I've been editing poetry anthologies for some time now.  Based on my  experiences and those of some of my fellow editors, I've complied a list of amazingly simple things people can do to improve their chances of having their poems published.

I realize that each publisher and each editor has different preferences when it comes to submission dos and don'ts and don'ts. However, there are some (almost) universal maxims that can help make your submission more appealing editors.

Most people have the importance of following directions drilled into them from a very early age, and with good reason.  Many editors will outright reject submissions that don't follow their guidelines. In fact, a large number of poems are rejected not because they are bad, but because they do not follow the publication's submission guidelines. These guidelines exist for a reason. Read them carefully!

If the guidelines require you to use a submission form, use it. If they require the submission sent as an attached as a .pdf file only, send them a .pdf. If the publication you are submitting to is looking for birthday themed acrostic poetry, do not send them a sonnet about a funeral.   This has to be both the easiest and most important tip to follow.

If you have a technological or geographical restriction, maybe an inability to save the file in the requested format or paste the piece into the body of the e-mail, it's better to ask the editor or publisher how to proceed.

Not following the submission guidelines says nothing but bad things: 1. You didn't read the guidelines at all. You sent out a blast submission e-mail and don't know anything about the publication nor do you care about it, 2. You read and disregarded the directions for some strange reason, or 3. You made an honest mistake. It happens from everyone from time to time, but that's why you should:


(To Be Continued)...
Check back each day this week for a new tip.
-Nick Hale

Just about everyone at some point in their life has had SOME experience in retail whether working in it or merely shopping that we swore we would write about. Here it is in this wonderful mostly comedic sometimes serious anthology that people have called "very unexpected yet somehow obvious."  

The Charge Card Delight Brigade

“Sale today!  Sale today!”
  headlines had thundered.

Off to the Miracle Mall
   Rode the six hundred.
Charging the price they paid
For every purchase made.
Into the Miracle Mall
   Rode the six hundred.

For every purchase made
Pay any price displayed!
Not that the shoppers knew
   How they had blundered.
Theirs not to clarify,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to shop and die:
Into the Miracle Mall
   Rode the six hundred.

Bargains to right of them,
Bargains to left of them,
Bargains in front of them
   There to be plundered.
Stormed by the eager horde,
Nothing they can’t afford.
Shopping carts overflow,
Nothing on sale ignored
  By the six hundred.

 Pushing straight past the guards,
Flashing their credit cards,
Clutching their debit cards,
Charging and spending while
   All the world wondered.

 Shopping, they never stopped
Shopping until they dropped,
Not till the shelves were bare.
Spent by the way they shopped
   Storewide they plundered.
Then they rode home, but not,
   Not the six hundred.

Bargains to right of them,
Bargains to left of them,
Bargains behind them,
   All they had plundered.
Now, as if in a spell,
One by one down they fell,
They who had shopped so well―
Lost in the Valley of Debt,
Broke, in the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charges made!
   All the world wondered.
Honor the charges made,
Cherish the prices paid,
   Noble six hundred.

      ~George H. Northrup

Stay tuned for more information on Retail Woes, Poetry From Both Sides of The Counter and the upcoming launch events for the anthology. The first one is scheduled for March 18th at 7:30 at Dowling College in Oakdale, Long Island, NY.

Have you heard the legend
about an Indian princess
who fell in love
with the wrong man?

Her father was tribal chief
he forbade the romance
no man was good enough
for his little girl

He caught his lovely daughter
naked in her lover's arms
he swore the youth
would suffer a most painful death

Fresh from the evening hunt 
hepointed with a maniacal grin
to the bloody scalp
tied high on his belt

The princess lost her mind
and jumped in the muddy waters
of Lake Ronkonkoma
her watery grave

If you walk along the shore
you may hear her moan
mourning her lost love
over and over

Throw a rock in the water
see if stops the wailing
see if it stops the pain
see if it stops

~ Roberta A. McQueen

Dallas, Texas
Thurn & Taxis
Barns & Hexes
Phones & Faxes
Friend & Axis
Wheel & Axle
Spears & Axes
Horns & Saxes
Credit Maxes
Wanes & Waxes
Death & Taxes

~George Held

No, no, no no no!
I can’t do this, I must be crazy.
You must be crazy!
How in the living heck can you expect me to write a love poem?
Love poem…
love poem!
I could NEVER write a love poem!

“Once upon a time, my half-fiancé, half-cheated on me with that
half-marine when she was at her half-assed college half way up the
east coast!”

Blah, doesn’t sound too good, does it?

