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dedicated to the art of the written word

volume 1, issue 4
"bringing it in under 150k"
September 1995

================================
POETRY INK 1.04 / ISSN 1091-0999
================================

**Night And The City**

**a special issue of POETRY INK**

volume 1, issue 4
September 1995

In This Issue...
----------------
Night. Dark and foreboding in it's veils of mystery. The Midnight
Hour. Crisp chills of air and the skies speckled with the dust of
thousands of stars. Full moon and creeping things which reach for you
from under the bed.

The City. A bright shining beacon glowing hotly in the hours before
dawn. Traffic. Noise. The endless shuffling of a million feet heading
to home or work or play and back again. The collective soul of untold
generations beating the rhythm of life. Night and The City. They seem
to fit together naturally, but nature is a harsh mistress. This issue
of Poetry Ink explores the connections between the feel of the Night
and the heart of The City. For some, the Night is a beast to be feared
and hated; for others it is a celebration of life. The City, too, has
many meanings. Is it the small town in the middle of the Midwest on
the verge of dying because the new Wal-Mart is killing the independent
businessman on Main Street? Or is it that vast hulking behemoth on the
coast, a magnet for the world's cast-offs and untouchables who come to
America to reap the riches of freedom and sometimes succeed?

All of us carry prejudices about Night and The City--but how many of
us juxtapose these two intangibles and think about what they really
mean? Sprinkled throughout the following pages, our contributors
explore these themes and draw their own conclusions. We invite you to
join them. You will also find our regular grab bag of topics herein;
we have decided to discontinue the theme issue platform, as the
response was less than spectacular. Those writers whose work appears
under the Night and The City banner should be given a huge round of
applause, for without their submissions, this would be a slim issue
indeed. So, consider this issue a bonus; you get the expected quality
work, but also the unexpected pleasures of our Night and The City
contributors.

Matthew W. Schmeer, editor
<[email protected]>

POETRY INK
----------

**Editor**
Matthew W. Schmeer

**e-mail**
<[email protected]>

**snail mail**

Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
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St. Louis, MO 63139-3647
U.S.A.

POETRY INK is a regular, erratically published E-zine (electronic
magazine). Anyone interested in submitting poetry, short fiction, or
essays should see the last two pages of this document for submission
instructions. If writing via snail mail, please include a #10-sized
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Donations of food, money, software, and hardware are gracefully
accepted.

Legal Stuff
-----------
POETRY INK is copyrighted 1995 by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS, a wholly
owned subsidiary of the imagination of Matthew W. Schmeer. POETRY INK
can be freely distributed, provided it is not modified in any way,
shape, or form. Specifically:

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INK at no charge.

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POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS retains one-time rights and the right to
reprint this issue, either printed or electronic. All other rights to
works appearing in POETRY INK written by authors other than Matthew W.
Schmeer revert to said authors upon publication.

Official OneNetBBS Network distribution by Ben Judson
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POETRY INK is produced on an Apple Macintosh(tm) Color Classic(tm)
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Help Wanted
-----------
As mentioned in earlier issues, POETRY INK is originally released on
eWorld(tm). Unfortunately, eWorld(tm) does not offer extended Internet
services such as eMailing file attachments, uploading to ftp sites, or
making home pages for World Wide Web browsers. Until such time as they
do offer these services (and probably after as well), POETRY INK's
publishers are asking for a little help.

POETRY INK is currently seeking volunteers to Spill the Ink across the
Internet! We are looking for people to upload POETRY INK to:

* CompuServe(tm)
* sumex-aim.stanford.edu (Internet Macintosh ftp software archive)
* mac.archive.umich.edu (another Internet Macintosh ftp software archive)

And to post POETRY INK's Submission Guidelines on a monthly basis to
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* rec.arts.poems
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And finally, to:

* link POETRY INKto a Web Page for downloading
* set up an Internet e-mail subscription service

Ideally, we are looking for one individual to do the postings and link
POETRY INK to a Web Page, one individual to handle the subscription
service, and another to upload POETRY INK to the commercial on-line
services mentioned (That's a total of three for you mathematicians out
there).

If you have regular access to any of the above mentioned electronic
forums, please consider helping out!

The more POETRY INK spreads across the Internet, the better we will
get.

