It’s the end of September, and we’ve covered a lot this month, haven’t we? I hope it was a month filled with wonder. It’s cool to wonder again, isn’t it?
My goal of Timberline is to connect common emotional realities of life in a forum that speaks to you as an individual. My hope is that within the text of these stories/musings the message contained within resonates and elicits a positive change in your life. If it has, or you just enjoy Timberline, please take a moment and share it with a family member or friend.
With that in mind, I thought I’d share a personal story about the first time I was ever published.
2007 was a year of deep reflection. A lot happened that year that opened my eyes about the fragility of… well everything. Those feelings spilled out in the form of poetry. (and later a terrible novel- but that’s a story for a different day) I decided to submit my favorite poems to many, many, many, many, many on-line journals. I faced rejection after rejection. I felt down about it all, wondering how anyone gets published in this business.
In 2008 I stumbled upon Slow Trains Literary Journal and thought my work would be a good fit. I remember hitting the submit button wondering (there’s that word again) whose abyss of an e-mail queue is my work with. Who is reading my most vulnerable thoughts and saying, “Meh, not good enough.” You see, when you pour your heart and soul into words, having others judge them is the most humbling experience one can face. I’d bet this fear probably precludes words we need today from ever seeing the light of day, no less finding their way to our hearts.
Then it happened! I received an offer to publish my poetry in Slow Trains journal. I was filled with euphoria and pride. No matter what, I can forever say I am a published poet! (As it turns out, I do not introduce myself as such, but it’s good to have it in the back pocket should the need arise).
Here’s where things get odd—I never submitted another piece of poetry to another journal again. Why? you ask. Honestly, I don’t know. I guess the experience was too emotional… difficult…raw…humiliating… all of these perhaps. I bet you can relate, can’t you? You’re not alone.
Most of my poetry sits hidden under the soft leather covers of aged notebooks waiting for my kids to stumble upon it someday when I’m long gone. Perhaps I’ll slide those dusty notebooks from my bookshelf and share them with you soon.
With all that said, do you want to know something cool? 14 years have passed since Slow Trains published my work, and I didn’t think for a moment they would still be on-line; but I was wrong. They’re still there! Are they any good? I guess you get to be the critic now.
Here’s the link if you want to check it out: Slow Trains Literary Journal
If you did click the link, be sure to catch my profile at the bottom. Not only was that a previous life, but it also says I enjoy oral presentation of my poetry. That’s true. As such, I will recite all three for you and recreate them below in case you don’t want to click a link. (link fear is real, my friends… it’s very real).
Before I go, October is my absolute favorite month of the year. I wrote a story intended to make the hair on your arms stand up straight. It will drop in three parts starting in October… Soooooooo…. Now is the time to invite your friends and family to subscribe to Timberline. Just tell them how easy it is to subscribe and then one day- BAM! A new story appears directly in their e-mail- free! I love doing this and I want to keep doing it. New subscribers keep me motivated.
Listen to Three Poems here:
Or Read them below:
Visiting New Hampshire
Visiting New Hampshire
With a good friend; Michael
Between deep inhales
We saw Jesus on a canoe
Fishing Lake Winnipesaukee
He was cheating
Using the snagging method
When trout love
Pink chewy pellets
(preferably without hooks)
It's OK, because
Michael is Jewish and
I only eat trout on Friday
It's not as if we're
Questioning Copernicus
We're just good friends
Visiting New Hampshire
Silence Over Partridge Island
Distant noise that pierces fog
Why do you sound sad,
When you protect me from danger?
Though deep tones penetrate soup
Better than light ever could
It makes sad sailors want
To feel cold water in their lungs.
Take heed the silence-
Emanating from Partridge Island
As I sail past Saint John
Almost home for the last time.
The Lion Pauses
The lion pauses while drinking its water
To stare at its own reflection.
Is this a moment of self actualization?
Is it remorse for today's kill?
Is it blessing the days it has spent alive?
Is it wondering if its cubs are safe?
Is it contemplating why it looks this way?
Is it reciting a line of a lion poem?
The lion pauses while drinking its water
To stare at its own reflection.