New Years' Letter from the Editors

Dear Readers,

We hope that you are all having a very warm holiday season. We are approaching the time of year when many people reflect on what has passed and make decisions for the year to come. At Inklings, this means we continue our pursuit of new ways to connect through creative ventures.

We know that many of you make resolutions, so we thought it would be a fun project to compile your New Years' resolutions into a poem. It's quick and painless for you:

Step 1: Send in your resolution by Friday, January 1 (either as a comment in the blog or an e-mail to Inklingsjournal@gmail.com)

Step 2: Check back next week to see the poem we come up with. (Good, bad, or just plain entertaining, you'll want to read it, trust us.)

No matter how mundane, ridiculous, or serious your resolution, we want to hear from you--otherwise the poem we write will be incredibly boring.

As always, we love to see your original creations in the Inklings in-box (it brings joy to our hearts). Let this be the year that your New Years' resolution is to submit your work to Inklings. We think that's a pretty great resolution!

Your doting co-editors,
Katy & Megan

from Ulysses - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


Submitted by Therese R.

Merry Christmas!

The Feast of Snow - G.K. Chesterton

There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim,
And never before or again,
When the nights are strong with a darkness long,
And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and snow
The place where the great fires are,
That the midst of earth is a raging mirth,
And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we win to the ancient inn,
Where the Child in the frost is furled,
We follow the feet where all souls meet,
At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red,
For the flame of the sun is flown;
The gods lie cold where the leaves are gold,
And a Child comes forth alone.

Sparks and Fires - Erik Jo.

     We were down the hill behind our house, three little boys and the makings of one little tree fort. We had my father’s tools and what scrap we could drag behind us, down the trails we’d cut by trampling thimbleberry bushes the summer before.
     I’m sure I was the one carrying the hammer. As the older brother I liked it when Brice carried the nails, or wood that was weighted awkwardly. We had a friend over too, Kenny Macanally from downtown. He carried some board ends, which we hoped to make into a ladder.
     The jumble of board ends, bent nails, cracked and flimsy plywood. Our first complication came when we tried to climb our ladder, and discovered that the nails we’d used weren’t long enough to pierce both the wood blocks and the tree’s trunk. Our second complication was that I couldn’t convince Brice to bring me a sheet of plywood from our pile. We argued; Kenny wandered around the brush.
     When Kenny put his foot through the fallen wasp nest, Brice wanted to use the hammer, and I was trying to tell him that he should get me that box of nails instead—I’d already carried the plywood over myself—because look, we could make it a race, and I’d time him. Kenny watched the wasps rise around his shoulders, felt the first bites, and screamed.
     Fear was instantly contagious. Brice and I dropped our tools and ran before we knew why, but the mud on the trail was slick, and we could hear the wasps catching up. We pulled at roots and they came out in our hands. We tore our knees on rocks. My steps slid me backwards into the swarm exactly like they do in dreams. Sparks and fires in my mind. I was bitten, twice, in the fleshy part of my thigh.
     Brice and I reached the top alone. We were sure Kenny was dead.
     That was the first time adrenaline got the better of me. The second, in college, came after a sleepless week of papers, when I wrestled my dorm-mates after dinner more and more frantically, until I threw an opponent against the wall with my fist back to hit him. I was yelling nonsense. I left the room, barefoot, and ran the school’s red gravel track by moonlight for an hour and a half, and felt no fatigue, no pain.
     When Brice and I burst into the room where our mother was taking coffee, I was irrationally terrified. I pitched and rolled on the ground, screamed about dying, bawled. My nose ran and my snot mixed with my tears, and our mother stripped us to our baggy white briefs to loose the trapped wasps. My shoulder blades dug into the carpet, and I watched my legs twitch and jump. When Mom came with the baking soda they still shook.
     Running, running, running.

A New Poet - Linda Pastan

Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don't see

its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day - the odor of truth
and of lying.

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.

Haiku - Mrs. Racklyeft's Class

Mrs. Racklyeft teaches at a small school in Detroit. These poems were written by her students, who, despite their age and situation, have created these stunning, vivid portraits. (Mrs. Racklyeft's comments are in parentheses below).


