http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtm...ML/000590.html

Please post here:
Anything you submitted to Poetry but was rejected, or
anything you would have submitted, but didn't get around to.

Here's my entry:

Under the Weather

I went to see the doctor since
I wasn’t feeling fit.
My head was hurting and my hands
were shaking quite a bit.
He asked me if I drank a lot
(the nosy little git).
I answered, “No, in fact I spill
the greater part of it.”

http://www.davidgwilymanthony.co.uk/

LOL - I seem to recall you posting that one here; or have I read it in your book?

An oyster oozes calcium
to hide its irritation.
Likewise you have often been
a source of inspiration.

Duck Soup

The green light Gatsby spotted at the end
of Daisy Duck still permeates my dreams;
a man enamored of a waterfowl seems
odd at best, perhaps around the bend,
but I’ve been there as well; seen love transcend
the barriers of species and small schemes
and laws, and – despite the silly screams –
there’s really nothing there that should offend.

Fitzgerald’s genius wove most skillfully;
from those who paddle on against the current
to oafs, well-bred, and flasks of wine, and how
the very rich are not like you and me.
Jay Gatsby made himself the drake he wasn’t,
and wilderness turned Paradise enow.

LOL! That's Daisy's DOCK you moron!

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Oh how wonderful you are,
up above the world you're it
but here on earth you're only shit.

Nah, it isn't mine, wish it was, it would have won.

Here's one I shoulda posted but didn't, ah well, there's always next year.

A Day in the Life.

1)The Poet at Morn.

I will arise and go now
and go to Inisfree.
but might lie in till daybreak,
'tis only half past three.

2)The Poet at Noon

I think that I will never see
a poem lovely as a tree,
although when I have drink I swear
I've written some that might compare.

3) The Poet at Night.

Now I lay me down to sleep
and pray to God my soul to keep,
and if I die before I wake
to give it back! For heaven's sake.

Jim




[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 10, 2006).]

I posted this with three others I can't post here, as I've submitted them elsewhere or soon will:

Car Ride

Although he loves distractions, still he minds
when Brenda spots his wayward eye: the love
he winks at bottle-blondes, the sluts he finds
adorable with bras he can’t remove.

The other day he gave a girl a mark
out of ten. Brenda’s fury left him shaken.
When streetwalkers from Spoule to Shittiebark
called him by name, he whispered “You’re mistaken,”

but tears came streaming down poor Brenda’s cheeks.
“I’ve given you my life. Now make me come,
right now, in this back seat. It’s not been weeks
or months, but years. Oh save me from this doom!”

He got down to it seven times and proved
his worth, while mourning girls he wished he’d loved.


* the end-words in this poem come from Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet, “Let me not to the marriage of true minds…”


[This message has been edited by winter (edited April 08, 2006).]

I shouldn't post my entries because they're all out again.

[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited April 08, 2006).]

These are the pieces that were rejected last year.


Artistic Resignation

Objective reason may support
an inkling that at last I should
admit my fingers are too short
to play this damn piano good.

****
I Call My Hamster Hamish

I call my hamster Hamish,
because it’s what his nameish.
He isn’t rich or fameish…
but damn few hamsters are.

We feed him leaves of lettuce;
he never has upsettuce;
a pile of straw his bedduce -
though HE prefers “boudoir”.

He feels it’s quite a dealio
to sprint inside a wheelio.
But, though he runs with zealio-
nly thinks he’s traveled far.

****

Indigo Bunting

Kindly consider the indigo bunting...
feathered so brightly, too tiny for hunting.
Now for the shocker - that wonderful blue,
scientists say, is a fraudulent hue.
Really they're black as a buzzard - it’s true.
Say ...do you think they might know?

People are said to be God's favored creatures.
So we are told by our parents and preachers.
Won’t we be more than a little indignant,
if we should find that our ballyhooed pigment
really is all an illusory figment?
Lord, you can bet we’ll eat crow.


Bugsy




[This message has been edited by Lightning Bug (edited April 10, 2006).]

Bugsy,

It's really quite a shamish
They didn't take your Hamish.

But mostly I just hope that if you ever submit again you will include your "About the Author" poem for the "Contributors" section. They are fools if they don't print that one, even if they don't accept any of your other poems.

epigone

I can't believe they didn't think this was a howl:

Bewitched

Mon dieu! I cannot live with you,
a girl whose dark charms grew
for seven long unholy years
after we said, I do.

Oh no, I must be rid of you,
whose spells would turn me blue,
moving me to violent tears
with magic that you knew.

