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Submission Guidelines

We accept submissions of poetry, artwork, photography, essays and fiction by invitation only. We feel that poetry today is in the worst state it has ever been and we want a new imaginative poetry with depth of genuine feelings and emotion from poets who have the language to express it.
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Permanently Featured Poet: Duane Locke

Biography

2716 Jefferson Street Tampa, FL 33602-16200

E-mail: duanelocke@netzero.net

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: Duane Locke, Doctor of Philosophy in English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities, was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years. Has had over 2,000 of his own poems published in over 500 print magazines such as American Poetry Review, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, and Bitter Oleander. Is author of 14 print books of poems, the latest print book is WATCHING WISTERIA (to order write Vida Publishing, P.O. Box 12665, Lake Park, FL. 33405-0665, at Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble). Since September 1999, he became a cyber poet and has added to his over 2,000 print acceptances with over 3,000 acceptances by e-zines. Recently, Two E-books published:

"THE SQUID'S DARK INK", expanded edition

4*9*1 Publishing

"FROM A TINY ROOM",

published in Spain by OTO'S E-BOOKs,
atotos.gksdesign.com/ebooks/locke?index.htm.
Inquire: guiam@wol.es.

A third E Book from 4*9*1 Publishing,

"THE DEATH OF DAPHNE"

containing 50 poems never before published.

He is also a painter. Recently had exhibitions at Thomas Center Galleries (Gainesville, FL) and Tyson Trading Company (Micanopy, FL) and a one-man show at Pyramid Galleries (Tampa, FL)

Also, a photographer, has had nearly 300 of his photos selected for appearance in e zines. He photographs trash in alleys. Moves in close to find beauty in what people have thrown away.

He now lives alone in a two-story decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums. He lives isolated and estranged as an alien, not understanding the customs, the costumes, the language (some form of postmodern English) of his neighbors. The egregious ugliness Of his neighborhood has recently been mitigated by the esthetic efforts of the police force who put bright orange and yellow posters on the posts to advertise the location is a shopping mall for drugs. His alley is the dumping ground for stolen cars. One advantage Of living in this neighborhood, if your car is stolen, you can step out in the back and pick it up. Also, the burglars are afraid to come in on account of the muggers. His recreational activities are drinking wine, listening to old operas, and reading postmodern philosophy.

Five New February, 2003 Poems

A PIECE OF EUCALYPTUS BARK

A layer, long, seen from back--dark brown
With light brown thread-like fibers
That were soft curls with broken ends;
The bark was backlit, sent out flashes
Where there were cracks. This piece
Of bark had been punched from the trunk
By the wind’s fist, but still partially hung
To its place of origin, swayed and stumbled
If about to fall. This scene was
The plentitude of my morning, but had
Its tragic implications of the end of something.
Another day had begun with the discovery
Of the unexpected, the bark, and the sound
Of feathers moving rapidly. Cedar Wax Wings
Hovered over a tall tree ripe with Japanese plums.
The yellow on their feathers vibrated
Against the yellows of the fruit.
This aimlessly wandering in my backyard
Probably will be the only time
I will not waste today,
As I settle down with a mind of rhetoric
To write a long letter to a lover.

THE SOUND OF A CIRCLE ON END OF CURTAIN CORD AS IT TOUCHES THE GLASS OF A WINDOW PANE

The susurrations made by the woven circle
Dangling on the end of a curtain cord
As it sways against the glass of a window pane
Brought luxury and abundance into silent room.
The sound was a soft sound like the sound of suction
Made when an egret when walking across a white ooze
Lifts its yellow feet out of the white mud.
The sound of the curtain cord against glass
Brought the seashore to my dry white floor.
I sipped my twilight wine, forgot about
The uniformed men with walkie-talkies and shotguns
That had been walking up and down my street all afternoon.
I heard in my mind the scurry of sandpipers on a shoreline.

CHOICE AND FREEDOM

I contemplate the alphabet of Predestination
Crumbling apart, separating into letters
That will not organize themselves into traditional sequences,
That will not obey the shouts of a sergeant
In a close-order drill, will not obey
The rhythms of barked and ordered steps.
I watch the letters scatter into disarray
To become proud misspellings
As the letters drift towards pelicans and sea gulls.
I celebrate the freedom I feel and the choice
That came from an impulse in a car wash,
A decision not from knowledge, not from wisdom,
Not from calculations or the fantasies of logic,
A random decision that tore apart the ancient plot
Of the Great and Terrible mother of many myths.
Now I sit with six cats, a dog, and a glass of Shiraz
Imagine letters that refuse to organize
Themselves into ABC’S.
I feel the chaos in the language of lies
That people speak in their daily lives,
And I feel the wonder of miracles.

editors note: The following poem is quite possibly the best poem ever written!

THE ALLEY THAT BECOMES A RIVER WHEN I AM NOT OBSERVING THE ALLEY

I was asked by a philosophy professor
Who carried in a bag books by
Wittgenstein, Carnap, Ayer, Russell and Tarski
How many photos must you make of the alley
Before you ascertain a river does not flow
Where the alley is in the back of your house.
The philosophy professor kept talking:
It would serve your escapism just as well
To imagine shepherds asleep
And flocks of sheep grazing on tall wild grasses
That grew out of your alley ruts
As to keep believing there is a river in your alley.
You could smear scrawls on the tin
Of your neighbor’s garage, and pretend
These blots were painting in a Lescaux cave.
A human being is born with a brain
That can believe anything.
He can even believe that a painting of a Brillo box
By Andy Warhol is art.
I asked the philosophy professor did he not hear
The rattle of a kingfisher as the bird looks down
To see a black snake curled in a cluster
Of hyacinths that are floating down the river.
He said “No,” he only heard the creaking of the tin
That the wind was about to push from the garage.
I went inside to have my five-o’clock-in-the-afternoon wine.
I looked out my window to see the philosophy professor
Naked and soaking wet, his hair was dripping river water,
And he was drying himself with a long, blue towel.

A LOSS, AND AN AWAKENING FROM A DOGMATIC SLUMBER

He had his hated address and a map
Of the hated block on which he lived
Tattooed on his bicep.
Before the arm
Was amputated.
He had pricked his elbow
On a rose bush, neglected,
Then gangrene.
His attention was now occupied
By blackbirds flying to nests in pond reeds,
How cedar bark feels when touched after a rainfall,
The lightning that came from the eyes of green frogs.
Life was better now, since the pain had changed his perception.
Readings in ontology had not changed him,
The accident in the rose garden had.
The rose thorn like a twang of a guitar
Accidentally heard can change an attitude.
His address and the street on which he lived gone,
The same address was a new address.
The same street was a new street.
He caressed the scents of the jasmine
That were flying by his empty sleeve flapping in the wind.