Fluffed pieces of insulation
yellow and pink against green
notes left by a tornado. ∞
I’m a genre writer. Gary Shteyngart hasn’t blurbed any of my novels, and Marion Ettlinger has never photographed me for a book jacket. I’m more at ease with the sequins and shirtless men at the Romantic Times conference than I am with the serious eyewear at poetry readings. ∞
When Robert Lowell used his ex-wife’s letters for his poetry, Elizabeth Bishop told him, “Art just isn’t worth that much.” This week, Francine Prose and Leslie Jamison discuss what they make of mining actual relationships for literary material. ∞
Endings have always been my Everest. Or, really, if writing a novel is like climbing Everest, then my tendency is to get within eyeshot of the summit and say, “Well, that’s far enough.” ∞
Gabo lives. The extraordinary worldwide attention paid to the death of Gabriel García Márquez, and the genuine sorrow felt by readers everywhere at his passing, tells us that the books are still very much alive. ∞
I started Scintilla three years ago to get back into the literary world of publishing and to learn how to work with WordPress and PHP. Some friends had begun The Cupboard and part of me wished I was involved in a project like that. Why not do it myself, I asked? Armed with a credit card and the support of R, I decided to give it a try. As the magazine has grown, I realized I could use some help. Being free and without ads, there’s no source of revenue. It’s available to anyone with a web connection and I love that. I love that anyone could stumble upon it and enjoy it.
Two weeks ago, I created an IndieGoGo campaign with the goal to raise enough money to cover hosting, the submission manager, and domain registration. We met the goal of $200 last week, but IndieGoGo has a $500 minimum that makes it look like we’re 2/3 of the way there. If you still want to contribute to the magazine, we could definitely use your help, otherwise just keep on submitting great writing. Thanks!
While the lots of First Baptist
and Central Methodist are filled
tight like parishioners in the pews
knees touching knees
beneath khaki and hose
the atheists are on the move
weaving through town
as the minister stands to preach.
Faces unshaven, elastic
waisted pants slipped on
between bedroom and front door
tennis shoes lightly laced
the atheists shop. They pray
to finish before the worshippers
pile into the grocery store
the aisles overflowing with combed hair
eye shadow just so, and kids in collared shirts
as the faithful greet one another, hands
pressed firm, inquiring after grandma
or the girls, amidst the unwashed
who hunt for a bargain
and sample cheese, the lactose covered cracker
crunching and melting in their mouth
a mix of pepper jack and whole grains.
Carts heaped like collection plates
the atheists whisk through the checkout
barcodes scan, small talk is made, numbers
transfer from card to computer.
At home, the family gathers. Bags
are brought in, unloaded.
The ritual completes and the meaning
is found in another day, another week
spent together, preparing food
joining around the table as dinner is served
and silence gives way to voices, laughter
the sounds of people sharing a meal.
1poetry voice noun \ˈpō-ə-trē, -i-trē also ˈpȯ(-)i-trē ˈvȯis\
a : a warbling of the vocal cords that allows the speaker to move from breathless whispers to punctuated singsong according to an unknown rhythm
b : a treatable disease that predominantly affects young poets
Examples of POETRY VOICE
- “Everywhere and nowhere,” she said in her poetry voice, standing on stage with her eyes closed.
- I drank so much PBR, I lost my poetry voice!
Origin of POETRY VOICE
Middle English, from Old French vois, from Latin voc-, vox;akin to Old High German giwahanen to mention, Greek eposword, speech, Sanskrit vāk voice
First Known Use: 14th century
Related to POETRY VOICE
Seek the solace
of a moment free
from text messages, status
updates from a person
who used to be your friend
but now is reduced
to an image, a sentence
that slips below the fold.
Find the focus
to be alone
to notice the sun
through the leaves, the smile
on a loved one’s face
the thoughts that wait
at the bottom of the cup.
Allow the world
to publish, remix, re-mash
as you turn off your devices
and settle into your seat-back
wonder as the seconds stand still.