“Oh the mystical magical marvelous evening meetings by the
seashore, with the sparkles and rainbows glistening in the spring air…”
What are we, fairies!?

Maybe I’ll get down on one knee and confess,
my deep, unyielding, unrepentant, guilty, jealous,
burning, burning, deep, jones, obsession, desire,
undeniable love,
for cheese fries!!

How could I ever write a poem to express something as complex
and unimaginable as the Lword?

How can I hope to write about…my own experiences?
No way to describe that feeling deep down in my bread basket,
the tingling anticipatory reaction I get just seconds before
I see her.
I could never explain that her kiss still lingers on my lips
deliciously for ages after we part.
How the hell am I supposed to say that I, a grown man, can
sit there, in his comfy chair,
curled up with a hankie, tearing as tale as old as time from
Beauty and the Beast dances before my screen just because of the
feelings she has breathed into me?

I didn’t just say that out loud just now, did I?

No way!! That’s it! I can’t do this!

I cannot explain to people that feeling of unequivocal
contentment when she’s there with me, arm in arm, hand in
hand,entwined in a cuddle cloud,
on the couch with the fire in the fire place burning.
Not even needing the Lord of the Rings on the TV screen to
take us to the fantasy realm that we are already in, in our embrace.

No, yo no tengo las parablas,
tidak
salamat,
terima kasih
No way to convey
in English,
Spanish
Indonesian or Tagalog.
I’m done,
that’s it,
I can not write
a love poem.
I just don’t have the words,
to do it right.

Alright, I admit it, I can be a serious nerd. And like millions of other nerds I have always loved the concept of the super hero. Batman always tended to be my favorite because of the fact that he didn't have any inherent super powers (unless you count an unending cash flow as a super
power--which these days, most people probably would) so he had to rely on his cunning, his intelligence and desire to do right in order to make a difference.

The thing that always stood out to me the most about superheroes was the idea of the “Clark-Kent”persona to borrow a specific from Superman. I was always fascinated by the idea that during the day someone can put on the face and act out being someone who is totally different from the person they actually are—a disguise, a ruse, a way to blend into the world and be accepted as ordinary.

 “What does this have to do with poets or poetry?” you might be asking yourself already. Don’t worry—I’m getting there. I would make a bold claim that almost anyone who dares to be a poet in the 21st century has some familiarity with the notion of a day-job. Let's face it—most poets for one reason or another don't have a lot of money and if they do happen to have a lot of money 99 times out of 100 it does NOT come from the poetry (at least not directly, although there are exceptions.) Poets also have a tradition of coming from all walks of life and all different professions. That’s part of what makes the various poetry communities so fulfilling and enriching—the fact that all different sorts of people come together to take part of a common interest. 

But of course, most poetry events happen at night-time. Why? Because of the previous reasons we just talked about—poets need to work to make a living! The events wouldn’t be too crowded during the daytime when most of the poets are working. But when the night comes and the events open, they take off the mask they wore during the day—store clerk, cashier,
doctor, lawyer, consultant, auto-worker, bookkeeper, student, mother, father, ordinary Joes and Janes going about unassuming lives—and they sprout into an entirely different personality. 

Now granted I’m generalizing here—but the transformation from ordinary citizen to poet is something that can be very extreme. I have lost count of the number of people I have known on the poetry scene who tend to be meek-mannered and mild during the daytime, but at night in front of that podium, sprout their wings and fly into a brave personality unafraid to divulge to the audience the thoughts and feelings on their mind in lyrical mastery. Some of us even go so far into the personality change we have our own stage-names, performance personas, even articles of clothing, or props we wear to cement the change into our mindsets while we’re performing. Jane McRegular during the day can very easily become Janet SUPER Planet, Performance Poet extraordinaire in front of the poetry podium past eight. 

But don't super-heroes fight crime!? Well, yes they do. And some would argue that this is the most important function of a superhero. But once you get past the love of the action and the powers we all wish we had, looking at the concept of the superhero as a metaphor and a mythology, I have always personally seen the fighting crime as just an extension of what it is they are REALLY trying to accomplish. After all—one doesn't just do something for the sake of doing it—they are trying to achieve something. What is the one thing that Superman, Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, The X-Men, Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and all the rest of them have in common? They are trying to make the world a better place.

Yes, yes, I know that still doesn’t explain the whole poetry angle, don’t worry, I’m getting there!

