Frost Meadow Review published one of my pandemic poems yesterday, and I thought I'd share it with you, along with Frost Meadow's call for related manuscripts.
Frost Meadow is encouraging poets to write about their experiences during this challenging time and to submit them for possible publication in a special online supplement of "Pandemic Poetry." There is no submission fee, and all poems may be read free of charge online.
According to Frost Meadow Review, "We believe that poetry matters and that we are more together."
Poets are asked to read the submission guidelines before sending work.
"Poets may submit up to one poem a day for this project in word or PDF format with the email subject line “Pandemic Poem.” Poems must be original and unpublished. Multiple submissions are fine but please tell us if it is a multiple submission and inform us immediately if the poem is accepted by another publication. Please include a brief bio including your general location. For the foreseeable future, we will publish at least one poem a week from these submissions on our pandemic poetry page on our website. There is no submission fee and the poems will be free to read online. We believe that poetry matters and that we are more together. This is our way of helping us all stay connected and growing together during this challenging time."
So ... if you're a poet and have written any poems related to the Covid-19 pandemic, you might want to consider sending some to Frost Meadow Review for the editors' consideration. Be sure to follow the guidelines. There's nothing to lose, and it's wonderful to be part of this special poetry/community sharing.
July 10, 2020
All Manner of Thing
By Adele Kenny
This morning I woke to a wren outside my window,
its clear trill vibrant in the day’s first air, and I thought
about words, how we’ve learned to speak the language
of Covid—pandemic, quarantine, PPE—and how we
live by the new routines that go with such words—
the world on hold, everyone six feet apart.
Socially distant, I stand on the deck out back and
toss peanuts to the chipmunks and squirrels. My dog
is beside me. He’s intuitive, this one, as if he knows
what I’m thinking and thinks it with me. Cardinals
come, sparrows and doves—all with bright wings
to lift them—and the red-bellied woodpecker that
drills its own version of words into the maple.
Restrictions have begun to loosen (some worry that
it’s too much too soon, and no getting away from this
tight knot of knowing, the fear that rattles inside it). I
have to tell myself that hope can be real. On the street
behind mine, a man sings Don McLean’s “American Pie”
behind his mask. The sound carries. Believe, believe,
I tell myself and, like a stuck song, I quote Julian of
Norwich over and over: All shall be well, and all
shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
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