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Unread 03-11-2019, 03:12 PM
Aaron Novick Aaron Novick is offline
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I did, but only just got a chance to read it now. Nice poem! I like the heterometrical pattern, and you've got some really fun rhymes in there.

For most journals, rights revert to the author on publication, so you probably are allowed to post it here. The journal website says this, "You maintain all future-use rights to your work"—not sure what that means, exactly.

Regardless, congrats again on a lovely poem.
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  #12  
Unread 03-11-2019, 03:17 PM
Michael Cantor Michael Cantor is offline
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Congratulations, of course - but - I am very intrigued by the introduction to the issue: "Our Winter Issue showcases a fine assortment of hand-selected poetry..." Wow! Hand-selected! Does it involve a vow of silence? I'd settle for a promise from the editors to (a) show at least some of the poems, and (b) stop taking themselves quite so seriously. Many of us would never get published it it wasn't for good old machine selection, which just picks poems at random.
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  #13  
Unread 03-11-2019, 05:42 PM
Martin Elster Martin Elster is offline
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Thanks, Aaron. I’m glad you enjoyed it, especially the rhymes and the het-met.

Thanks, Michael. I agree with both your (a) and (b). Machine selection made me laugh out loud. They need to lighten up, don't they? And people should be able to see at least some of the poems. If it’s OK with the mods, I’ll print it right here. Or, if it’s not OK, then they can feel free to delete it. So, without further ado ...

City Golf Course, Late Winter

We walk an hour on pathways with our dog,
unmindful of the smog
and clamor in the nearby urban jungle,
an hour with hawks which hover with their ungual
feet to impale a squirrel
or snatch a bullfrog from the mud
when cool amphibian blood
quickens as ferns uncurl.

The mutt has spotted something fast and furry
and sprints. A bit of worry
shoots through us as he vanishes from sight.
Most likely famished, speeding through the bright
broad day, the fox consists
of no more than a scattered blaze
of red, like gauzy rays
that sift through far-off mists.

The dog comes loping back, his tongue so low,
it nearly laps the snow.
While on this date with maples, birches, pines,
we feel unfettered as the vibrant minds
of wrens in thickets clad
in ermine fur. Throughout the hour,
we’ve seen, not a single flower,
but a stonefly. Is it mad?

We wonder if it will or won’t survive
until the snowmelts rive
the ice dams from the river, if it knows
this pall of whiteness must come to a close,
as the cosmos, with its clocks
and worlds, will spread like urban sprawl,
then cool like tea and stall.
But not while we watch hawks.
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