"editors" poems
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you **** in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
19.5k
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
**** on them.
now I work for the editors the readers the
critics
but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.
11.2k
The moon reads the abstract of our past
Always refining our path
The stars are the editors of our lives
Always stirring
The breeze sensitizes our memory
Upon the gleaming of the night sky
We journey along the memories of time
Until each star slowly disappears
Without a trace.
Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
We, too, had known golden hours
When body and soul were in tune,
Had danced with our true loves
By the light of a full moon,
And sat with the wise and good
As tongues grew witty and gay
Over some noble dish
Out of Escoffier;
Had felt the intrusive glory
Which tears reserve apart,
And would in the old grand manner
Have sung from a resonant heart.
But, pawed-at and gossiped-over
By the promiscuous crowd,
Concocted by editors
Into spells to befuddle the crowd,
All words like Peace and Love,
All sane affirmative speech,
Had been soiled, profaned, debased
To a horrid mechanical screech.
No civil style survived
That pandaemonioum
But the wry, the sotto-voce,
Ironic and monochrome:
And where should we find shelter
For joy or mere content
When little was left standing
But the suburb of dissent?
3.1k
The attendees are told, in a manner befitting a high mass
You have been finally set free,
(Although, in truth, free is a very large and entirely vague word),
And the message is sent forth from all comers in all corners:
Vendor and visionary alike,
German socialists who left university to ride boats for Greenpeace,
First lieutenants doing their level best
To appear at ease in civilian polos and khakis,
But no matter the vessel,
The message is still the same.
The tyranny of cables and storage space is dead,
It is all but shouted from the lecterns,
(Although it is noted, in small print and sotto voce
That there are certain requirements
In terms of hardware and licensing)
And it is stated by Those Who Know
In tones which neither brook nor invite contradiction,
That they have surmounted, all Hadrian-like,
The alpine divide separating mere data and magic.
Two or three blocks down the street from the convention center,
In a narrow storefront housing an exhibition of ether-only comics
Which have broken the nettling constraints
Of editors and syndication,
There sits, under a somewhat opaque
And slightly scratched piece of plexiglass,
A yellowing comic strip of uncertain vintage,
In which a frowzy cat,
Free of the constraints of panels, gender, and standard grammar,
Is the recipient of a mouse-tossed brick
Whose flight, unfettered by physics, probablility, indeed time itself
Ends striking its mark right between the x’s of the eyes
The projectile itself an inexplicable alchemy
Of confusion, mirth, frustration
And the impossibility of an undeniably pure love.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:29 AM UTC
I was once told to edit the world. I grabbed my colored pencils, my childish ideals thinking I could simply, go over the imperfections left by my predecessors. Soon I would come to realize, life is no etchy-sketch. I could shake the world, twist, mold into anything I wanted. It’s still ****** up. I’m still trying to color the problems. I shade the unwanted, masking it over so I can pretend it’s gone. My day dreams continue further as I sketched over past memories, just want to edit the world. But, colored pencils become daggers when in the right hands. I’ve leaped into this idea with no plan, Standard american wisdom. Act first, question later. my first action should have been to ask, is the world a canvas? Maybe it’s a kindergarden sandbox, 5 year old fists and 6 year olds toes smash and pound through. Maybe it’s a thunderstorm because, I was told life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. All I’ve seen is dark clouds and lighting. Maybe the world is me. Poetic angst without fail, too much energy to use, to many words spoken at a rapid pace. Maybe the world is you, you, or you. It’s not just its own story, it’s a combination of auto-biographies still being written. Maybe... Just maybe, we are all editors. The world is constantly being edited, no single person should aim to do it themselves. Our world is force, a group, a team, a family taking the pens from our mothers and fathers, writing our chapters into the guide on how to edit. Sooner rather than later, we’ll pass our pens down to those who will write the chapters we never get to see. Hopefully, 5 year old fists and 6 year old toes become 20 year old champions and 30 year old heroes. We can share our stories, filled with the people we’ll never forget, and the nights, we can’t seem to remember. In the end, editing the world will never finished, it can be forgotten. We hope shedding sun rays on a rainy day, might convince our successors to never forget. Sadly, We can only hope they wish to edit.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
Dear David:
We are deeply gratified that you gave us the opportunity
to read your poems. Notice that we say “opportunity”
rather than “submission,” for truly you graced us with works
of such enduring power, so sublime, so transcendent,
that our humble words scarce can adequately praise
the sacred privilege of reading them.
