...then follow the action live on our first ever Writer's Digest Conference blog at http://writersdigestconference.blogspot.com. I'll actually kick off the blogging around 4 p.m. or so (NYC time) with the Opening Address. And other Writer's Digest editors will be helping document the event, too. It won't be as good as being there, but it should still be pretty sweet.

Also, if you're in the NYC area Friday night (9/18), then head over to the Bowery Poetry Club around 8 p.m. and meet me at the first ever Writer's Digest Poetry Slam. It is a FREE event (open to the public); so c'mon by and say, "Hi." For directions to the Bowery Poetry Club, check out their website at http://www.bowerypoetry.com/.

And it's still not too late to register for the Writer's Digest Writer's Conference, and I believe you can even sign up for individual days. For more information, go to http://www.writersdigestconference.com/GeneralMenu.

But yeah, if you're not able to get out there, check out the blog; there should be lots of great bits and pieces offered up throughout the weekend and into the beginning of next week.

Friday, September 18, 2009 12:59:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [3] 

It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it is a dark and stormy night. Earlier, it was a dark and stormy day. Stormy enough to knock out the electricity when I was half-way through typing up today's prompt. Believe me, I realize the irony of the situation. In a moment, I'm sure you'll recognize the irony, too.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem about starting over. Think of a situation in which you could hit a re-start button involving yourself, some one (or thing) else, an idea, etc. As with all these prompts, I'm sure there are several different paths we can follow.

With my fingers crossed that the power won't go out again, here's my attempt for the day:

"Finding patterns"

In the year of the days, the monsters
are attacking themselves and everything
that crosses their paths. Those monsters
are blinded when the flashlights dance
into corners frequented by spiders. Poor
Stacy isn't sure what will happen next:

She's already been clubbed by a troll and
trampled by an army of zombies. Once, a car
ran her over while she crossed the street.
Reese includes her in his stories--with her
always by his side--but he denies he likes
her. Easier to throw Stacy under a bus.

*****

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Thursday, September 17, 2009 2:30:39 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [175] 

Wow! Today is 09/09/09. As someone who got married on 08/08/08 (at 8:08--in the p.m.--no less), I can totally appreciate the effect of numbers in the writing of others. After all, numbers and letters are basically the same thing: symbols representing something else.

For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem that incorporates numbers in some fashion. The title could be a number. The end word for each line could be a number (maybe even a counting sestina?). There are a number of ways you could come at this one.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Counting"

Reese is five years old;
Jonah is six. Benjamin
is eight, and Will is, too,
though he's still in months.

I turned 31 earlier
this year, but I have no
idea how old my grandmother
is. She may not even know.

We visited her and grandpa
today, and she asked me
six times if I had seen
dad's new house. His last

move was more than 10
years ago. She disappeared
into the house one minute
after grandpa got everyone

drinks before reappearing
with four pops. Grandpa
smiled and had her sit down
while he took them back inside.

Left alone with her, there
was little left for us to say.
The sun shining and a nice
breeze, we both just smiled.

*****

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Wednesday, September 09, 2009 9:04:20 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [238] 

Earlier this week, I was asked a pretty ridiculous question: How many poetry submissions (or poems) get rejected by American poetry journals (per year)?

It's not so ridiculous, I suppose, if you're just guesstimating an approximation. But then, the person (I'll let him remain anonymous) went on to ask if I can forward him to a resource that knows the answer if I do not. (And, by the way, he's already consulted poets.org, pw.org, The NY Public Library, and the Library of Congress.)

I'm not surprised he wasn't able to find an answer, because any answer he could have received would've been completely and utterly bogus.

To determine a specific number would require:

1. Knowing every journal (big and small press) that receives poetry submissions each year.
2. Knowing how many submissions (or poems) are rejected by each journal.