We regret that at this time we cannot compensate our volunteers for
their efforts. However, they will be given our undying gratitude and
many blessings from their Muses. Plus, their names will become
permanently etched into our masthead and given credit for their
support. If interested, please eMail us at <[email protected]>, and
tell us which duties you would be willing to fulfill!

Dedication
----------
Dedicated To All the Night Owls Out There

Featured Writer--Night and The City
-----------------------------------
Richard Epstein
<[email protected]>

_On E. Colfax_

On E. Colfax your sisters still ply
and vend, never straying too far
from Shepherd's Inn or the Appletree
Shanty. I only glimpse you now
in Alfalfa's aisles or the still lanes
of The Polo Grounds. But oh,
Celinda, you are still a working
girl, hard at it, though the effort
doesn't show on your soft tan, no drop
of sweat unintended. I'll bet
you even talk an elegant ground game,
with the odd rough trade slang, for pace.
No more servicemen, Lowry's closed;
and what night knew, hubby need not.

Richard Esptein lives in Denver, Colorado, and his poetry appears in a
wide assortment of mostly obscure journals, both in the U.S.A. and in
Great Britain. His recent credits include "Staple" and "Seam" in
England; "Lyric", "10x6", and "Potpourri" here in the States. He makes
his living as a litigation paralegal. Two of his books, "Second
Thoughts" and "The Missouri Shores", are currently under consideration
for publication. His poem _Towns In Such Movies_ appeared in Issue 3
of POETRY INK.

About _On E. Colfax_, Richard writes:

_On E. Colfax_ is one of a series of poems, "These Denver Odes",
designed as imitations of Horace. This one is Book 1, number 3, as it
happens. I write in form; metric regularity, and often rhyme, are
important to me; but even I occasionally tire of the iambic
procession, and I was looking for a structure to work within which
would offer some variety. As the great poets often do, Horace
presented himself. As does not always happen with great poets, he
presented himself as a host, not an obstacle.

Horace's "Odes" are of course formal in ways I can scarcely
understand; my Latin is, to be polite, rudimentary. I find that Latin
quantitative scansion--regularly placing short and long syllables
rather than unaccented and accented syllables-- is inscrutable. That
it is regular, though, is obvious even to the ignorant eye; Latin
compression is a good thing for American poets to study. Horace's way
with topical references, local scenes, personal history, and his
tendency to serve large themes in small poems is perpetually charming
and enlightening. That was my model. I am a somewhat lesser poet than
Horace, so Denver seemed an acceptable stand-in for Rome.

The places in _On E. Colfax_ are real Denver venues--Lowry is a
recently closed Air Force base, Shepherd"s a seedy drug (and whore)
infested motel, The Polo Grounds a posh enclave of older "mansions" in
the City. Celinda, like other named characters, recurs in my version
of the "Odes"; if she has a real-life model, you won't learn that
here.

I began writing poetry on a specific, well-defined occasion a long
time ago as an undergraduate at The University of Denver. One evening
in the spring of my junior year, a professor in our English Department
was to read from his poems; since I knew him slightly, I attended. He
was a dapper, rotund little man, a chain smoker with a basso profundo
voice and a pseudo-English intonation, equally smitten with his
physical presence and the sound of his own voice who was reputedly a
hard drinker. Or so he seemed to a 20 year old. God knows what sort of
man he really was. He read his pretentious poems with the fruity,
Biblical seriousness of Orson Welles selling wine. It was dreadful,
and I left thinking, "If he can write poetry, I know I can."

I immediately returned to my dorm room and tried. I still have the
result hidden in a file cabinet; a very bad poem called "The Poetry
Reading", it concludes:

And in the furthest row
a baby cried aloud
in boredom and impatience.

So it turned out I couldn't do even what the natty professor had done,
at least not right away. And although I like to think I have moved on
from that point, I feel I still haven't gotten it quite right. I
wonder sometimes what that professor thought of his own poems; whether
he labored over them as I labored over my initial efforts to surpass
him, and whether today some young poets don't read my poems
occasionally posted on eWorld with the same disdain I felt for Dr. X.
If so, I wish those young poets luck. They're going to need it.

Kenneth Hann
------------
<[email protected]>
Night and The City
2 poems

_Our Town_

Wicked women.
Subway noises.
The metropolis never sleeps.