True, it’s true, I’m leaving you,
who’d melt my mind to glue,
and daily dig my heart out
to boil it in your brew.

Now, I’m going, cursing you,
your tongue a torture screw
racking me to finally shout,
adieu, you witch, we’re through!




------------------
Ralph

I didn’t give them the chance to reject these.
....

Court Poetry

Way back, there was a Margaret Court,
a champion in — guess which sport.
M. Court’s court play was rarely capped.

Why couldn’t Miss Smashnova’s name
boast m instead of n? A shame:
“Smash ’m ova” sounds so neat and apt!

Remember Vitas Gerulaitis?
His name will evermore invite us
to think of some slow nerve debility.

And pity poor Dementieva;
no courtcraft mastery can save her
from prompting thoughts of mad senility.

....
Deconstructionism Deconstructed

Said Barthes,
In literary art
what the author meant
is irrelevant.

Derrida
privileged de reader
next
to de text.

Fish
found a niche
in book production
on deconstruction.

The proper response to Barthes:
an authorial fart;

we never did need a
Derrida;

and as for Fish,
pish!

Well I never did.

Janet


Should I?

Janet go to www.poetryfoundation.org click on magazine and then click on 'historical index' and then, just look at who they have published.

Poetry will soon be a hundred years old and looks set to survive into perpetuity having some three years ago received a bequest of 100 million dollars from heiress Ruth Lilley.

My opinion, of course you should.

On a scale of 10 it is rated 9 in terms of difficulty in getting accepted. Only The New Yorker is more picky.

You could do it.

Jim



[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited April 09, 2006).]

"Picky" is a relative term. These are much funnier than most of the stuff Poetry picks, thanks for posting them.

Lines Composed in a Locker Room
Or, Missing a Few Details

My memory's nearing its final hurrah.
My mammaries keep getting flatter.
I frowned when I found I'd forgotten my bra,
but wailed when it didn't much matter.

Julie Stoner

My theory is that they laughed so hard they wet their pants -- then they felt so humiliated they turned them down.

The first of these will appear in Light. The second was in the latest issue of Light. The third is still unattached.

A NEW YORKER’S GUIDE TO THE
REST OF THE COUNTRY

Out beyond the Hudson lies
a wilderness so bare,
that you had better be prepared
to rough it when you’re there;

where there are no good restaurants,
in which to wine and dine;
where they pull the sidewalks in
every night at nine;

where there’s no public transit—
or if there is, it sucks
(they get around in SUVs
or rundown pickup trucks);

where you won’t get good pizza
no matter how you seek,
where service always is too slow
and coffee’s always weak;

and though you may find friendly folk,
and climates bright and sunny,
you’ll never get a decent bagel
there, for love or money.

PARENTHOOD

I love my kids, don’t get me wrong,
but wonder when they fuss and fight
if species who consume their young
might have it right.

THE ANTI-EVOLUTIONIST

“I think evolution’s bunk,”
an ape said in disgust,”
“How could those hairless upright lunk-
heads have evolved from us?”

Here's one I wrote for Jim Hayes:

Bearing the News

She heard the sound of banging at the door.
“Are you the Widow Murphy?” Jimmy cried.
“They call me Mrs Murphy, that’s for sure,
but no, I ain’t no widow,” she replied.
Says Jim, “It may have been a fact before,
but take a look what’s on me cart outside.”

I am due a rejection for the following two villanelles:

HONEST VILLANELLE

Here's the first line. It will be recast
and used again before this poem is through.
And here's the line I'll end upon at last.

The challenge of a villanelle is vast.
I started poorly, reader, telling you
Here's the first line. It will be recast,

and even though I knew it was half-assed
I kept on writing, knowing it was true.
And then I wrote the line that would come last.

By now, dear reader, you are shocked, aghast,
and wondering if you have grounds to sue.
Here's the twelfth line. Like the first, recast,

its vapid senselessness is unsurpassed.
It's like a food you cannot taste or chew,
as is the line that's destined to come last.

We can only hope that it comes fast.
We all have better things by far to do.
Here's the first line, thoroughly recast.
And here's the line I'll end upon at last.

*

THE CROSSING
from "Why They Crossed The Road"

I cross the street, and try not to be slow.
I am a chicken with a chicken's fear.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

We live by running. What is there to know?
They seized my mom and cut her ear to ear.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.