A city of peace
with golden sidewalks and poles
and diamond light bulbs.

-Daniel, age 10 (whose neighborhood is not like this poem at all)


Leaves are falling down.
When you walk on them they crunch.
Then they blow away.

-Jamison, age 7


The playground is filled
With so many kids playing
Jumping together.

-Belicia, age 10 (the truth is our playground is a parking lot next to an abandoned building, with a small strip of adjacent green space.)


The bunny stalks me
in the deep forest today,
follows me home.

-Gillian, age 10


The golden flower
falls from the stem into the grass
and I pick it up.

-Gillian


A red balloon flew.
It shines like a cardinal,
a stripe on my flag

-Simone, age 8

Con Fuse - Erik J.

The day the candle went to Mexico
He spoke the truth, yet did not know
His lack of Spanish, disregard of proper use
Caused him to utter sheepishly: yo soy con fuse

Inflamed by local Mexican cuisine
He soon got shorter, causing quite a scene
The liquid wax, one ugly truth it bore
Our candle was con fuse no more

since feeling- e. e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Dear Mr. Robinson - Kathryn H.

Dear Mr. Robinson,

I hope you will forgive me for my unusual behavior and strange clothes.
I did not purposefully intend to disrupt your day.
When you told me to leave, I tried.
I really did.

I am always trying to leave to the world where the moon sings my name
and the rich secrets of the earth pulse through my body.
Last evening,
when the sky was smote with pink and purple bruises,
I thought I had found a way to get there.
My war-drum heart shouted:
Home at last!
We found the pulse!
Run to the sun!
So I did.
In the land of truly alive things it does not matter if you are wearing
bedroom slippers and a raincoat.
I realize now that you might have found that strange.

When you found me on your roof I was trying to dissolve sideways.
That's as best as I can figure out how to get there.
Dissolve sideways, the wind said.
We will catch you.
But my atoms would not let me,
and when the world went gray
I was
nothing more
than a silly girl in her bedroom slippers and a raincoat,
trapped on the roof of a stranger.

I wanted to be off of that roof as much as you wanted me off of it, of that I promise you.
I'm sorry for all the fuss you had to go through to get me removed safely.
If we ever find ourselves in the flipped situation,
I will be sure to try and reciprocate.

I am writing this letter because I realize you probably thought I was crazy and
I wanted to clear things up.
If I had succeeded in dissolving sideways, neither of us would be in this
awkward situation.
But I could not dissolve sideways.
I hope you understand.

Sincerely,
Laura

God's Grandeur - Gerard Manly Hopkins

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Redwood - Katy R.

She stands
chin to the sky
stretching
her arms
like Redwoods,
plunging one
into damp soil
fingers curling
like roots,
cradling the earth.
The other she
stretches
through the clouds,
her thin
fingernails like
half moons
stoop to kiss
the stars goodnight.

She stands whisper still.

After a few years
her skin
toughens like bark,
her eyelashes turn
to leaves,
her purple skirt
blooms Lilacs
around her ankles.

And the mothers wonder—
whatever happened to that little girl,
the one whose family drove away one day
blowing kisses from behind bags
Just a short trip father said
Don’t break my stuff brother said
We’ll miss you terribly mother said.

With one hand
she holds onto
the crumbling earth,
but with the other
she stretches
just a little more
each day
reaching limb
after lonely limb
into the sky,
hoping to see
her father, her brother
stretching
to hear her mother say-

Oh, we’ve missed you terribly,
Yes, so terribly.

Victoria Market - Francis Brabazon

I said to my companion, this is walking
I said to my companion, how my heart goes
out to all lovers.

The darkness was still warm
but the fields were freshening beautifully
in the winter rain;
the market was full of little lights
and I remarked the ear of a sack
sleeping on top of a tyre like a cat
on the curbstone

I said to my friend stop falling on your knees
I have to keep pulling you on to your feet again-
then the dawn came down silently between
the rows of vegetables
and we passed out into the white star
rejoicing companionless in our love

As I crossed the square on my way home
the highest spires were ablaze with the movement
of feet.

Submitted by Chrissie M.

Foolish Coyote- Kathryn H.