See that boy with the tombstone eyes?
He's got a short rope and a big stone.

All smiles here have extended canines.
It's a desperate land
with a desperate game.

Buy sex, steal sleep, beg to eat:
trade your dignity for a chance.

Hear that man with the serpent's hiss?
He's got a bag of the finest walking death.

Retarded children,
diseased virgins,
slippery passage,
and all under commercial skies.

Wandering through a land of pain
but no gain,
our Prodigal Sons shall never return.

_Wanton Boys_
(For Raymond Souster)

Twilight.
The hot humid day
transforms into a sticky summer night.
The heat trapped within us has no place to run.
We sit on an urban edifice
watching the street's business interaction--
merely curious young boys looking to let off steam.

We watch sick roses peddling their flesh.
They wear plaster faces and exposing fatigues.
Fascinated, we make a game of their naked sin.
We hoot, clap, and jeer at their exploits.
The adults--buyers and sellers--first look flustered.
But then the professional women call our bluff.
We stiffen with their callousness and try to casually walk away.

Wade H. Moline
--------------
<[email protected]>
Night and The City
1 poem

_Still_

Teenage Al Capones swept the dirty, rundown neighborhoods.
The city sat molested by these thugs in the humid, hot night,
and opened new wounds in the mayor's old promises
of bringing about the three R's;
Reform, Revival, and Revitalization.

Rotting garbage stenched the night air and danced on hot breezes,
not alone but with the putrid smoke of burning asylum for the poor
and for the homeless.
The raging fire was hell bent on reform.

In other parts of the ghetto warm beer was sipped on dark porches,
a vain attempt to beat the heat.
Sweat tickled everyone, not even the rich were immune
to the humid night.

The sudden rumble in the west perked momentary interest,
but no clouds could be discerned in the thick, hazy, night sky,
and more cans of false relief were guzzled
while an entire town lynched the weathermen for their false hopes.
The rains hadn't come today either.

Activity ceased when the power was lost
casting the dark city into deeper oblivion.
The Capones were delighted and moved to the rich areas,
their false hopes of glory spurned on.
Now they could move and not been seen.

Only the man who had the gun and could use it was safe,
another false hope as broken hearted wives cursed the makers
who said any man with the gun and those behind him
would need not fear another.

With street lights gone one could not discern
friend from foe
the exception being the passage of a patrol car,
and the men inside were both.

Evil, vile, and deathly screams violated the stifling stillness
of a dead end street.
Tensions shot high,
all listened with hair prickling,
goose bumps growing.
The barking of maddened dogs stopped
as fear struck even the biggest hound.

Then laughter came from the black street.
Not an evil laugh.
Not a vile laugh.
A nervous laugh.
An entire neighborhood laughed.

One eyed bandits lit the way
and others followed bravely into that screaming arena
at the end of the street
under the superhighway that rose high above.
On hot pavement bare feet pattered and scampered,
sneakers padded,
hard shoes tapped.

The arena was lit by the one eyeds and the occasional escape of light
from the highway above.
At the feet of the encircling crowd was a bloody, gory fight.
Word of this exciting diversion spread,
and the heat of the night was driven from the collective minds
of the restless, growing crowd.

From the vulgar crowd a single phrase was uttered.
It broke the spell and returned the heat.
On this night it was the wrong thing to say.
All eyes moved to seek this individual fool,
but he had vanished as quickly as the fighters.

As the grumbling crowd dispersed seeking
new entertainment
a solitary soul watched from safety,
a vow on his lips to never utter, "Here kitty, kitty"
on a hot night,
in a restless crowd,
on a dead end street,
in a dark city,
during a cat fight,
again.

And the crowd moved on,
still smelling the rotting garbage
still smelling the burning asylum
still feeling the heat
still feeling no relief
still seeing no friends
still drinking warm beer
still being raped by the teen Capones
still seeing the spilled blood.

It was 1967,
and it was Detroit.

Wayne F. Brissette
------------------
<[email protected]>
Night & The City
1 poem

_Uncertainties_

At my feet are the uncertainties
brought forth by the wild eyed spirits of the night.

Dusk is upon my fears
The darkness crawls up my spine
leaving its absence in my heart.

I move my feet; first to the left,
then to the right.
I stand watching the drunk moon dancing upon my head.