Examine the major-changes in poetry in the last decade or so. Poetry is no longer, in most of the active circles, just something that people do for the sake of commenting on how lovely a flower looks or how much they love their nice new shoes (although there is certainly nothing wrong with poems like these.) But I think you will find that in many circles poetry has become about something much more than a simple commentary on the finer things in life but has instead shifted to a movement—something I like to call poetic-activism.

Imagine 50 poets gathering at a mansion hall to read writing to raise autism awareness—the audience consisting of those directly affected by the topic, roaring with applause at most of the verse being performed—many rushing to the stands to buy copies of the book thrown together
and pins, posters and other merchandise associated with the brand. Imagine a poetic journey chronicling more than 30 years of the life of a breast-cancer survivor thrown into a collection that not only inspires others but donates profits to raise money for breast-cancer research. Or envision a poetry reading from a book thrown together in less than a month after a disaster at a charity event where all the proceeds from the raffles and the book sales and the admission are all being donated to a relief fund for hurricane Sandy. These aren't just figments of an imagination—these events actually happened (see below)—and quite a bit more is real too.

Poets aren't just writing—they're writing for a reason. Many poets consider themselves a small voice behind a major cause—they rally together for specific purposes and travel from event to event to read their work to as many people in as many different audiences as possible. Poets
traveled into New York city to be part of the Occupy movement. Poets have gathered together to raise money to help poverty—and for the hungry. There are even poets out there who rally behind specific causes—HIV awareness, LGBTQ issues, disability-rights, and much, much more. And whats more—poets are making an impact—in ways that previous generations had labeled very unlikely if not outright impossible. Take the popularity of performance poet Taylor Mali for example—who became a champion for teachers and education with his poem “What Teachers Make.” His poetry has been taught in classrooms, and his performance videos on YouTube have millions of views. 

For a long time many people have dismissed poetry and those who wrote it as members of (what one poet calls it) "the longest living dying art"—keeping relics of something no longer interesting or relevant. But a new wave of poets in a new time have turned it around completely. New poetry readings attract people of all ages, all demographics, all groups and all interests—sometimes the venues that host them have a hard time accommodating the number of those interested—a far cry from the poetry readings where the featured performer would have to say “thank you both for coming.”

The poets of the 21stcentury might not dress up in ridiculous costumes (although some do) and they might not fight crime (then again I'm not tracking them 24/7 so who knows)—at least in any way other than verbally. But they have tapped into a power that had been forgotten for quite a long time—poetry has sprung out of being trapped onto the page, and has evolved away from being something only the academics could appreciate. By making poetry about something that other people care about, poets have found the super-power of resonating with people through words. Their words inspire, their words educate, and their words slowly but surely are proving to make just a little bit of a difference. Words as Dumbledore says “Are our most inexhaustible source of magic.” and in an age when people are learning that technology does not have all the answers to all our problems (and in some cases make new problems) they are turning back to the power of words. 

Normal, unassuming people in any variety of careers by day, super-poet do-gooder, cause fighter, activist and helper by night? Sounds a little bit silly when put into those exact words. But the truth of the matter is that more and more people are coming along down this path—and gathering quite a following while doing it. Maybe poets in the 21st century aren't exactly super-heroes, but some of them are working very hard to make the world a better place—just like Batman, Superman, the X-Men, and any super-hero that ever dared to put on a mask tried
to do as well. Most of us might not have the power of flight, super-strength, or telepathy (although I can't say I've personally interviewed everyone to make sure) but we are armed with words. And the power behind words is the superpower to change the world.

~James P. Wagner (Ishwa)

I am nearly invisible
yet seen and felt

I permeate and spread
yet am depleted by ignorance and indifference

I build bridges and doors
but am dismantled by pride and exclusion

I long to be the example
but am often censored by fear

I am carelessly promoted by impostors
who deceitfully wield  my power for their own means

But I am
and will continue to be
as long as there are those who praise me

I am Toleranceand I will live on

~Amy Caraballo

If it weren’t for the twisting willows
constantly brushing across my face,
I could have loved you.
If it weren’t for the illicit yellowness
of the sun interrupting the pale ocean
currents in my mind.
I could have loved you.
If it weren’t for oceans being used or alluded
to in every damn love poem ever written,
I could have loved you.
If it weren’t for the green and white needles
on the snow drenched terrain of your
emotional psychie,
I could have loved you.
If it weren’t for the hammer of the gods
pulsing through your veins,
if it weren’t for me having to wind my
way through the war zone of waterfalls
and moose crap, bears attacking me while
I’m just trying to empty out all this garbage
from the back of my car,
I could have loved you.
I tried to love you-
Through Moroccan villages and mint tea
strewn across Main St.
Through suicidal lust of journals on the
campus of the poetic goddess of the dark
where young girls want to be lesbians,
but only until graduation.
I tried to love you even through the barren
fields of the Kali Ghandaki river valley.
Shaggy Mongolian Ponies trying to knock
me off mile high cliffs, just like you used
to do to me, with your stare. Laughing at
the yack shit on my shoe, wondering how
it is I put these shorts on backwards.
I remember you smirking at that half blownout
ruin of a mountain on the Pacific,
blasted apart from just the flick of your hair.
I remember the shapeliness of your breasts. 
They melted entire continents.
The Rockies reduced to one vast liquefied
erogenous zone. I remember. I remember -
I remember you.