Seldom, no, never has human experience been so distilled,
so purified, so exalted, yet so exposed
in all its paradox, its shades and sunbursts,
shouts and silences, the hiding places redolent of inner light,
as in these timeless works.
A calm breeze from the desert’s edge at dusk,
the chatter of a mockingbird at dawn,
the rumble and crash of a hidden waterfall,
the laughter of a child unseen in a cool wood’s shade,
emanate so intensely from the shapes of these letters
that our faith in the power of language to evoke reality
has been nourished and restored to its proper place.
However, we regret to inform you
that your poems do not meet our needs at this time,
which are for relevant poems for the upcoming
theme issue on Hammer Toes.
We hope you will consider us for future opportunities.
Sincerely,
The editors of Foot Fetish Quarterly
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
Left bank beards
in Beat hotel rooms,
a boulangerie breakfast
down the street and to the left,
and for lunch fresh baked bread and brie.
Letters sent home to fathers and mothers
singing sweet serenades of Paris
dressed up in autumn shades,
cheques for the royalties that'll
get them to Belize to write and swoon,
chat up ladies in the early afternoon;
where hotel fees that are treble those in the 5th,
bookshop stalls that'll never be found
another closing-down-establishment myth.
They were climbing with oxygen
long before we came along,
base camp poems written under
floor lamplight right before
the eyes of others.
Jett powered prose and wine in the light
sleight-of-hand punctuation and uptight
editors looking for finer narration.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
The Chicago Tribune editors in an article ask
What rhymes with lithium -ion battery
Challenging poets to address this awesome task.
Why, it is better than winning a lottery
It allows me, says the poet, to roam
By plugging into a socket at home.
The article described the surge and Electric vehicle production
expected in the next 10 to 20 years. In a playful aside
they asked how writers of songs find words to rhyme with battery.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
To all the editors who have rejected me
A rejection slip:
An editor's classic way
of saying "You ****
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
"Dear Austin Heath:
Thank you for sending “Poems by Austin Heath.” Your work received careful consideration here.
We’ve decided this manuscript isn’t right for us, but we wish you luck placing it elsewhere.
Kind regards,
The Editors”
Dear editors;
I’ve carefully considered your disposal of my material
and found it troubles me not. Whether you accept these
confessions or not, they’re still hand written on the liver
of every drinker from Cleveland to Ithaca and back.
Thanks for nothing,
Austin Heath.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Went to film school, want to be a filmmaker still
My dream unfulfilled, but still unfolding
I look at what used to inspire me: magazine articles about
the great directors. always male. even today. I used to want
to be the female version. Not anymore
The New Yorker has a piece on one
Describes the process: a demanding scene where
Julia Roberts walks down a street and then gives a LOOK
This is not drama. drama is conflict. the new yorker doesn't know this
describes the making of "art" as the shot is repeated with different LOOKS
It's all taken so seriously: a large photo of the ARTIST on the facing page
He has four o-clock shadow times a few days. this is the look of a filmmaker
you will see it in the second half of the semester at any film school
and he looks worried, intense, confused...gassy? artists are never happy
is life a pretty picture? the artist knows this and cannot, will not smile
Later, "the Brille Building," in New York. wow. a building with a name no less
a building where many films are edited, have been edited over the years.
a sweatshop for editors of picture and sound, and a place for the director
to continue, now out of the shadow of the STAR
He's using a lot of profanity now. Just because he's an old white geek don't think
for a minute he ain't kool, he ain't street.
Actually, go ahead and keep thinking that, because you're right
Amazingly enough, he, from his heights of artistry, is slumming it with take-out
Oh, the dedication. Oh, the fear of ever leaving the building and being reminded
there is a whole world outside that doesn't care about you
His brother is the editor (no, don't say there is nepotism in this business, it's your imagination)
They review the shots of THE LOOK
There are many takes and now, this director who adapted someone else's novel
to the screen now claims, he wrote it. Really. It is all his.