Coyote crouched, watching her as she crafted her

careful mosaic on the blackberry cloth of the night

This is slow work

Her hands glowed from the warmth of the stars

Before she could stop him, he flung the  remaining

stars out into the night spilling them in a wild

disarray

What have you done, you foolish coyote

Never knowing the confusion that would always

dwell among them

Dream Song 14- John Berryman

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

Two Months of Inklings!

Dear Inklings' Loyal Followers:

This week marks the 2 month anniversary of Inklings! We are so excited to have had the opportunity to hear from so many different people sharing a variety of poems that they've written or just love. What a fun couple of months for us.  You are constantly challenging us to become better readers and writers.  We enjoy getting together every week (usually at your local Modesto Starbucks, though lately we've been teleconferencing between Modesto and San Fran--talk about professional!) and spending some quality time with your words. In case there was any doubt, we really do spend at least a couple hours each week with the submissions we get, discussing what we like, what we think could be improved, and how we have such brilliant friends. That's you, people.

So where do we go from here? We have some ideas in mind--collaborations, special holiday editions, themed submissions--but it all hinges on you continuing to send us your favorite and original work! Also, if you ever have any suggestions for how we can improve our little journal, we'd love to hear them because, really, it is your journal too. On that note, we'd just like to remind you that while we have a lot of fun discussing the poetry with each other, we want you to be in the conversation with us. So for you noble souls who dare to click outside their RSS feed and leave a comment for the Inkler(s) of the Week, keep it up!


 Signing off from spinning chair in the valley and a desk at a hotel near SF,


Katy & Megan

cold- Melissa J.

escaping the sky it falls cold
and lands on my earth in winter
although the truth is, it's merely water
there is something wonderful about rain
the way it invades, overtakes my hair
makes me miss christmas and home

last december i braved the weather to come home
somehow i seem to have forgotten the cold
my red nose, numb hands, mist in my hair
the calendar and the tv said it was winter
but it didn't seem real until the rain
and my life was overtaken--flooded with water

starving, i head to a restaurant, drink water.
scanning the menu, my mind wanders to home
and thoughts of you and the last time it rained
when we stood outside for hours never feeling cold
it must be that time, it has to be winter
here i am, lonely again, twirling my hair

let me run my fingers through your hair
your eyes are deep and grey like water
like the ocean in the middle of winter
i do not like this being apart, you at home
and me holding photos and feeling cold
maybe i'm not lonely, it's just the rain

i have always wanted to kiss someone in the rain
with the little droplets sliding down my hair
i stood in the rain today and only got cold
i wanted to cry but there was already enough water
my house was empty and not really a home
i always think about homeless people in winter

christmas comes to the world every winter
and here, it's always joined by the rain
they hold hands and sit above the lighted cheery homes
filled with babies and old men with no hair
the gutters fill with icy dirty murky water
it's not this weather that makes me cold

each day i walk home, take the pins from my hair
open the faucet, heat rains down, over my body, water
that washes away the proof of winter's cold


(please see posted comments for the editors' comments)

November Night - Adelaide Crapsey

Listen. .

With faint dry sound,

Like steps of passing ghosts,

The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees

And fall.

Happy Halloween from Inklings!

More "Howloween" Photos :)

"The Dreaded Veggie" - David H.

Dinner time comes, I fear I'll see

the dreaded veggie, a small green pea

That bitter pill will ne'er touch my palate

lest it's mixed with bacon and smashed with a mallet

boiled in water, mixed to a goop

then seasoned just so. Ah! split pea soup!

"Creators" - Megan H.

"The next person I cried for

is that man who used to be

different; that one who prayed

for me," she said like a call

to her mother on Sunday.

"That man over there is next,"

She said again with bigger

gestures, "I've been talking too,

God--I can't sleep anymore."

Curved steam streams poured up from cups

and saucers which glided on

kid-calloused, carafe-shaped hands.

"Decaf, not regular, now,"

said the Matron in reply,

"How's Act IV? Kill off that scum

guy, yet?"

                 "I can't sleep but cry;

I can't breathe but die," six plates

near slipped from her no-break arms,

she read on,"I once was lost,

now found.'" Her play: diff'rent,

and changed from loud first instinct--

those changes from present tense;

drew swipes like bleeding paper

demanding sweat revision.

