Part of what we do here at The Reverie Journal is to tell you about opportunities to share your work.
Of course, we certainly hope you’ll still consider submitting with us for our magazine, anthology, or Write for Us submissions.
Today, let us introduce you to Albatross. The name is a nod from Coleridge’s poem, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and “consider the albatross a symbol for the environment.” This they interpret as they are more biased toward poems about the environment. They “publish mostly free verse and prefer narrative styles.”
Learn more about their submission policy here.
Contact: Editor: Richard Smyth
Address: The Anabiosis Press
2 South New St.
Bradford, MA 01835
This weekend we’re celebrating one of those holidays people either love, or love to hate.
But in the spirit of love and romance and all those ooey-gooey feelings, I want you to write a love poem.
It’s not going to be that easy.
I want to challenge you to write a love poem from someone who loves you’s perspective. Did you catch that? That means a husband, girlfriend, partner, mother, grandfather, child, best friend, whoever you have in this world that loves you…You are going to write a love poem…to yourself…as if it were written by them.
Sound difficult? It is. It’s never easy to put yourself into someone else’s voice and try to write from their standpoint.
It’s even harder to write love poetry about yourself.
But I think you can do it. I KNOW you can do it.
And have you considered submitting to our Write for Us segment? We’d love to feature your work here on The Reverie! Click here for more information…
Remember, all entries must be linked back to this post with a pingback or by commenting by Friday at midnight EST. Saturday is the vote and Sunday the winner will be featured.
Photo Credit: the-psycrothic on deviantart
The writer in my head has a name
But it is not mine
The person I saw buried six feet under
Lives behind my soulful eyes
In my blood I feel him
As I write the words that he has given me
I feel my feet hit the ground
But its to his kind beat
He is a leaf cascading to the ground
as I watch it with the eyes he gave me
He is the thought in my head
As I write down these words
And sing his mournful song
I like to keep my blog anonymous, as there is personal luggage on it that shouldn’t have a name attached to it. I write mostly about what I see and what inspires me. I believe that simplicity has more complexity than people may realize. My poems aim to extract the complexity and show the beauty in the rubble. The poem I submitted is about the person who inspired me and who continues to posthumously. You can find more of WordsAreDeadly’s work on their blog, here.
Photo credit: xmansonettex on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
I am my mother’s daughter
I save glass jars from peppers and peaches
To use throughout the house for holding things
Like buttons, seeds, and leftovers.
I stay up late after the house is quiet
Finishing projects in sewing and words
Away from the darling needy children
And alone with the depths of my thoughts.
When I want to learn something
I read books about astronomy and birds
I know the knowledge will not help me at work
Or at home, but I want to know anyway.
I am my mother’s daughter because
I know there is no harm in knowing about
The world away from my own
Even if I never see it.
Elizabeth N. Love is a resident of Kansas, where the blue sky meets a flat horizon. She holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Kansas and writes science fiction as well as poetry. When not writing, she is found chauffeuring two children to activities, cooking homemade meals, and practicing creativity in music, drawing, and needlework. You can learn more about her on her blog, here.
Photo credit: noach-b on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
At first the idea was to do something about the weather, but given what the East Coast is possibly facing, maybe something entirely different is more apropos.
Above you have a mystery man. Who is he? He is anyone you want him to be. The only caveat is: he’s got to be a little…well…different. Interesting. It’s your choice in what makes him so unusual. Spin me a story about the faceless man.
Here’s a list of words to get you in the mood. Use three of these, if you please:
This video may help you along:
As with last week, I’ll be tweeting your poetry and sharing among social media sites. If you have any writerly friends who are looking for a prompt, send them my way. There’s no voting, but there is plenty of sharing and support. Let’s grow this community together.
Let us gather those purple passion orbs
(The vineyard is ripe and ready)
We’ll weave the vines and crown ourselves
The leaflets to cover our glory
Let us drench ourselves in precious oils
That our bodies glisten and shine
It is unto Bacchus
We give thanks for the laden vine
As the ancients of classical Greece
Whose myths never grow old
We’ll dance beneath the harvest moon
Beautiful, brazen, bold:
Intoxicated on life are we
Free from all restraints
Living less complexities
Void of any complaints
O’Prunty lives is a small town amongst the rolling hills of West Virginia, USA. Her works have been published by Middle Island Press, with two chapbooks, “Selected Snippets” and “Unfolding Hearts” her credit. Her poem “A Fleeting Moment” appear as in an Anthology of Poetry: “Sketches of the Soul”.She has also been published in a variety of ezines, newspapers and collaborations.
Writing poetry since the tender age of ten, weaving of words has always been her true passion. In the words of the poetess, “life has been my greatest teacher, experience is now my guide”. You can find O’Prunty’s blog here.
Photo credit: Marcello-Paoli on deviantart / Design credit: Laura A. Lord
Today in the U.S. is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. This and the movie Selma had me thinking about the Civil Rights movement and The 1960s. It’s interesting to look back at the past with a discerning eye, thinking about changes, what could have been, what might have been and what did happen. That’s what this prompt will be all about.
This week’s prompt is about taking a snapshot of an event of a bygone era or decade. Write a poem about an event in history (whether historically accurate or fictitious) from the viewpoint of a spectator. It does not have to be about a social justice issue, but something that tells us something about the time period. Example: If you were looking at England in the 1700s, maybe write about the day of a young boy who is a chimney sweep. The viewpoint could be another little boy living in the house getting its chimney cleaning.
Remember, we’re not voting on Fridays anymore, but we do have the linky so we can share our poetry. Please join in, link up your work, read others in the community. This site is meant to form a community of like-minded individuals, and so we should be here to support one another.