The first part is a lot more difficult than it seems. Even the best directories, do not list every small press journal on the market. Are there 500 literary journals accepting poetry submissions? Are there 5,000? Do high school and college publications count? Where is the line drawn exactly if you want an exact number?

The second part is even harder to figure out. Most editors don't even know how many submissions (or poems) they reject a year. They give approximations like, "We only accept less than 1% of what's submitted," or, "We reject 500 poems every poem we publish." If a journal can't even give you a specific number, how can you give an accurate (or near accurate) answer?

Bottom line: You can't.

More than a million poems are likely rejected each year by American poetry journals. I'm not sure what the point of getting any more specific would accomplish. In fact, I'm not sure why a general knowledge even matters. At the end of the day, it's just another silly, ridiculous statistic.

Poets will continue to write and submit their poetry despite the odds. And I think that's exactly how it should be.

*****

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Friday, September 04, 2009 7:10:10 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [9] 

As I mentioned earlier, my wife Tammy's second chapbook, No Glass Allowed, was recently published by verve bath press. Meanwhile, I've resisted the urge to interview Tammy for more than two years now. But the release of a poetry collection is too much for me to pass, especially when the poems are all so good. (Seriously, I loved Tammy's writing even before we started dating. No, really.)

Tammy's writing has been (or will soon be) published in publications such as storySouth, The Pedestal, RATTLE, and others. She received her BA in English at Georgia State University and promptly became a paralegal. She was born, raised and still resides in Atlanta, Georgia--and can be reached via e-mail at tammyfbrewer@gmail.com.

My personal favorite poem in No Glass Allowed is also framed on my desk in my Atlanta office. Here it is:

Sea Gypsies

You said you spent 5 minutes of your life
today looking for a staple remover.
Something to do with your job.
You edit, and sometimes
there is a need to pull things

apart. There are mountains
between us, and then a river.
The land swells with seeds
that fall from your pockets,
sewing the distance with deep
breaths, an entire city
in your smile.

I tell you about the Mokens,
gypsies of the Andaman Sea.
How they knew to flee the tsunami
before the first wave tore trees
from their roots, husbands from wives.
When the sky turns to salt, sometimes
there is a thirst. In their language

there is no word for want,
only an understanding
of give and take. You said
I took away your need
and you want

to share water with me.
The ground presses its pregnant
belly against my feet. I am
distracted by squirrels
in the trees. Wind.
When.

*****

What are you up to?

I've got the windows open and I'm listening to the wind and hoping baby Will stays asleep in his swing. And sipping some water and trying not to eat too many pretzel sticks.

Other than that, I have a new chapbook out from Verve Bath Press!

Within the past year, you changed your name--with earlier work as Tammy Foster Trendle and more recent publications as Tammy Foster Brewer. How have you handled that transition? And have there been any surprises (good or bad) as a result?

That's a good question. Foster is my maiden name. The first time I got married, I struggled with the idea of changing my last name. I was a Foster and I was proud of my family and my name. But, I wanted to have children and I thought it would be easier to change my name. My first poetry publications were under my married name--Tammy F. Trendle. I have a lot of publications (including my first chapbook) under that name.

I got divorced and remarried and didn't have any hesitations this time around about changing my name; however, I think I still published one or two poems under my previous name. Once I started publishing under Brewer, I decided to include in my bio my former name (in parenthesis). I joked that I didn't want anyone to think I was plagiarizing Tammy Trendle.

I don't think the name change has caused any confusion in my writing life; however, it causes lots of confusion for the pediatrician whenever I take Reese (my son from my first marriage) because he always addresses me as Ms. Trendle and then apologizes and calls me Ms. Brewer. It's weird having so many aliases--but a little mysterious, too.

The poems in No Glass Allowed have many great linebreaks. Do you have a linebreak strategy when writing poems?