Inside I stray. First to Istanbul, then to New York
Slowly I make my way to Los Angeles. Where the stars laugh
as I pray at the temple.

The dancing and chanting lessens the laughter, but it lingers
like the smell of the drunk off Sunset and Vine.
He asked for a quarter and I laughed.
The stars are not kind, for they heard my laughter and now haunt
me as I silently walk from coast-to-coast.

I return to Istanbul, I return to the Mosque, I return to my house,
I return to my fear...

Opening my eyes, I see the red glow, I see the flames dancing at my
feet.
The heat, the sweat...And inside my hollow heart, a picture of laughter.

But tonight, the uncertainties fill my head.

Michaele Benedict
-----------------
<M. [email protected]>
2 poems

_Nasturtiums_

"On Thursday a respectable female far advanced in pregnancy was taken
out of the Serpentine river... having been missed formerly six weeks."
---Newspaper clipping about Harriet Shelley, quoted in "Ariel"

She was a nasturtium of a woman
With that bright blowsy top
And those tender stems.
She once stated with wonder
That she had separated and transplanted
Densely sprouting nasturtiums
Because she could not bear to thin them,
That is, to sacrifice the weak to the strong
As a practical farmer would do.
(Her thin fingers against the sunshine,
The fine bone surrounded by translucent flesh,
The small chewed fingernails like pale petals.)

Then, forgetting the day she sat in the dirt
To preserve the jade-colored seedlings,
She let her own life slip away in
(Let us say) carelessness (and not despair.)

In June, the wild nasturtiums
Are mostly orange and fresh-faced,
Smelling of ponds and radishes,
But are sexual, mutating
Into yellow, cinnebar and gold,
Leaving pods as hot as peppers.
No one gathers them but children
Or strangers from barren places.
The perfume rarely pleases them.
Often they drop the blossoms
Beside the road.

_Travois_

Then we sawed at our wrists with a dull knife
We tapped blood
And the dark blood, yours and mine, ran together
And we said we would never be parted.
We would make a sling of woven work, we said,
So that in the end we could lie on it together.
We would tie it, we said, to
Two spirited horses, this travois,
And the horses would carry us to the next world,
Leg on leg, arm on arm.

Down cobbled streets we went,
Stealing moments, reciting poetry,
From the mosque to the old church
To the hard, hot sand of the beach.
The dream horses carried us laughing and crying
Past tall cypresses.

I still do not know why my horse began to veer away.
I lost my grip on the travois,
Was deposited on some rocky field
Far from home as your horse dragged you on.
You must have seen me flogging my nag,
How she would not move.
You must have seen me running and running.
Perhaps the wind carried my voice to you:
"Oh, wait!"
But finally you were only a small moving spot
In the distance, and then you were gone.

Come back, come back, come back, come back.
Come back to get me, to finish the dream
We dreamed. I cannot bear to grow alone
Toward the moment that you promised.

Richard W. Parnell
------------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Otherwise_

The computer can simulate language easily,
but we had thought otherwise.

Intelligence was to be easily artificial,
yet we struggle still with our assumptions.

Is there such a thing as
too much information,
too many connections,
too many thoughts,
too much to do?

I feel diminished by immensity,
by what I have not done
(could not do),
and yet it is just me,
after all.

My language is simple:
this is not enough,
is too much,
is too me,
is too true.

Richard Steinbach
-----------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_The Fabric of Society_

You are a rising athletic star
And you get paid a thousand times more that you think you're worth
And you ask yourself, "Am I worth that much?"
And you wonder
And time passes
And you start to believe that you are
"Just raise the ticket prices"
And another rent appears in the fabric of society

You are an entertainer
And you are married and have children
But you are vibrant and alive and attractive
And women "force" themselves on you
And you try to resist, but you don't
Because, if you're this special, the normal rules don't apply to you
And besides you work hard and should have some "fun"
And another rent appears in the fabric of society

You are a senior executive
And you know in your heart that staying loyal to your employees
During tough times will pay off big in good times
It is the strategic thing, too
But the stockholders are screaming
And you cave in, and fire the older ones, the expensive ones
And the bottom line looks good for another short quarter
So you give yourself a raise
And another rent appears in the fabric of society

You are "down and out"
You once were one of the elite
But it got away
And you just need a hand
To be covered by the fabric of society
"It should help me..."
"It should help those who have gone low"
And the answer comes back
"There is no fabric...only holes"

Gary Wiener
-----------
<[email protected]>
Night & The City
1 poem

_The Streetlights On Our Block Are Out_

The streetlights on our block are out.
I don't worry; it's a safe neighborhood,
except for the double break-in two night's past.
I've got the house illumined anyway
Spotlights gleaming front and back reveal
only the neighbor's crawling cat, and,
if anyone's looking, me, sitting at midnight
on my steps, observing how
the streetlights on our block are out.