~ Russ Green

Written for and presented on June 12, 2011 at the Nassau County
Poet Laureate Induction for Dr. Lynda Opyr. And published in Bards Annual 2011.

Poetry? 
Are you kidding?
Poetry?

What the heck is wrong with you?
This is a day and age of the hi-tech.
You thought television would change the way we think,
try the internet!

Try those 33 second Youtube poops,
the 12 second ads
the 300 word articles
the split second instant gratification that people have come
to expect
in an A.D.D. prescribed society
lowering our attention spans even further
combined with the 70-80 hour work week average
fast paced, stop and go
gotta be somewhere else right now ten minutes ago speed
that has planted its seed
in our minds growing into our reality
no one has the want, need, or time
to sit there and read. 

Large conglomerates spend billions of dollars
on one minute commercials that people don’t even notice.
Corporations are vying for our attention with every cent they have
and still don’t always get it.

People are so distracted they don’t even know what goes on 
in the white house anymore.
When taking all that into consideration,
what do you,
what can you,
honestly expect a poet to do?
A poet,
a poet,
one person with a pen and paper postulating,
noticing,
observing the humor, heartbreak, inconsistencies, hypocrisies,
joys, kindness and all the other scattered phenomena of our 
society and 
records it in admittedly elegant verse from their perspective.

How is that supposed to work in a world where 
You ask anyone under 20 “Who lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue”
and they 
have no clue.
But you ask them “who lives in a pineapple under the sea” 
and they know 
instantaneously. 

When the government spends billions of dollars,
imprisoning the children for 8 hours a day 
trying with all their might to get through to them,
and still manage to get ignored,
what can a poet do?
I guess we could notice that no one cares…they don’t give a shit!
We could write about it—put our own spin on it
make it sound all fancified.
Maybe we could put into words a notion
that no one has yet made the motion
to preserve and pass on.
Maybe if we pen our postulations
And passed them to the person to the right of us
We would discover that on occasion
They’ve noticed exactly what we’ve noticed. 
After all
We forget that once upon a time before America was its own nation
Everyone noticed that taxation without representation was bullshit
That arrests without warrant or charge was not justice
But so many remained silent,
Until the first few
The founding fathers stepped forward to say what was what.
It took the penning of the declaration of independence
Which was poetic in itself to put forth the truth.
Maybe even now our observations, the little things we notice,
That traffic cameras don’t really make the roads safer,
That more restrictions on drinking only makes the kids want 
to drink more,
That women  despite  “equality”  spend  just  as much  time  doing
housework as they did in the fifties only now work a full time job to
go with it…

Maybe more people have realized these things than we realize.
Yet everyone keeps silent because they feel they are alone 
in their thoughts.
Maybe if we write about them, read them, go up in front of a 
group and perform them
Other people will sense a familiarity in our words…

And that muse that made us move our pens will go to them 
and do the exact same thing
and they’ll share what they’ve seen,
slowly but surely the observations will spread
the familiarity grabbing people out of their cubicles,
the internet infested
television troubled domiciles 
putting away the hi-tech fancy billion dollar attempts at their 
attention to give their focus
on the one thing that commercials, ads, government money and 
all the technology in the world can’t give them…

kindred spirits.
And maybe when they go back to their blog posts and facebook 
they will be inclined
To spread these observations
Maybe they will grow.

Maybe all it takes, in the words of Thomas Jefferson
the poet who gave us our nation with his pen:
“To place before mankind the common sense of the subject 
in terms so plain and firm as to command their ascent.”
THAT is the power of poetry!

And just because our duties are harder to perform 
does not excuse us from our responsibility to give it our all.

What can a poet do, you ask?
From one point of view once upon a time a poet gave us 
our nation—
That was then, this is now, when the spread of information has never
been easier.
What can a poet do?
What can a poet do? A poet can tell the truth…
And what can the truth do?
More than I could imagine…