Yeah, I put a lot of thought into my linebreaks. It helps me to type out my poems on the computer, so that I can see the linebreaks clearly and evenly. I like to break my lines at a thought or an image, so that the idea/image changes meaning from one line to the next. Each word in the line adds to the overall idea/image in that line. I like to have what appears to be a simple sentence broken over a few lines so that the words have multiple meanings. I hope that makes sense.

Do you spend much time on revision?

Oh yes. I recently finalized a poem that I started writing 1.5 years ago. Usually, I get the lines down and then I pour over each word methodically until I finally feel like it's done. I am a perfectionist when it comes to my poetry. Every now and then I'll write a poem that only needs a tweek or two. It's a great feeling when those poems come so easily. (By the way, the poem I just mentioned that took me 1.5 yrs to finalize is going to be published in the upcoming Winter issue of RATTLE.)

Your poetry has appeared in several publications--in addition to your two chapbooks. How do you handle your submission process?

It's funny. I think I go through phases where I write write write and then I submit submit submit. I'm not very organized with my submission process. Fortunately, I've had several instances where editors have contacted me about publishing my poetry. (I always put my e-mail address in my bio which I think helps.) I think I'm just about at a point where I've submitted all of my good stuff and now it's time for me to write more.

Speaking of writing more. Where or how do you tend to find inspiration for your writing?

A lot of times I get inspiration from reading other poets or from looking at pieces of art. Whenever I get stumped or feel like I need inspiration, I'll look at artwork and start writing out ideas that pop in my head. Also, I get a lot of inspiration from listening to other people (especially my kids). Something said in an everyday conversation becomes a line in a poem. Also, driving helps. During my long commute to Atlanta for work, I get ideas just from looking out the window. I'm a daydreamer.

When you're reading other poets, what do you look for in a good poem?

I think a good poem makes me feel. I remember reading "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in high school and getting goosebumps (that's when I knew I was a poetry freak). I like a poem that can take language and twist it on its head. To read something that seems ordinary and simple on the outside but has many layers of meaning beneath. I think a good poem is one that even non-poets enjoy and appreciate.

Who are you reading currently?

I just finished re-reading Jessica Dawson's chapbook, Fossil Fuels (also published by Verve Bath Press). I'm also reading Cheryl Dumesnil's In Praise of Falling. Of course, I always like to read some Bob Hicok. I am a big fan of the small press and small press poets--Pris Campbell, Amanda Oaks, Jacob Johansen, Barton Smock to name a few.

If you could offer only one piece to other poets, what would it be?

Never forget you are a poet.

Final question: Who's your favorite poet named Robert?

You, silly.

*****

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*****

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*****

 

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Personal Updates | Poet Interviews | Poetry Craft Tips | Poets

Thursday, September 03, 2009 7:44:52 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [11] 

I did not think I'd have time to do a poetry workshop this week, but I surprised even myself with how much I've accomplished through Wednesday. So, let's get workshopping!

This week's poem comes from Jane Penland Hoover of Durham, North Carolina.

Here's the poem:

On Writing and Love, by Jane Penland Hoover

Always a middle
somewhere to come from
somewhere to go

I imagined I could fall in love
with gardening, if only
I could be close to those
who loved the taste

of green, the feel of bloom
upon some stem.

and so I joined them
the little club
that met each week
in someone's den.

listening and talking
about hydrangeas, seedlings,
sufficient moisture, and
what the sun might do.

But I didn't fall in love
with gardening.

One must get closer
kneel into the damp
earth, reach deep into
its darkened soil

rise up again and again
fingers dripping dirt.

And so it is with writing
still, the smell of ink
bleeding into skin, words
trailing back lead me.

*****

There are some obvious errors with capitalization and punctuation, but this is a pretty good start for the poem. What I really love in this poem is the metaphor Jane uses. Recently, I've been reading an advance copy of Robert Frost Speaking on Campus (due out at the end of September from W.W. Norton), and Frost was very much into metaphor.

In fact, I think there are two good ways to immediately strengthen this poem. One, correct the capitalization and punctuation. Two, strip out anything that does not directly relate to the gardening metaphor.