The streetlights on our block are out.
I'm reminded of the Italian Futurists
of early this century, who wagered mechanism
could murder moonlight, that beaming burning wattage
could drown out silent Diana's doleful orb.
But tonight the streetlamps are but blackened
poles donning funereal bonnets, while the
moon glows full above, not to be lauded
for what it does so naturally, or romanticized
in a poem, or anthropomorphized, in Stevens' phrase,
like the widow's bird or an old horse,
but just to shine, noncomittally, uncontested, while
the streetlights on our block are out.

The streetlights on our block are out.
I should get up from these steps and
call RG&E, they'd get it fixed in a week
I'm sure, but there's no poetry there.
Who wants even a thought of worktrucks, anyway,
when one has this pristine night of crawling cats,
late summer breezes, and humless electric
streetlamps. What I'll do is go
inside and douse those spotlights, front and back,
and chance that burglars and murderers and even
near relatives will stay away
and let me enjoy and bask in the grasp of the thought that
the streetlights on our block are out.

David M. Rosenbaum
-----------------
<[email protected]>
short fiction

_The Unbeliever_

None May Approach Him. Exalted Is He Above Your Approach.

The Sun one day spoke thus to himself, "All the worlds cry out, Why
glow so brightly? For none can look upon me even for a moment. I glow
for my love of mankind. Every day I look down upon the wide blue
earth, upon the seas on which I dance, upon the mountains that stretch
vainly to reach me, and I behold men blowing across their palms for
me. They know me as their provider. They see me and know that from me
comes all warmth and light and life. What man living upon the world
could be without knowledge of me? Who could deny me in the face of
these most binding and conclusive proofs?"

Musing upon this, the Sun undertook to examine all mankind in search
of one who disbelieved in him. To his surprise, he found such a man
straight away, an old man who lived alone in a cave by the sea. He
grew corn and squash for his suppers and he took his water from a
nearby stream and lived his life in isolation from all men. This old
man was blind entirely, unable even to perceive shades of light and
shadow, for his eyes were ruined since birth with disease.

While the old man was tending his little garden, he heard a voice
calling out to him.

The voice said, "I am the Sun, suspended in the heavens above. Look
upon me and know me, for I am the giver of all life. All the things on
earth I have provided for your sustenance and pleasure. I have given
you life also; you owe me belief at least for that."

The old man replied, "Sun? I have heard this word before, stranger,
but have never comprehended its meaning. People speak to me as though
the existence of this sun were miraculously evident in itself. Well,
it is not evident to me. And if you, who speak for this sun, claim to
be the giver of my life and the provider of all things on earth, then
I have to respond that I lack any evidence to believe you. Describe
your nature to me that I may understand you, if indeed there is such a
thing as the sun and you are him."

The Sun said, "I should not be put to proof by you, you who are but an
insect to me. In any event, I cannot describe myself to you who have
never seen with eyes. How would you understand? My words would be
meaningless. At least, however, you are capable of feeling my warmth,
for my fire heats the world and, when I am absent, how much colder
life becomes."

The old man said, "I have known both heat and cold."

"Then you must know that I am the source of heat."

"Hardly," the old man replied. "I feel heat; but I do not pretend to
know the source of it. Perhaps the air produces heat. Perhaps the
ground sometimes does, for the sand feels hot to me."

The Sun said, "No, I produce it. The tongues of my fire warm you. The
rays of my heat touch you, your face, your hands, the ground and the
sky. I embrace the world with the essence of me."

The old man responded, "Then present yourself to me that I may touch
your face. Then I will know and believe."

"I am exalted well above your ability to touch me."

The old man shouted, "Ah, you contradict yourself, you liar! If I
cannot touch your heat, then how do you presume to touch me and,
indeed, embrace the world?"