The Matron broke in, like friends

out to drink coffee, not serve,

"That man over there, you think

he's like your Act IV, you can't

rewrite men, make them Romeo."

Busied to separate tables,

she poured swift hot confidence,

"He's the next person for me,

we made eye contact last round

the next person I cried for,

the one who makes me write poems,

reminds me that I have eyes."

"I have been talking to God,"

she said again, the problems

with change and divine design.

"The next person I cried for

is him!"

      "Why?"

            "Look!"

                  "What?"

                         "Gone."

                               "Good.

good tipper..."

"But he's gone now,"

she sighed, looked and cleaned the glass

waiting for him to return.

I (Katy) love this poem because I feel like I have just wiped the dirt off a window and am watching this little piece of life happen.  The characters feel real and relatable and there is a certain urgency and longing, all of which is created by strong verbage and dialogue.  I also think it shows skill that though this could have turned into a short story, Megan maintains control with a syllabic form and concise, tight images that lead to this beautiful poem.

* Please also check last week's poem by Kathryn H. for a comment from the editors as well.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" - Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Submitted by Martin J.

"For Your Birthday"- Kathryn H.

I'd like to give
     the sound of rain,
     a fleet of ships,
     a Brio train,
     the smell of grass,
     a diamond ring,
     a wisp of smoke,
     an insect's wing,
     a golden hall
     of feasts and light,
     the cool of day,
     the heat of night,
     a shining star
     to guard your sleep,
     or anything
     as grand and deep
as how I feel when I'm with you--
I'm broke, so verse will have to do.


* Our apologies to Katie, to whom we neglected to give our feedback.  We enjoyed the particularity of this poem; that even though it's written for a specific person, it still is interesting for the general reader. It is light and fun, but gives also a window into the depth of the relationship, which shows restraint and mastery.  

"In Michael Robin's class minus one"- Bob Hicok

At the desk where the boy sat, he sees the Chicago River.

It raises its hand.

It asks if a metaphor should burn.

He says fire is the basis for all forms of the mouth.

He asks, why did you fill the boy with your going?

I didn't know a boy had been added to me, the river says.

Would you have given him back if you knew?

I think so, the river says, I have so many boys in me,

       I'm worn out stroking eyes looking up at the day.

Have you written a poem for us? he asks the river,

       and the river reads its poem,

       and the other students tell the river

       it sounds like a poem the boy would have written,

       that they smell the boy's cigarettes

       in the poem, they feel his teeth

       biting the page.

And the river asks, did this boy dream of horses?

       because I suddenly dream of horses, I suddenly dream.

They're in a circle and the river says, I've never understood

       round things, why would leaving come back

       to itself?

And a girl makes a kiss with her mouth and leans it

       against the river, and the kiss flows away

       but the river wants it back, the river makes sounds

       to go after the kiss.

And they all make sounds for the river to carry to the boy.

And the river promises to never surrender the boy's shape

       to the ocean.

Submitted by Haley S.

"My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On" - Gerard Manly Hopkins

My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

Charitable; not live this tormented mind

With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

I cast for comfort I can no more get

By groping round my comfortless, than blind

Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find

Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise

You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile

Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile's

not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather - as skies

Betweenpie mountains - lights a lovely mile.

(Submitted by Ben B.)

"Touch Me" - Stanley Kunitz

Summer is late, my heart.

Words plucked out of the air   

some forty years ago

when I was wild with love   

and torn almost in two

scatter like leaves this night   

of whistling wind and rain.   

It is my heart that’s late,

it is my song that’s flown.   

Outdoors all afternoon

under a gunmetal sky

staking my garden down,

I kneeled to the crickets trilling   

underfoot as if about

to burst from their crusty shells;   

and like a child again

marveled to hear so clear   

and brave a music pour

from such a small machine.   

What makes the engine go?   

Desire, desire, desire.

The longing for the dance   

stirs in the buried life.

One season only,

                        and it’s done.

So let the battered old willow

thrash against the windowpanes   

and the house timbers creak.   

