Sharing the Journey

Recently I saw a post from Dave Bonta of Via Negativa, sharing a challenge from poet Donna Vorreyer for poets who blog: TRY to post once a week during 2018. During 2017, most of my attention and energy was turned to editorial work and mentoring, and I did very little in the way of submitting my own poems to journals for consideration, and likewise little in the way of posting here. I am hereby committing to making a more concerted effort to share the journey during this new year.

When I was blogging before, most of my posts were to thank editors and share links to journals where I’d recently published work. This year, I hope to not only do that, but also begin to share calls for submissions, some personal notes / thoughts on the practice and craft of poetry…and perhaps other things as well. So, to make at least a small beginning:

I had a poem appear at Via Negativa this week, and would like to thank Luisa A. Igloria for the inspiration, and Dave Bonta for giving the poem a wider audience. (Whenever I feel I cannot make time to write, I go to Via Negativa for inspiration, because Luisa A. Igloria and Dave Bonta make time to write and share poems EVERY DAY…and I am reminded such a thing is indeed possible.
Here is the poem from Luisa that inspired mine: and here is my response-poem:

Call for Submissions:
Praxis Magazine Online, submissions of poetry / art / photography considered through 28-February for a series of posts to begin 08-March in observance of International Women’s Day. Details can be found here:

Most Recent Scribbling (Ekphrasis):
I am often inspired by the paintings of artist and poet Robert Rhodes, and yesterday I saw one of his paintings he had shared on Facebook, and had to try a response to it. You can see his painting here:
And here’s the magic carpet ride I took while contemplating it:


another look at “Dusk. Cold horizon.” Oil on board by Robert Rhodes

Spine flat against the thin
foam of the mattress, perspective
shifts — suddenly perpendicular
and the dusk horizon winter

offers mid-afternoon in early
January becomes a narrow
rocky beach beneath —

beneath where my feet would
be if I were vertical instead
of horizontal, suspended and
inverted. What might have been

snow drifts piled like flokati
rugs thrown upon the hills
has become the front line

of the ocean, waves in froth
layers being beaten forward
by the wind, inching ever closer
to that instant when they’ll

freeze into stiff peaks. And on
the other side, instead of sky
gently disturbed by thin dark

swirls of smoke that rise
from stovepipes of farmsteads
and railroad warehouses hidden
on the hills, this is the jutting

cliff, rock end of a peninsula
where eons of waves have carved
long crevices, narrow ledges.

Return to self: where am I
in this landscape? Where exactly
is it I am floating, gazing
steady down upon the coastline?

If I have a body here it must
be no more than a particle:

hidden in the warning,
brightly dissolved
in the welcoming.

— Laura M Kaminski (Halima Ayuba)

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