The Sun did not answer this, but chose instead another argument. "Tell
me, how do you account for the corn and squash that grow in your
garden? You must know that they have a source; that they derive from
me the ability to grow and prosper for your benefit."

The old man was adamant in his rejection of the Sun's claims. "I know
nothing of the sort. I know that they grow from seeds I carefully
plant and by virtue of watering. Water is all they require and,
perhaps, heat to warm them."

The Sun said, "Yes, but from whence comes this heat?"

"I have told you, from the ground or the sky perhaps. I do not pretend
to know exactly. But I suspect it is not the product of some
inscrutable celestial orb. Perhaps these things are derived by
accident. Perhaps their existence is fortuitous and arbitrary."

Hearing this, the Sun grew angry and berated the man. But the old man
would listen no longer. Although he was convinced that no sun even
existed, he finally spoke to the Sun, saying, "Assuming that there is
a sun that invisibly performs all these miracles, why should I believe
that you are him?"

Exasperated, the Sun finally answered, "Go then and deny me all the
rest of your days. I am exalted well above either your belief or
disbelief."

Andrea Campbell
---------------
<[email protected]>
1 poem

_Seasons_

the leaves turn upon their
silver
stems
and it is autumn---
in the morning early I wander
vacant streets gathering silence
and leaving only footsteps hesitant
behind---
it comes to me then in the clear
cold air
that I too long to turn upon
my stem---
I have a rightful place among the seasons

About The Contributors...
-------------------------
Richard Epstein lives in Denver, Colorado. The rest of this stuff you
already know if you read the Featured Writer essay (which you
should!).

Kenneth Hann hails from Toronto, Canada. He presently is attempting to
make a living in the film industry, as he has a B.A.A. in film studies
from Ryerson Polytechnical University in Toronto. Besides poetry,
Kenneth also writes short fiction, screenplays, and rather depressing
Nietzschean aphorisms. This is his first appearance in print.

Wade H. Moline resides in Durand, Michigan, where he makes his living
as a firefighter in Michigan's Vernon Township. He reports he is
"still crawling through smoke--and flame--filled buildings and still
extricating dead people from car accidents. A grim job but somebody's
gotta do it." His short work _Flashover_ appeared in POETRY INK's
second issue.

Wayne F. Brissette lives in Austin, Texas. He works for Apple
Computer, Inc. as a technical writer. He claims his writing credits
are pretty limited, in fact other than his high school literary
magazine too many years ago. This is the first time his creative work
had been published, although he has written more than a dozen user
manuals for various companies in Austin; none, ironically enough, for
Apple.

Michaele Benedict lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and teaches at
Skyline College in San Bruno, California. She is the author of the
music method book "A Workbook for Organic Piano Playing" , a volume of
poetry entitled "The Phoenician Sailor", and an unpublished novel,
"The Dioscuri", which resides at the Brautigan Library in Burlington,
Vermont. Recent articles by Benedict have appeared in "Clavier
Magazine" and "The American Music Teacher". She is an award winning
scholar, and has worked as a writer and editor at several newspapers
in the United States and abroad.

Richard W. Parnell lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and creates
textual/sculptural pieces using hand letterpress printing, pulp
casting, and wood & metal working in his studio and at the Minnesota
Center for Book Arts. A recent edition entitled "A Letter to My
Daughter from Prison", created in collaboration with poet and human
rights activist Alicia Partnoy, was exhibited and collected nationally
in the United States.

Richard Steinbach calls Novato, California home. His previous
publishing credits consist mainly of Letters to the Editor in his
local newspapers. A retired Navy pilot and telephone company manager,
his intrests include photography, gardening, and his grandchildren.

Gary Wiener resides in Pittsford, New York. He has placed poems in
"Thema" and "Poetry Motel", and his fiction, essays and criticism have
been widely published. He is also editor of "Desperate Act", a new
literary magazine out of Rochester, New York.

David M. Rosenbaum is from Ames, Iowa. He is a graduate student in the
Department of Political Science at Iowa State University. He has
written short stories and poems for local literary magazines and
non-fiction teaching guides for HarperCollins Publishers.