Darling, do you remember

the man you married? Touch me,   

remind me who I am.

(Submitted by Katy R.)

Chicago Sestina - Brian Maloney

I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.

I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes

“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes?
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.

If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.

And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.

Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?

Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.


(Thanks to Chrissie M. for this submission)

Editor's Note

If you are interested, check Martin's poem, "God is in the Details" to view a (new) brief comment from the editors.

Enjoy!

"Poetry" - Katy R.

We ink our paper madly, 

Splotching and staining our way 

To art! To brilliance! To something 

More than these brittle words 

Curling and uncurling like lace 

On the paper, like flower stems 

Twirling up wooden stakes  

And fences, or sidewalk grates 

Reaching for something greater 

Than dirt, roots, sun 

Blooming, always blooming— 

Poetic little things. 

____________________

I (Megan) loved this poem from Katy. Anyone who has spent time trying "splotching and staining" their way to poetry will understand this poetic little thing. And doesn't Katy choose nice words?  

"Win, Oh Lord, My Heart" - Josh H.

Anxious thoughts befuddled,

Huddled beneath layers of cruff.

Stuff that is loved and hated

Created by love fogotten,

Rotten in apathy and suppression,

Aggression, foul, lust.

Must I live forever,

Wherever, wandering without thought

Caught in muck and mire.

Aspire to the world

Curled in activity,

Brevity of faith shown

Sewn in body and soul.

Coal, the color of sin.

Win, oh Lord, my heart,

Part the dark abyss,

Kiss the mess,

Confess the death

Breath of life

Strife removed,

Moved beyond words

Towards light and hope.

**Editors' Note**- From now on (we will return to Martin's poem as well), to promote feedback from ourselves and our readers, we are going to write what we liked about a poem after every original work we post.  Feel free to chime in with any feedback- positive or constructive- so we can all learn from this process!

We enjoyed Josh's poem because we think it shows a mastery of language--specifically that he showed restraint and creativity in his form and structure (the rhyming especially) while building vulnerable content within that restraint.

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

(Thanks to Bekah O. for this submission)

"God is in the Details" - Martin J. (With Commentary)

You killed me with your books
and your scientific looks
silenced me to mute
and added philosophical dilute
to all the things I've done
and all the hearts I've won
you played out my part
and tore out my heart

Although my name is written
in every single line
of this complicated life
you made yourself a shrine

Has your wisdom whizzled you
has your ego become an ism
will you ever learn
that I'm the cure for schism

Where is the love I gave you
what did you do with it all?
Where's the man that was you,
did he make you fall?

Evermore I seek you
but you tend to shy away
from all the things I have to offer
you try to run away
and I don't know what else to do
to get your attention
to break through to you
and show you my affection

Hear my cry of love
and see the stains of blood
see the outstretched arms
of an everloving God



_____________________ 
Martin's poem demonstrates a consistent voice which we found creative
and endearing. Like Josh's poem, Martin used language to his
advantage, creating his own alliteration with "whizzled." His first paragraph is particularly strong, with the punchy first line.  We liked that smart sarcastic tone, and then how that tone slowly morphs into vulnerable sadness by the end of the poem. 

Letter of Thanks

Greetings!

We are really excited because this week Inklings Journal received a handful of great submissions, including both original and known poetry. Please keep submitting your "inklings" and remember that even though we have been focused on poetry so far, we welcome fiction and creative non-fiction as well (and can be flexible with the word count).

We are waiting to hear back on one of the submissions, and we will post it soon. Until then, enjoy this Mark Strand poem.



Looking forward to hearing from you,
Megan & Katy

"Eating Poetry" - Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

(Thanks to Melissa J. for this lovely submission)

Letter from the Editors

Dear Friends,

We are very excited for the reception Inklings Journal received two weeks ago for its debut. We have 16 blogspot follows and a fan page on Facebook that is growing! We also have a design brewing to pumpkin-spice-latte up the visual aspect of this blog (how excited is everyone for Starbucks' holiday drinks?!)