Yes I still love making films but I've never loved the biz
And as I get older, the more I think that real artists don't get written up
in the New Yorker with such verve because they'd think it was just too silly
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
"Biblical texts from all historical periods
& in a variety of literary genres demonstrate
that in Yahwistic circles, that is, among people
who worshiped Yahweh as the chief god,
God was always understood as the one who
alone created heaven, earth & all that is in them;
Yahweh, the Israelite god, had no rivals,
& in a world where nations claimed that their gods
were the supreme beings in the universe &
that all others were subject to them,
the Israelites' claim for the superiority of Yahweh
enabled them to imagine that no other nation
could rival her. Phrases such as 'Yahweh,
God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth'
& related phrases for Yahweh as creator
& almighty master of the cosmos have parallels
in earlier Canaanite terminology
for the god El; In fact, the Israelites
did not create these
phrases but inherited them
from earlier Canaanite
civilizations; moreover, later editors of the Hebrew Bible
used them to serve their particular monotheistic
theology: their god is the supreme god,
& he alone created the universe."
The canon of the Hebrew Bible
was formed of diverse writings
composed by many men or women
over a long period of time, under
many different circumstances, &
in the light of shifting patterns of
religious belief & practice. Indeed,
the questions under investigation in
this book concerning the end of an
individual's life, the nature of death,
the possibility of divine judgment,
and the resultant reward or punishment
are simply too crucial to have attracted
a single solution unanimously accepted
over the millennium of biblical composition."
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
Those who tricked, got tricked,
the ones who lied, lies in hi-story.
they came with hate, found hate,
those who used serums got delirium,
Now following their theorem,
Their bots are legion,
they can no longer tell,
whose who.
Their mirrors are distorted,
Her story aborted.
Honesty stumbled in lit square,
now disconnected from their fear.
Their words are reflected back,
in black, white and read all over,
editors of the events they want others to believe,
their mantras vibrating their cores,
lost their truth, root.
Love knew, from the highest perspective,
they got detected,
from a timeless space, they lose their place,
to run out of pace,
Love the highest intelligience,
protected love with love,
purity with purity,
innocence with innocent heart of a baby,
like we once were, and can be.
I found that child,
gentle, soft, humility, meek and mild.
Where time does not exist, that child is eternity.
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC
In June of 1989, 14 poets, all alumni of Columbia University, took a trip to Moscow. I was one of them. We flew from New York City to Moscow via Helsinki, Finland. We met with the editors of NOVY MIR (NEW WORLD), the most famous literary magazine in the Soviet Union, which broke up in 1991.We all gathered around a large oak table mixing Americans with Russians. We began reading only one poem each. When each Russian recited his poem, he stood up. I was impressed. Each Russian poet spoke perfect English. Eventually, it became my turn. I recited I WRITE WHEN THE RIVER'S DOWN. When I had finished reading, I went around the long oak table and handed each Russian poet a copy of my poem. I had made many copies of my poem in Topeka, KS, my hometown. Copy machines were illegal in the Soviet Union for fear that dissident, underground revolutionaries might wish to spread their fervent hopes of democratizing their nation to millions of their fellow citizens.
The next day, we 14 Americans were going to attend a meeting of the Moscow Chapter of the Soviet Writers Union. As I was getting out of our bus and stepping on the sidewalk, I heard a voice crying, "Mr. Hawks, Mr. Hawks! Please stop. I have something for you." As I looked to my left, I recognized a Russian gentleman from the day before. When he reached me, he said "I am Evgeny Chramov. You gave all of us a copy of your beautiful poem. I was so taken by it, I stayed up all night translating it into Russian. I had to type it again, so if I saw you today, I would be able to give you my translated copy." He put his briefcase on the sidewalk, opened it, and pulled out his Russian translation, and handed it to me. I was stunned. I said "Mr. Chramov, how thoughtful and generous of you to stay up all night translating my poem into Russian! Bless you, Mr. Chramov." As we were walking together into the building, I stopped and spoke to my new friend. "Mr. Chramov, I have a favor to ask of you. Would you be willing to read your translation of my poem in this meeting?