Of those who guard the henhouse, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall run swiftly there.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

We yearn to flee; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm and I make quite a pair.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; but slaughter is not fair.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

This running makes me nervous. I should know.
What roasts my skin is always. And is near.
I cross the street, and try not to be slow.
The farmer ate my mother. Time to go.

*

And knowing as I do that chickens are inherently funny, I sent this poem as well:

AN IRISH CHICKEN AVOIDS HER DEATH
from "Why They Crossed The Road"

I think that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere beyond the yellow line;
Those that I flee I do not hate
Though they would wash me down with wine;
I hope they will not feel the loss,
Nor do I wish to leave them poor,
But when I found a road to cross
I knew that I could stay no more.
Nor rice, nor gravy bade my flight,
Nor barbecues, nor marinades,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove my fear of sharpened blades;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
It seemed a shame to die as meat,
And so I left the farm behind,
And that is why I crossed the street.

Dammed Yeats! You know a poet is brilliant when even the parodies sound beautiful.

Well, if it’s chickens now...

<FONT >
From Walt Chicken’s Crossing a Brooklyn Street

It avails not, time nor place — distance avails not,
I am with you, you hens and roosters of a generation, or ever so many generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the traffic and road, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living flock, I was one of a flock,
Just as you are alarmed by the clamour of the traffic and the swift flow, I was alarmed,
Just as you hop and bob on the curb, yet hurry to your sudden death, I hopp’d and hurried,
Just as you cluck’d at the numberless wheels of cars and the rumbling of fatal semitrailers, I cluck’d.
</FONT f>

Henry,
The Walt Chicken is a hoot!

Bugsy

News Item Redux

Girls seldom make passes
At men with fat asses.

What a fab thread.

This one will be old news to many since I 'shopped it here & it's on my site, but I do wish I could have submitted it. They were not open to poems that had appeared online.

CAN'T GET NO

He came on like Mick Jagger but he’s no Mick Jagger.
—A disappointed groupie, after a tryst with Mick Jagger
---------------------------------------------------------


She was juicy and willing; he might as well shag her.
And so he maneuvered her up to his room.
He’s haughty, all right, but he’s no Mick Jagger.

He acted like Mick, with his strut and his swagger.
They snorted some coke and her heartbeat went boom.
She was juicy and willing, he might as well shag her.

She balked when he started to tie her and gag her.
She swore like a sailor; the rose lost its bloom.
He’s grotty, all right, but he’s no Mick Jagger.

He tripped toward the bed with his typical stagger,
sweaty and naked and thin as a broom.
She was present and willing, he might as well shag her.

She’s prey! Like a hunter he’d bang her and bag her.
The law of the jungle! The birds meet their doom.
He’s brutal, all right, but he’s no Mick Jagger.

His tongue didn’t lick and his tail didn’t wag her.
The night was a drag, man, a be-in of gloom.
There was no satisfaction; he just couldn’t shag her.
He’s naughty, all right, but he’s no Mick Jagger.

Kate

As soon as I stop LMAO, I'm going to be surprised and offended.

I never got around to fixing the metrics on this one, but I was once tempted to finish it and send it off...


The Wannabe

When darkness settles o'er the West
the working day is done;
when daylight's warmth has slipped away
with the setting of the sun,

the cowpokes sit around the fire
to recite the pedigree
of a fire-brand horse called Marble-eye,
and his rider Wannabe.

No one recalls his actual name
or precisely where he was from.
He wandered on the ranch one day
as green as green can come.

They asked him where he'd hailed from,
He said, "Yonder - way back east."
"Well, what the hell did you do back there?"
"I'm a respiratory therapist."

Now some of the cowpokes laughed at this
while others only snickered,
but Wannabe wasn't bothered at all,
for in his mind he pictured

himself a seasoned cowboy -
a hero tall and lean.
He mosey'd over to the corral
and squinting, surveyed the scene

of horseflesh - powerful mustangs - with
a semi-practiced eye;
the cowboys all stopped laughing
when he mounted Marble-eye.

Now Marble-eye was just as mean
as a kitten newly born,
and just to sit this hell-spawned beast
he gripped the saddle horn.

They bolted through an open gate,
across the fruited plain,
and sadly, so the story goes,
were never seen again.

But when the firelight flickers low,
the cows are bedded down,
the coyotes start their nightly howl,
that lonesome, soul-less sound,

a hideous shriek may pierce the night
and echo through the sky.
They say it's the sound of Wannabe
on that fire-brand Marble-eye.