However (in bad paragraph starting form), we have had fewer submissions than expected! Some of you are brilliant writers and we know because we have seen proof of it (whether you are willing to agree or not). This blog is a bit of a stretch for us too (especially Katy), but through sharing we all become better and more confident writers. Katy and I are already benefiting from this by workshopping our old poems together and we'd love for you to be a part of that too.

If you are worried about posting something here that you may want to publish formally elsewhere in the future (because often publications require unpublished work, including online) we would like to publicly state that while we are looking for serious work, our ultimate goal is to share, test, and workshop poetry rather than to publish it. Basically, we're not going to retain any rights to your submissions--they will be yours as yours can be. So if that was holding you back, no need to be concerned anymore!

Also as a reminder, we would love if you would send in your favorite poems (known, unknown, whoever) so we can post them during the week.  We are both really enjoying the way this blog is causing us to read more, find more wonderful lines and have a place to share them with each other and with you. The more people involved in that, the better!

All submissions go to inklingsjournal@gmail.com :)



Katy & Megan

P.S. Yes, we are long-winded; that is who we are (and we like parentheses)! Don't forget to read Donald Hall's beautiful poem below.

"Gold" - Donald Hall

Pale gold of the walls, gold
of the centers of daisies, yellow roses
pressing from a clear bowl. All day
we lay on the bed, my hand
stroking the deep
gold of your thighs and your back.
We slept and woke
entering the golden room together,
lay down in it breathing
quickly, then
slowly again,
caressing and dozing, your hand sleepily
touching my hair now.

We made in those days
tiny identical rooms inside our bodies
which the men who uncover our graves
will find in a thousand years
shining and whole.

"Stone-Old" - Katy R.

That day she found stairs
That were stone-old.

She could tell because they were folded
Into the hillside, and the wild grass
Stretched through the cracks
With surprising familiarity,
The way a daughter slips
Through the crevice
Of her father’s bent arm.

There was nothing left to do
But climb. As she rose
She counted each step.

On number twenty-two
She imagined that at the top
Lived an elderly couple
So in love they
Hadn’t come down in years.

On step eighty-nine
She knew at the peak
She would find a monastery,
Aged and forgotten, beautiful
Like the tip of a sea shell barely exposed.

The steps climbed higher, reaching straight into the sun.
It felt like climbing into a dream, really.

Standing there,
It was if she could see for the first time,
And everything was so orange—
Like the Popsicle that nobody wants,
Unwrapped and melting away in space.

"Take Heart" - Megan H.

She was always telling people to "take heart" and never thought to wonder what it meant until the day she slipped off into a willowy wood and found herself floating among purple flowers and saw a glistening lily pad drift by holding a dragonfly that was lying motionless with it's blue body bent up like a pile of pick-up sticks. Silently she gasped for air and went under and stayed.

"She walks in beauty" - Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Greetings and Guidelines

Welcome to Inklings Journal. We are excited you have found us, and look forward to your submissions and comments. Please check every Tuesday for new entries showing work from known and unknown writers alike :)

Inklings Journal is made up of regular people, mostly idealistic post-grads, who love writing and want to grow in our skills as we build a community of writers. That said, we invite your participation in this altruistic, exclusively online, free journal.


Guidelines for submission:

• We accept original and favorite (and cited) poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction works, up to 500 words (negotiable if fantastic).
• Submit by e-mail (inklingsjournal@gmail.com) in the body of the e-mail, please. No snail mail yet.
  
• Please only send up to 3 poems, and 1 short fiction/non-fiction per week.
  
• We will post submissions based on what fits with the heart of a journal, not necessarily what is most technically impressive. We will give feedback if your submission doesn't fit our purpose (please see Inklings Journal's "about me").
  
• We're looking for work that is accessible, authentic, and demonstrates a love of language and an appreciation for beauty.
• We don't like restrictions for writing, but have prepared a short presentation of what we don't want:

If you'd like to be in our clique
Here's a helpful limerick:
Metered rhyme is always fine
Hallmark greetings cross the line
If you hate your leaders, that's ok
But say it in a care-full way!
Be real, be true, say what you will,
But meaningful language gives a thrill
We're so excited to read your stuff
As long as it's not a bunch of fluff!

We hope you enjoy our Inklings!



Sincerely,
Co-Editors and Founders Katy and Megan