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Amy Waugh

Professor Hampton

Prof. Writing & Publication

February 7, 2018

Poetry Submission Synopsis

After the workshop that we had in class on Tuesday, I had a good idea what kind of

poetry others may see when they read my poems. Kayla told me that when she read my poems

she got a contemporary, dramatic or edgy feel. I have heard this before from others when I was

in Phoebe’s poetry class. So, I centered my search on journals that accept poetry of almost any

nature, as I don’t really have much experience or voice with my poetry and do not know what

kind of voice I have.

I sent poems to three different journals, The Adroit Journal, Hermeneutic Chaos Journal,

and New Pop Lit Journal. I chose my three favorites Your Hands, Nudge and Comfort Zone, one

to each as I do not want to deal with simultaneous submissions my first time submitting.

I chose the journals I did based on search results on Review Review of journals with no

submission fee and less than one month read time, the last because I am impatient and will forget

I even sent them out if it goes any later than that. Once I had the search results I clicked through

several journals and their websites to find the ones that looked like their work and aesthetic

mirrored my own. I have heard of only one of the journals that appeared in my search,

Hermeneutic Chaos Journal and have read a poet they publish. This was another reason I chose
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them after I saw that my work seemed to fit what they are looking for, that and they have a quick

read time of less than 10 days.

I don’t really enjoy writing poetry and I find it difficult. I am much more a fiction writer

and always seem to want to extend everything I write into story. But I am taking the chance to

submit anyway, because though I know I am an extremely harsh critic when it comes to anything

I write someone might see something in it that I didn’t.

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Shattered- A Triolet

Oh God, what have you done this time?

Impossible to rectify.

Though we can try, the chance is slim.

Oh God! What have you done this time?

Left dangling like a broken limb.

Lifeless stare. Tortured, pain filled eyes.

Oh, God what have you done this time?

Impossible to rectify.
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Your Hands

They have the power to give,

And to take.

They love like the sun warms the earth,

Intensely.

They hate like a bully fights the weak,

Undeservingly.

They choke the song of life,

Before it can whisper across the wind.

Just so they can breathe a new world

Into life, mold it perfectly.

They have the power to heal,

And to destroy.

Your hands, my hands,

Even theirs.
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Nudge

It is black. It is white.
In some places
it is both,
But also neither.

Heavy, falling
While sustained
In limbo. Transparent.
Abandoned. Alone,

Crooked, blurred,
Haunted; floating
Frozen, falling
Crush of death.
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Roses Are Climbing the Trellis- An Imitation of Orchids Are Sprouting From the
Floorboards by Kaveh Akbar

Roses are climbing the trellis.

Roses are trickling from the fountain.
The birds chirp roses out their beaks.
Their feathers are also made of roses.
The field’s growth is roses.
It is developing largely roses.
The brush is bursting with roses.
The rusted tractor is dancing with roses.
The setting sun through the window is a blood orange rose.
The tractor plows a path of roses.
A garland of roses rises from its tread.
Artists are drawing still-life
Of roses on textured canvas, that too is roses.
Ancient farmers in rose overalls
Angrily exchange roses.
Fathers nurse mugs of heated roses
To quench their children, who are roses themselves.
Their shouts are a type of rose.
The stars are all roses.
They are shooting roses.
The roads are all roses,
The mailbox is a rose,
The wet newspaper is a rose,
And this heat is a rose. Oh,
Grandma, I miss you horribly.
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Comfort Zone

Cocooned in warmth and safety

Ready to emerge anew.
A soft fleece lining that caresses lovingly,
Enticing me to stay forever.

Concealing flaws and insecurities,

Like love or a muffin top.
It is my armor for a war unknown.
Entrenched in a rich masculine musk.

A hug, a tight embrace that lingers

Long after you’ve gone.
A memory recalled clear as day.
A poor substitute, but one all the same.