Once again I must thank the superlatively efficient Red Focks, Editor of Alien Buddha Press, for accepting my poetry. Having now been published in various places from Iceland to Australia, I find my enthusiasm for searching up new journals whose staff might or might not care for my poetry has waned. If Red has a call for submissions out, I send a few his way, and a few days later, at least one is usually accepted.
I not only appreciate receiving acceptances right away, I also admire many of my fellow artists in Alien Buddha Zine. Red nominates for prizes, too, and of course, I remain grateful to ABP for publishing my debut collection, The Great Garbage Patch. For all these reasons, you may notice that I am publishing in ABZ more often these days.
"MRI" was a fun poem to write, and I think it is fun to read, too. As I was lying in the machine, I was struck by the regular and irregular sounds it produced, as well as its sleek appearance. How ironic, I thought, to be debilitated and immobilized in an environment that resembled a techno club for one. So I wrote a poem about it. (For concerned readers, I am no longer in pain, though still doing physical therapy in the hope that I may one day stop walking like Frankenstein's monster.)
My opinion of "The Seer" is not fully formed, since I wrote it just a few days ago. Like "The Test" (which is included in The Great Garbage Patch) and the elevator in "Cranes," this poem was inspired by a vision I had. I use this word to describe intense images like dreams that occur as I am waking, so I am drifting in and out of consciousness and somewhat lucid during them. I do not believe any divine forces are communicating with me, but the visions seem to come from outside me because they are randomly synthesized from who knows what non-rational material, they feel profound and frightening, and I relate to them more like an audience than an actor.
As one might expect, six weeks of intense pain, followed by not being able to move normally for a couple of months, have made me think of old age and death in a new, up close and personal way. No doubt that was behind my vision of an older, supposedly wiser self perched on a cliff. This person had filmy blue eyes--like other, famous seers, she was blind--and she spoke cryptically. She resembled a bird of prey, or perhaps a vulture. So I wrote a poem about consulting her. And Yeats' Sailing to Byzantium also got in there somehow.
I look forward to sharing these poems in ABZ in September. There will be updates on ordering or subscribing when they're out.