Andrea Campbell hails originally from New York, New York. A
well-traveled writer, she has lived in Russia, Spain, Africa at
various times in her life. A self-professed flower child, she now
calls Portland, Oregon home. She has published in several obscure
journals, but none in recent years. _Seasons_ was written in 1961.

Submission Guidelines
---------------------

(You may want to print this for future reference.)

* Failure to follow these guidelines will mean automatic rejection of
your submission! Please read the following very carefully!

* By submitting works for consideration, you agree that if accepted
for publication, you grant POETRY INK, the electronic magazine
produced by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and Matthew W. Schmeer the right to
publish your work. This right includes initial publication and any
subsequent re-release of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work
appeared, either in the electronic or the printed medium. All other
rights to your work are released to you upon publication. If we wish
to publish your work in a different issue of POETRY INK, we will
contact you for permission to do so and acknowledge your right of
refusal.

* By submitting work for consideration, you acknowledge that the
works you are submitting are your own original works and are products
of your own design. You further agree that we have the right to
request additional information from you regarding the source(s) of
your work and any related topic thereof. You agree that if your work
is found to be a derivative of copyrighted material by another author
or artist, you, and not POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS and/or Matthew W.
Schmeer, will be liable for any physical or monetary damage assessed
under the jurisdiction of the courts of the United States of America
and the conventions of the International Copyright Law.

* By submitting works for consideration, you acknowledge that you are
not nor will ever be requesting monetary compensation for the right of
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS to publish your work. You therefore acknowledge
the only compensation due to you by POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS is access
to a copy of the issue of POETRY INK in which your work appeared.
Acceptable access to POETRY INK is the posting of POETRY INK on
eWorld, America On-Line, the Internet at sumex-aim.stanford.edu and
mac.archive.umich.edu, and via e- mail sent directly to you; whichever
we decide is fair and cost-effective.

* Submissions should be written in the English language. We regret
that we are unable to publish work in foreign languages, but we cannot
spend time flipping through foreign language dictionaries trying to
check grammar, spelling, and meaning. Unless you can provide an
English translation to a work in a foreign language, forget about it.

* No previously published work may be submitted. Simultaneous
submissions are okay. In the case of simultaneous submissions, please
contact us if your work has been accepted by another publication so
that we may remove the work in question from consideration.

* All submissions must have your name, postal address, age, and
e-mail address included on each individual work. You may submit work
via U.S. Mail or e-mail. See below for addresses. NOTE: e-mail
submissions are highly preferred.

* No gratuitous obscenity or profanity, although erotic material is
okay. If you think it's too graphic, then it probably is and won't be
published in this forum.

* Please keep poems under 3 printed pages apiece (page size = 8" x
11" page with 1" margins printed with Times 12-point plain font).

* Please limit short stories to under 5000 words.

* No more than 5 poems or 2 short stories submitted per person per
issue.

* Submissions should be submitted as plain ASCII e-mail files or as
StuffIt compressed (.sit) attachments to e-mail messages. Compressed
files should be in plain text format (the kind produced by
SimpleText). Regardless of submission format, please use the subject
line "SUBMIT POETRY INK: your name" where "your name" is your actual
name and not the name of your e-mail account. Omit the quotation
marks. For example, it should look like this:

SUBMIT POETRY INK: John Q. Public

* Manuscripts and submissions cannot be returned, nor can we offer
any constructive criticism unless we decide to publish your work and
have serious reservations regarding content or structure. You will not
receive notification that your work was received; while we regret this
inconvenience, you must realize we have to support ourselves somehow.
Therefore, due to the amount of expected submissions, we cannot
acknowledge receipt of your work unless we decide to publish it.

* If your work is accepted for publication, you will be notified as
soon as possible via e-mail. If you prefer to be notified by U.S.
Mail, please indicate this preference on your submission. Your e-mail
address will be published when crediting your work. If you prefer us
not to do so, please indicate this on your submission as well.

* Subscribers to the PATCHWORK mailing list will be given special
consideration in the selection process. For information regarding
PATCHWORK, or to subscribe, send an e-mail message to patchwork-
[email protected], with the subject "HELP" (no quotes). It is not
necessary to include any text in the body of the message.

All submissions, inquiries, and comments should be directed to:

e-mail: <[email protected]>

snail mail:
Matthew W. Schmeer
POETRY INK PRODUCTIONS
6711-A Mitchell Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63139-3647 USA

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