"Of course! I'd be honored to do that," said Mr. Chramov. When it came time for him to read, Mr. Chramov, standing up, read his translation of my poem. I was elated. The meeting soon came to a close. A woman who had chaired the meeting walked by me without stopping and said to me, again in perfect English, "You really are a poet, aren't you?"
Her comment, and Mr. Chramov's responses,, I have never forgotten.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 9:55 PM UTC
The poetry editors said
"No vocabulary - No poetry"
so I thought
"Great! I won't use any big words!"
and the poetry editors said
"Don't write poetry that is like a thesis"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write my philosophy!"
and they said
"We only want poetry with beautiful imagery"
so I thought
"Great! I won't write any flowery word pictures!"
and they said
"Be patient with your poetry and don't rush it"
so I thought
"Great! I'll be spontaneous and not edit anything!"
and they said
"Don't write anecdotal poetry"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write little story poems!"
and they said
"No spelling mistakes"
so I thought
"Great! I'll intentionally misspel"
and they said
"Don't write about your ordinary, mundane life"
so I thought
"Great! I'll write about my ordinary, mundane life!"
and they said
"No cliches"
so I thought
"Great! I'd love to use old tired worn-out cliches!"
and they said
"Don't be redundant"
so I thought
"Great!"
and then the Buddhist nuns suggested
that I write formlessly,
so I tried every form
I could think of,
and then the Zen master suggested
that I just write my thoughts,
so that's what I do,
although this is not exactly
how my thoughts go,
so that's how I learned to write poetry
in my personal school
of self-help stupidity!
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 11:36 AM UTC
none of the editors reside in my head
nor does a matrician's need to coddle
sidestep
be nice
when I see ****** I say that is
******
have no points in the bank for guile
for correctness
for matters are fact
attitudes solid concrete I can see
like windows on the Trump tower
just hiding ****
brevity usually my habit
and preference
but at times I get windy
flatulent
****** me off when, shew!! it happens alone
I love to share
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
her mother called her
a textbook virgo,
levelheaded, organized,
practical
and every spare moment she had
was spent writing
most of it was hopeful...
possibilities outlined neatly
on elite paper stock -
serious poems to be
submitted to editors,
poems to celebrate
special occasions,
outlines of plots
for short stories
she planned to write
her personal writings
were deeper, sadder
she wrote reams in a daily
journal about troubled
relationships, tiffs with
her husband and kids, her
competitive sister, each
comment meticulously penned
in an elegant flowing manner
but that final note she left
was the shocker,
written in a freakishly
jumpy, shaky hand,
overly loopy, jagged,
a note on cheesy motel
stationery, filled with longing,
with despair,
words spewing out of her pen,
out of control words
scrawled far from home,
the solitary writer engaged
in an emotional seizure,
facing her phantoms alone
and losing
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Thank you for all the helping hands that try to reach us after the super typhoon Haiyan.
Thank you for saying your prayers even before the storm hit our country.
Thank you.
To the writers and editors who put an effort to research the ways to donate,
Thank you for filling the white spaces the verbs of hope
The words are too powerful
Blessings are literally pouring right now.
These articles are the counterpart of the devastating reality the news is feeding us.
Yet, we must know reality
Thank you for all the journalists who brings these stories in our household.
Unconsciously, you are answering our questions.
To all the countries,
Thank you for loving our country
Thank you for sharing a piece of your nation.
To all the anonymous people who sent their donations,
To my clients,
Thank you.
To all the people who created pictures of hope
Thank you for sharing your talent
Love is felt.
In behalf of my countrymen,
Thank you.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
So many of us
beaten, heart-wrung care
we share
our hopelessness
our impotent despair
our seismic horror
mounting terror
as nations pile mistake
on fatal error
How do we act
as casualties mount
how do we hold our blighted leaders
to account
We trawl through history
and weakly portion blame
make claim on pointless claim
to show that we began this game
That this was us, and that was them
but all this does
is set the process off again
And little comfort,
stating that we cared
in lieu of just confessing
we are scared
Scared that in the loneliness of night
a sneaking voice
might say this choice was right
that self-defense
is justified
that editors and leaders
can't have lied
that evil really stalks us,
really walks our streets
plots our defeat, prepares
to hoist black flags
into the air.
