs. New

smashed my hand so bad I couldn’t
get it out alone -
so scared you weren’t home,
your name as moans and pistol.
watched the lines of my fingers refract
in all the wrong places on the other side
of the glass
and blast of pain I could hear in my canines
when you broke the window frame.

the nails that fall off on their own,
the nails I tug off with my teeth.

the thrumming pulp of my fingers under the napkin
under the kitchen table.

your swollen chest when you promise you won’t
always be around for things like this.


The Skirted Wordsmith said...

Fuck Booth!!!

The Skirted Wordsmith said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
The Skirted Wordsmith said...

Oh. I accidentally posted the same comment twice, but then when I deleted it, it made it look like I wrote something cryptic and then reconsidered. So, I will say again: FUCK BOOTH! Those poems are art!

Karen said...

Ginger, you are the best. Thank you!!! :)