Wednesday, April 04, 2007

worm 39

I just read through Worm 39, a poetry zine distributed by email. This issue has 29 poems. Before printing it, I deleted one poem because I could tell by looking at it I wouldn’t like it. I’m allowed to do that.

Another one I skipped because it appeared to be a witch poem, and I don’t like witch poems. Then I decided ok I’ll read it and it wasn’t really a witch poem. Showed me. I also don’t like feathers and cauldrons and cats much. I reserve the right though.

The rhyming poems were good! I’m practically a convert. My favorite among them was “McDarby’s Hymn.” Another, called “Jesus Christ, Superstore,” can be sung. Another, “Humiliation,” has a story behind it I couldn’t totally figure out. And another: “Mother’s Day.” It rhymed and it was short, and I go for short.

There were two poems I stopped reading mid-stream because that was how I felt. They started out fine, but at some point I just said no.

Worm accepts previously published poems. Some of the best in 39 were re-publishers. Despite many editors’ aversion to re-publishing, not everyone has read every poem that has ever been published.

Each of Worm's three editors chooses a favorite poem. None of my favorite three was among theirs. Mine were “Poem for a daughter who did not come home,” “Catastrophe’s Cusp” and “Boots.” I think. There were other good ones, too, like “Dream Song,” and the rhymers.

Michi is also in the issue with a poem called “How much ground would a groundhog hog if a groundhog could hog ground.” I said this to my kids the other day and they loved it.

If you want Worm 39, I can forward it.


rae said...

Hey Sarah, I'd love to see the new issue of worm - my email is spanks.

SarahJane said...

should be in your inbox.

rae said...

Thanks, Sarah - I got it.

LKD said...

Can you forward it to my email, please?

Since you loathe witch poems, maybe you ought to write one.

Here's a witch poem I think even you would like:

Her Kind

have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

--Anne Sexton

SarahJane said...

sure, laurel. was just away a couple days - it'll be there in a few minutes.

funny enough, much as I love Anne Sexton, that's one of my least favorite poems of hers.
proving my theory.

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