April is National Poetry Month, so I’ve been receiving daily poems via email, from Knopf. I signed up for this list many years ago, and generally it’s a joy. I’ve got things going on this April, though, stressful and annoying things, so I haven’t really been down with the babbling brooks, sweetly scented babies, and wide-eyed wonder of Knopf’s offerings.
I write a bit of poetry, myself, which is sometimes in the feel-good genre of unconditional love, but equally as often is bitter, angry, and spiteful. I have been deeply influenced by Alexander Pope, I suppose. I think we need more modern, angry poetry. Especially funny, angry poetry. Personally, I always feel much better after three stanzas on a tin-pot tyrant with a tiny, wrinkled dick, being eaten alive by ants. Poetry is a remarkably flexible form for scorn.
The poem I submitted last Friday was not purchased. I didn’t expect it to be. (It was neither bitter, nor angry, by the way.) I just wanted to get back out there, after so long on hiatus. My new goal is to submit to at least one journal per week, come Hell or high water. Onward!