Here's the second version of Jane's poem after doing those two things:

On Gardening and Love, by Jane Penland Hoover

I imagined I could fall in love
with gardening, if only
I could be close to those
who loved the taste

of green, the feel of bloom
upon some stem.

And so I joined them,
the little club
that met each week
in someone's den.

Listening and talking
about hydrangeas, seedlings,
sufficient moisture, and
what the sun might do.

But I didn't fall in love
with gardening.

One must get closer,
kneel into the damp
earth, reach deep into
its darkened soil,

rise up again and again,
fingers dripping dirt.

*****

Already, this poem is much stronger. It still works as a possible metaphor for writing, but by focusing squarely on gardening, this poem also works as a metaphor for any hobby that someone could love. "Whether you're interested in writing or cooking or whatever," this poem is now saying, "you can't fall in love with something by merely talking about it. You have to actually work at it."

Notice: The only word change I've made so far is to swap the word "gardening" with "writing" in the title. Everything else is in the same order and same voice as used by Jane originally.

Sometimes, it really is as easy as cutting off the beginning and ending of a poem to make it that much stronger. But just because this poem is stronger now, it doesn't mean we're completely finished with it.

The poem may be done now, but I'd advise Jane to play around with trying to add a few more specific details to see how they affect the poem. For instance, I feel that it might be more interesting to have the name of a person instead of "in someone's den." You don't have to use a real name; make one up. This is where you can get into the business of telling the truth but telling it slant (as Emily Dickinson would say). 

In the same vein, I'd advise Jane to try playing around with adding specific details and conversation (again, can slant the truth here) about these gardening club meetings. By adding specific details, this poem may become even more interesting. Or it may not. But Jane won't know until she tries incorporating details first.

Regardless, I do like Jane's poem very much and love that she provided such a great example of how metaphor can be used in our poetry.

*****

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*****

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Thursday, September 03, 2009 1:40:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [8] 

For most of my life, I've encountered complete strangers who've taken the liberty of shortening my name from Robert to Bob or Rob or Bo or even Bill (click here if you're interested in reading me rant about the subject on my personal blog). Another common mistake is to mispronounce my last name as "Brower" instead of as "Brewer." I know most people encounter this phenomenon of mislabeling regularly, whether it's their name or something related to their work or hobbies, etc.

For this week's prompt, I want you to write a poem that deals with some form of mislabeling. The poem could deal with getting someone's name wrong, slight mistakes on signage, etc. I'm really interested in seeing how "out there" this prompt might get.

Here's my attempt:

"My Name Is Not Bob"

Or Rob or Bo or Robby
or Bobby. I don't go by Bill
or Bert. I won't answer to Mr. Brewer
or Lee, though those are better than Mr. Brower
or Leah. No, I really just prefer Robert
or Robert Lee or Robert Brewer
or Robert Lee Brewer.
Or "Hey, you."

*****

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Wednesday, September 02, 2009 5:53:36 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [244] 

(Sorry for the late prompt today. The day job has required a lot of my immediate attention--like 14 hours yesterday and another 9 already today--so I'll go out on a limb and predict that the Poetry Workshop will not happen tomorrow and possibly not even next week. However, I do have some great news: We received copies of Tammy's 2nd chapbook today, No Glass Allowed, published by Amanda Oaks at verve bath press.)

For today's poem, I want you to write a mistake poem. That is, I want you to write a poem about a mistake you've made, someone else has made, or even what can happen (or has happened) as a result of a mistake. How do mistakes affect people? The environment? Etc.? There are a lot of ways you can attack this prompt.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Albuquerque"

He should've taken a left he tells her,
and she smiles. She didn't expect to find
him or this coffee shop today. "I was
just following my feet," she says, "and they
led me here." "Where are they headed next,"

he asks. "That's a pretty personal question,
mister," she says. "I had a destination,"
he says, "but it's not important now. I'm
sure my friends will understand." She
smiles, he thinks, like a model. "Anyway,

I have no plans the rest of the day."
She says, "I guess that makes two of us."

*****

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Wednesday, August 26, 2009 10:47:29 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [244] 

I really look forward to these Poetry Workshops. They've been tremendously helpful for me (and hopefully you), because looking at others' poems reminds me what I should be looking for in my own poems.

This week's poem is "A Lady and That Woman," by Harry Coss. It's one of those poems that already feels good, but there are still some ways for the poem to be improved.

Here's the original version:

A Lady and That Woman, by Harry Coss

I met a lady one autumn afternoon, years ago,
for just long enough to help her with her jacket.
It was in an old tea shop, she entered just behind me.
Noticeable were her white gloves and cautious walk.

She had difficulty taking off her light jacket, leaving,

one arm turned inside out, hanging on a hook.

She sat taking care to not wrinkle her skirt.

Her hair soft curl at her shoulder and high on top.

There was a hint of makeup at her chin line.

Her eyebrows arched.  She had the bones

of a beautiful but aging face. Her lipstick

was dark red--her mouth unsmiling.

She sat straight, lost in thought looking

at the small hexagon tiles on the floor.

She sipped her tea slowly, breaking off small bits

of scone with graceful well manicured fingers.

Her dress, close around her waist, a tailored bodice

and shoulders padded in the style of the 1940's.

I thought of young lovers torn apart by war,

sensing her heart may still be living in that era.

Finished,  she got up to leave but had difficulty

with her jacket, I rose and helped her,  as our eyes met 

she brightened and said, with a slight British accent,

"Thank you dear sir." I sensed some expectation.

Her right hand, palm down, was slightly raised. 

I thought to take it and say how nice she looked. 

In fact, I had a  fleeting impulse to kiss it;  But I didn't,

I only said, "Your welcome". She hesitated briefly.

She donned her gloves, turned, unsteadily walked

slowly toward the door.  I saw her bump

into the wife of a middle-aged couple entering.

apparently unaware of the encounter.

As they were seated she was saying to her husband,

"Did you see that woman who hit me, she reeked

of alcohol, her makeup was awful and her dress

is way out of style, way too young for her." 

Every once in a while I recall that lady, remembering

with sorrow, not telling her how nice she looked.

*****

It is a very good poem. I particularly like the 7th stanza. While I like that this poem has a delicate pace to it--like the lady the poem describes--I also feel that this poem could be made even stronger than it currently is by a little tightening.

For instance, the 1st stanza could lose the second line completely, because the poem will actually show the narrator helping the lady with her jacket. Also, the 9th stanza uses the passive voice when it should be active, "...she was saying to her husband..." All of these are slight revisions, but sometimes, it's these small revisions that can make all the difference when someone is reading your poem (or any writing for that matter).

Here's my attempt at tightening this poem:

A Lady and That Woman, by Harry Coss

I met a lady one autumn afternoon, years ago,
in an old tea shop. She entered just behind me.
Her white gloves and cautious walk caught my
attention, and she had difficulty removing her

light jacket, leaving one arm turned inside out
hanging on a hook. She took care to not wrinkle
her skirt. Her hair curled soft at her shoulders and
high on top, a hint of makeup at her chin line.

Eyebrows arched, she had a beautiful but
aging face. Her lipstick was dark red--her mouth
unsmiling. She sat straight, lost in thought looking

at the small hexagon tiles on the floor. She

sipped her tea slowly, breaking off small bits

of scone with graceful, well-manicured fingers.

Her dress, close around her waist, a tailored bodice

and shoulders padded in the style of the 1940's.

I thought of young lovers torn apart by war,

sensing her heart may still be living in that era.

Finished, she got up to leave but had difficulty

with her jacket. I rose and helped her. As our eyes

met she brightened and said, with a slight British
accent, "Thank you, dear sir." I sensed expectation.

Her right hand, palm down, was slightly raised. 

I thought to take it and say how nice she looked. 

In fact, I had an impulse to kiss it, but I did not;

I only said, "You're welcome." She hesitated briefly,

donned her gloves, turned, and walked unsteadily 

toward the door.  I saw her bump into the wife

of a middle-aged couple entering. As they sat,
she asked her husband, "Did you see that woman

who hit me? She reeked of alcohol, her makeup
was awful and her dress is way out of style.” 

Every once in a while, I recall that lady, regretting

that I did not tell her how nice she looked.

*****

As you'll notice this is still the same poem, still the same voice, still the same tempo. The one thing that has changed is that the poem has 8 quatrains (instead of 9 quatrains) matched up with the closing couplet, which I changed slightly to make a more complete thought.

Since we're reading both versions together, it may be hard to simulate, but the tightness of the 2nd version makes the poem a lot easier read just by cutting down some of the excess.

Here are some of the edits I made:

• Deleted the 2nd line of the 1st stanza. As mentioned earlier, why tell what's going to happen later when the poem will actually show it?
• Took the passive voice out of the 9th stanza. Whether you're writing poetry or prose, passive voice is usually something to be avoided.
• Chose one adverb for the 8th stanza description of the lady walking. The narrator used both "unsteadily" and "slowly," so I chose "unsteadily," because when I think of an unsteady walker, I also think of a slow walker. Using too many adverbs and adjectives can seriously weaken a sentence, whether used in a poem or any other form of writing. 
• Removed the 4th line of the 8th stanza. The reason behind this is that it should be apparent that the middle-aged couple were unaware of the encounter between the narrator and the lady (or that woman).
• Tweaked the final couplet. The word regretting is tighter than the phrase "remembering with sorrow," it allows the narrator to complete his thought.
• Removed "fleeting" from the 7th stanza. This is the stanza I love the most, but I feel that the adjective "fleeting" weakens the exchange here. The narrator does such a good job of showing that it was a fleeting moment by not kissing her hand that I think it's best to remove the word. Simple case of showing vs. telling.

I really like this poem. A lot. Thank you, Harry, for submitting it. And be sure to read the Comments below. I'm sure the Poetic Asides gang will be throwing in their two cents.

*****

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*****

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Thursday, August 20, 2009 4:35:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [18] 

(Quick note: If you're interested in following more than one blog authored--or bloggered--by myself, then feel free to check out my new personal blog at http://robertleebrewer.blogspot.com.)

*****

For this week's prompt, I want you to take the phrase "Better safe than (blank)," fill in the blank with a word or phrase, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem. Your title could be "Better safe than late for dinner," or "Better safe than exceptionally gifted," or you can go the "safe" route with "Better safe than sorry." Your poem, your choice.

Here's my attempt for the day:

"Better safe than lost"

He watches the sun rise out of the trees
and stretches his legs. He listens to birds
sing and cars rush past headed to work
and school. He starts running against
the wind and toward the woods. A trail
he loves is in there that twists and turns,
works up and down. He listens to his shoes
on blacktop then grass then the dirt and
rocks of the trail. Even though he's run
this path every morning for more than five
years, he immediately misjudges a step
and twists his ankle. But he continues
running anyway. The pain makes him feel
more alive somehow. He runs up and down
hills, through spider webs. Soon he's running
across a wooden bridge over a wide creek.
Half-way across, he stops. A raccoon is
splashing around in the water unaware
of the man in running shoes. The raccoon
twists and turns with a wood box. He
stands there on the middle of the bridge
for what feels like forever just watching
the animal play in the cool of the creek,
wishing he could be down there with it--
completely unaware of the world. Then,
he and the raccoon tense, both startled
by the sound of an approaching runner.

*****

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Wednesday, August 19, 2009 3:30:53 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)    Comments [274]