My passion for you burns like the core of the earth,
And I can't wait to see it incinerate the skin from your beautiful face.
I would walk half-way around the world and more
To hunt you down and cut the organs out of your chest.
I'd search 1,000 gardens for 1,000 years
To find you the flower with the most potent poison.

Don't wear you heart on your sleeve.
I want it in a jar.
Your heart will be mine
Forevever whether it beats or not.

-Vladimir Singesce


(note: "-Vladimir Singesce" is part of the poem, any parallels with actual people named Vladimir Singesce are a hoped for and accidental coincidence)

Hi David:
This is very funny http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/biggrin.gif
Am I allowed to participate now - posting in the Forum that is ?
I made my fifteenth post this morning but I was away for a year as I moved from Australia to Hawaii
and have not been really active in the Forum.
I did do quite a few in depth critiques in 2004 towards qualifying but on searching the archive none of them are showing up. I hope that doesn't disqualify me from meeting the requirements.

Do I wait for a week now and then get a notice in the email?
I'm not sure how it works.
Thanks for your consideration.

Cheers,
Suzanne



------------------
." Penetration to the meaning of a thing or process, as distinct from the ability to describe it precisely, involves a participation by the knower in the known."
Owen Barfield

Just got this one back. The dweebs! I thought they might have had enough of a sense of irony and humor to take this one, as well as an appreciation of the cojones it took to send it!

BTW, this submission came back in record time. They might as well have used FedEx!


POETRY MAGAZINE VILLANELLE

It seems I can’t get into Poetry;
they turn me down however much I try,
and yet I keep submitting faithfully.

I haven't given up yet, nosiree,
although I always get the same reply:
“Sorry. We can’t use this. Poetry.”

It’s like a shining temple with no key;
a bright Olympus, much too steep and high
to climb, though I keep trying faithfully.

There’s an expression, “Vedi Napoli,
poi mori” (see Naples and then die)—
I'd change it to “Get into Poetry…”

It’s not the money (though they pay handsomely)—
it's the glory. I admit it (sigh),
that's why I keep submitting faithfully.

Behold, there lies that dread SASE
upon my doorstep! I gaze up at the sky,
praying it's a yes from Poetry.
If not, I'll keep submitting faithfully.

Hello Suzanne.

Good to see you here. Of course you can post in this thread, or anywhere else for that matter.

Such a pleasure, reading all these entries. 'Shag her/Jagger' made my day.

Best,
David

Marion:
I so enjoyed this one on submitting poetry.
So far I have not started doing it although my 2003 copy of Poet's Market beckons me. That's how 'not ready' I feel. LOL. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/eek.gif
Suzanne

Hey Julie:
This one is a hoot. Hung a smile on my day.
Suzanne

Hey David:
Thanks for the welcome back.
I'm not sure when I can post a poem for critique so I am reluctant to do that until I get invited. But since these here are just for fun I will share one I wrote for a Challenge on Burgundy Forum. I did not win incidentally but can you blame them LOL. and I don't mind if you make the appropriate groaning noises as you read it.

Milton, Stilton and the Hilton or
What Llama Lil Saw in BagDad

In Llama Lil's Cafe eating crackers and Stilton
surveying the street and reading Milton
Sits a strange and moody itinerant
Icon for a well-known roll-on deoderant
Under cover spy for the present President
Devoid of all human sentiment
On assignment he was hand picked
And his code name was Eggs Benedict

Perusing the pages of Paradise Lost
he re-read the phrase "At no human cost"
For his orders were, to him revealed
between the lines of Milton concealed
and I suspect, though I really can't say
the reason for this strange communique
Was dur to the results of a wide-world survey
Showing few are caught dead, reading 'poet-ray'

Deep in thought on his plan of attack
He heard a blonde from the table at his back
Summon the waiter with fingers clicked
to order a double Eggs Benedict
Mysteriously in dark glasses AND reading Milton
She slipped him a note- her number at the Hilton

He felt a strange rumble in his tummy
He remembered how the cheese tasted funny
The last thing on earth our hero has seen
are the spinning walls of Lil's, Argentine theme

The rest of his life flashed past his eyes
Is this the way a hero dies?
Super -spy and icon for a well known deoderant
Killed -from effects of a straying rodent
Missed his liason at the Hilton
Some one mailed his copy of Milton
pages torn and stained with Stilton
(Yes! It was from the Bagdad Hilton!)
To an address inside the cover
T'was to: George W Bush or someone or other

Suzanne Delaney



[This message has been edited by Suzanne Delaney (edited April 25, 2006).]