It does, and always has.
The name may change
but nothing of this crisis
is so strange.
Cry anarchy, revolt
pledge blood to the republic
**** the vote
don masks and balaclavas,
meet in shade
believe this is the place
where deals are made
And soon, to fan eternal conflagration
someone will bring a god
to the equation,
proclaim a nation,
proclaim the right of judgement,
who should live
and who should die
And in the dancing flames,
raise eyes
to thank the empty,
mindless sky.
But what is worst,
among the frantic, wretched cries
is that our comfort
lets us view it with surprise
our safety, compromised
exposes this malignant myeloma -
we feel that we
should never die.
We should not suffer,
should exist
in numb, eternal safety,
empty bliss
no cold, no hunger,
conflict frowned upon
All struggle gone -
we should go on
and on
and on.
But breathe.
Feel echoes, ripples, tremors -
close frightened eyes
and just remember -
this is the road that we are always on
We found it on arrival,
leave it when we're gone
but our survival
is unhindered.
While fools break splinters
from its rugged bones,
we still lay bigger, stronger stones.
This is the world.
Love fiercely, dare
to shout in anger,
weep in care, do all you can
to help your fellow woman,
fellow man
to shatter walls, to build
together, better, wiser things
Prepare
to sacrifice, to will a world as one
and know that evil done
can be undone
Do not succumb
to cold, immobile fear
but shout, in righteous fury,
"We are here!"
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
people talk about the past like its still living
an annoying neighbor who insists on visiting
we go to the graves of our own mortal history
but instead of soil and stone
we're confronted by Zombies
Zombies of hurt, Zombies of pain
the ever living conundrum
of the past, as the walking dead
People live in the past like they've split the atom
a world within a world
a freedom they can't fathom
we go to the homes we left at sixteen
but instead of new occupance
we're alone with the Zombies -
Zombies of failure, Zombies of death
the ever living conundrum
of the pasts rotting flesh
People review the past and talk like its still news
yet its just a flicker of the mind the remnants of a fuse
we look over the lines like editors we read
in the hindsight we searth for truth
yet all we find are Zombies -
Zombies of hate, Zombies of love
the ever decaying conundrum
to the pasts resemblance to now.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:23 PM UTC
Image
In a nation full of mirrored meanings
Losing the plot to the points made by editors
With the front to cover-up
The dots and dents
That differentiate one doe-eyed one-day wonder
From another
Not too difficult
Then
To discern from where our demons are derived
The motivation behind our mothers' mockery
All too often a fearful fantasy
That this will be a permanent reality
A lonely destiny of separation
In sanity
Choosing challenge as our champion
Causes less respect than one might expect to receive
From those persons whose pretence it is
To adore independence
In fact they abhor the idea
That they might not
Have got a clue
What's best for you
It's all so clear to them that the fix is a daily change
Lies in a variety of lipsticks
And the new best-dressed latest range
Of thigh-thwarting
Waist-winning
Sin-free super-fad foods
That nourish your neuroses
Whilst simultaneously stifling your spirit
While your mind is on your midriff
You're not wondering if the government have gained their votes
Through the generous use of their
Accumulative groins
And you are much less likely to ponder the particulars
Of the power plants you pass
If every article you read
Is ready to remind you
Of the importance you should place
Upon the proportions of
Your ***
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
Good God didn't like
media's portrayal
of godly affairs.
even the mix up
in gender embarrassed.
sending a rejoinder
by way of retribution
would be viewed
as barbaric at this times.
that will ensure
a media hullabaloo,
quite avoidable, it was decided.
so, a gentle curse
was finally promulgated,
news on godly affairs
immediately got distorted
to the side of God,
with out the notice
of eagle eyed editors.
to edit a long story short,
this "editor's curse"
spread to other
media departments as well.
special correspondents
were specially bend
to distort their stuff, at will.
diplomatic scribes
used their skill utmost to
pitch one country against the other.
by and by distortions became
an unwritten rule, nay
a birth right of media tribe,
who could be fiercer than a pack of wolves,
not only on a full moon night
but on' any moon day' too!
Now it can be told,
this is how distortion of news or views
according to the whim of some
came about.
"Oh! God"!
OOO
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC