Now that the bushfire winds are here, the cicadas are beginning to chirp, and our cricketers are on the verge of reclaiming number one Test ranking (it will happen, believe me!), I have a yen for more poetry from this scorched isle. I don't see enough of it and would like to see a lot more in my inbox. As usual, pay close attention to the submission guidelines in the sidebar, especially the bit about the speed and nature of my responses. May you all get through this heatwave a few kilos lighter but otherwise brimming with Yuletide cheer and inspiration!
Friday, November 30, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
New Poetry by Holly Day
After the Phone Call
my husband crouches in the bathtub, arms
around his chest, knees drawn up, folded so small
I could fit in the space of water behind him
wrap my arms around him, put my head
against his back, I could climb into that space
so easily
but I don't.
my husband huddles on his side of the bed
curled so tightly around himself he barely
makes a knot in the blankets tossed over him
for warmth, for extra camouflage. he lies there,
eyes open, staring at the wall, I
can only hear his breathing
when I hold my own breath.
- Holly Day 2012
This Guy I Saw Sitting in a Car
He was parked in the lot at Thrifty's Drug buck naked save for
A big white cowboy hat and a pair of dark sunglasses he was
Holding onto his erect penis and grinning proudly and happily
like his
penis
Was a prize he had won as a bowling trophy or at a carnival
Was a prize he had won as a bowling trophy or at a carnival
ring-toss
Or like it was something a teacher had given him for being
A real good boy in school instead of a gold star or one of those
Phony certificates of accomplishments that can be traded in
For a cheeseburger at McDonald's with the purchase of a
Large drink.
Or like it was something a teacher had given him for being
A real good boy in school instead of a gold star or one of those
Phony certificates of accomplishments that can be traded in
For a cheeseburger at McDonald's with the purchase of a
Large drink.
- Holly Day 2012
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota
who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her
poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Oxford American,
and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize
from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for
Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for Dummies, which
has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German, Spanish, Russian,
and Portuguese.
Friday, November 23, 2012
New Poetry by Phillip Ellis
"Ut pictura poesis"
The turntable taps as it hisses,
one for the spirit of dead music,
over and over again
like a rap against an empty door
behind which there is no truth hidden,
and when I have entered the room,
battered the night with what's recessed,
and cast it outdoors
where it taps on the windows
in fingers ringed with beetles,
I do not contemplate
the uselessness of all that is art.
There is no time for that.
- Phillip Ellis 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Bluepepper comes a close second!
OPEN MIC VOICES
PRESS RELEASE
FOR IMMEDIATE
RELEASE
contact info.: omvpr@openmicvoices.com
GOOGLE CROWNS OPEN MIC VOICES #1 POETRY
Sharing More
Than Poems Makes Open Mic Voices Most Popular Poetry Social Network In The
World
Willimantic, CT November 13, 2012 --
OpenMicVoices.com the world's poetry social network, responded to the latest
news about Google ranking Open Mic Voices the best poetry social network on
the planet.
"We have only just begun," smiles Henry Hunter, Founder and
CEO of Open Mic Voices, "Google is the world's most popular information resource, by far, on the internet, 80% of all people on the web get their
information from Google. So, being ranked by Google as the best poetry
social network in the world is extremely rewarding and will keep us focused on
uniting the world through the common language of poetry. It's incredible to
see your idea come to life and the world embrace that idea. Open Mic Voices is
about people, from all over the world, who speak one language on Open Mic
Voices: Poetry."
While earning Googles recognition for being the best
poetry social network on the planet, Open Mic Voices is more focused on meeting it's goal of getting people to share poetry, worlwide. It is free to join
Open Mic Voices and everyone is welcome. Members of the popular poetry
social network write poems, share feedback, share poetry website links, share
poetry events and places for poetry. Members, also, upload audio poetry and
video poems right from their home computer. Open Mic Voices encourages
socializing and sharing amongst members, so there are no limits on how many
friend requests that a member may send to other members of the site.
Open
Mic Voices members range from Ivy League professors to high school dropouts,
published poets to novice poets, with traffic to the site coming from over
180 geographical countries, and 80% of Open Mic Voices members are female. "We
are all inclusive, " states Henry. "People love to share all things poetry
and we are playing a major part in poetry's growth on the internet. Poetry can't
grow unless we all share it. We invite places that feature poetry,
educational institutions, poetry groups, book publishers, and so on, to create a
profile in our community and help bring poetry together." Open Mic Voices has
a Page rank of 3, an amazing rank for a 9 month old website, and it is listed by
the internet's foremost authority on website traffic, Alexa.com, as the
highest ranking poetry social network in the United States.
About
OpenMicVoices.com:
Open Mic Voices launched February 01, 2012, by
brothers James and Henry Hunter. is a poetry social network connecting people
who enjoy poetry, worldwide. For more information:
Visit
www.OpenMicVoices.com
Or email: omvpr@openmicvoices.com
|
Monday, November 19, 2012
New Poetry by William G. Davies Jr.
December
In the dirt cellar
panes of glass
show light
in Milk-Of-Magnesia.
A steamer trunk
like a sarcophagus
closed then opened
at Christmas
as if the grave
is never sacrosanct
but born anew
through centipedes, spiders
apples and potatoes.
Inside, cedar- redolent
thin as drum skin,
adamant as the
Innkeeper at Bethlehem.
- William G. Davies Jr. 2012
Saturday, November 17, 2012
New Poetry by Michael Keshigian
APPLESAUCE
On the seventh day
there really was no rest.
It was the serpent
who approached God
with an apple,
crushed it with his powerful abs.
“Applesauce,” he muttered,
but God told him to keep it to himself.
The snake curled into a question mark,
slithered over to Eve
who rubbed it all over her body,
called over Adam
who licked off every tasty drop
but left Eve panting.
“Don’t go,” she cried, but Adam
had a shelter to build.
The serpent snickered
until Eve grabbed him
and showed him a wild time.
God told Adam,
who despondent at the news,
tried to hang himself
with a vine in the garden.
The serpent attempted to explain,
but the sauce
and Eve’s choke hold
gagged his syllables.
Eve, finally satisfied,
started stomping on the snake.
Now every time the snake shows up,
she winks at him
until Adam smashes it with a club.
God is pleased,
though everything still goes to hell.
- Michael Keshigian 2012
Michael Keshigian has been widely published in numerous national and international journals and appeared as feature writer in over a dozen publications. Recently, his collection of poems entitled Lunar Images, was set to music for Clarinet, Piano, and Narrator by Boston composer Dennis Leclaire and premiered at Del Mar College in Texas on November 5, 2010. A Boston premier took place on March 7, 2011 at the Berklee College of Music and a September 2011 performance occurred in Moleto, Italy. (michaelkeshigian.com).
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
New Poetry by Kathryn Guelcher
Kinship
Once love has been established
there is always someone else
who ignites anxiety. Not the,
are-you- having- an –affair
sort of worry. It’s more the,
if- his- wife- and- I- were- both- hit- by-
buses-you- would- remarry- each-other
kind of concern.
For my part, there is only one
named Brittney.
(since Lauren with dead eyes is out of reach)
Brittney is barely twenty-something
with a figure.
She is nice and thinks my husband is funny.
And he teases her.
And she loves him
almost openly
because she can.
When, one Friday, he asked her
what the work drama was there,
she placed a sure hand on his hip
and suggested they create some.
This makes me like her. Sort of.
It makes me remember fondly
the aching enchantment
that is hers
but mostly mine.
I went there once in the heat of summer
to be analyzed, apparently.
Under her youthful, sideways glare, I felt
the weight of motherhood and envy and age
also confidence and contentment.
Mostly I felt glad that I had gotten
there so many years earlier,
twenty-something myself and glad also
that there were no buses
in sight on that long stretch of back road
- Kathryn Guelcher 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
New Words and Pictures by Wayne H. W Wolfson
Blue Absinthe
The waitress told me they were having a special for today on it. The cynic
in me assumed that either no one was buying it and they were trying to bleed off
their stock or that a vendor had given them some sample bottles for a trial run
and they just wanted to get rid of it. I had my head down in "Toilers of the
Sea" and so passively shrugged my shoulders. She lit a cigarette, her gaze
traveling down the street looking for the cat whose territory this area was. The
drinks came, it was really blue not the wraith like pastel blue as one would
have supposed. I drank it anyways, it was a little sharper than the usual stuff,
i popped peanuts from the little white bowl to counter act it. Finishing my
drink at first I felt a coolness akin to when one steps outside on a cold winter
night, then my body involuntarily shuddered...we were right down the street from
home luckily...passing the Hemingway plaque I saluted it as I did when in a good
mood. My shoes were cutting into my feet..my shirt was pulling tight across my
back. Oddly I had to duck my head to get into the door which was not usually the
case. I asked her to help me get my shoes off they were killing me with their
tightness now. She laughed saying I was lazy as I had drunk much more than this
before, I was just being dramatic. My body shuddered again...I got my clothes
off just before my height shot up to what I estimated to be between 12-15
feet. I was not used to the change in perspective nor the extra weight involved
in my growth. "We have to cancel dinner..." The only thing that fit was my
bathrobe and that covered nothing up, I kept knocking into furniture and bumping
my head, I was becoming wound up like an animal from the wild who accidentally
finds its way indoors. She petted my hand told me to calm down and suggested I
just get into bed as I would be more comfortable and it was safer. I got in bed,
she put some Jelly Roll on to further calm me. I was told;
"Ok now breathe
in...breathe out...."
The panic stopped. Unless I was on my side or bent my
knees I did not fit fully on the bed. The thought of the physical mechanics of
us, with me in this state popped into my head. I said her name and was about to
give her my look when a railroad spike went right into my forehead killing the
mood and causing me to yelp. She said that she would make coffee and if that did
not help she would run back to the cafe after to ask the waitress how long the
effects lasted.
I drank the coffee which was too hot for my taste out of the
little doll cup. I felt tired now.
"Want me to go?"
"You should run down
and check, don't mess things up for me there, they just started pouring for me
with a heavy hand and throwing free rounds my way, I do not need you ruining a
hang out by breaking the waitress's heart. "
Were it not for the rest of the
situation she would have pulled more of a face but right now things dipped in my
favor on the scoreboard, there was always tomorrow though..
- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2012
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
New poetry by Ivan Jenson
You Noticed
Sometimes
I just disappear
into the patterns
of the tablecloth
and wallpaper
and at other times
I am the floral
centerpiece
sometimes I
am the embarrassing
coffee stain
but sometimes
I am the
vintage wine
sometimes
I am the
apple cider
of your eyes
and then
suddenly
I am as far
away as
the man on the
quarter moon
taking a cold
meteor shower
a sight only
a geek
with a telescope
would be
interested in
and sometimes
you give me
one hundred
percent of your
attention
and I am
a crowned
prince of
infinite
possibilities
and ruler
of your smile
- Ivan Jenson 2012
Scripted Lines
After negotiating
with the big boys
of Hollywood
I am now signing
with my barely legible
John Hancock
a finely printed
contract
which
stipulates
that my dreams
made of American
idioms, and
cute colloquialisms
with roots in
ancient latin
slurs and peppered
with up-to-the-minute
expletives
(to add that
authentic street cred)
will be transformed
into a glamorous
love and gorefest
a virtual visual feast
complete with
an A- list drama queen
and king
and I hereby hope
that this is the beginning
of my ragged riches
because my jagged journey
filled with speed bumps
has tired my spinning tires
and I would much prefer
being
sun-glassed, spray-tanned
and jaded
in a window tinted
Jaguar
- Ivan Jenson 2012
Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in
Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. His art has sold at
Christie’s, New York. His poems have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, Camroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo, Poetry Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Underground Voices
Magazine, Blazevox, and many other magazines, online and in print.
Jenson is also a Contributing Editor for Commonline magazine. Ivan Jenson's
debut novel Dead
Artist is available as a paperback and on Amazon Kindle and
Nook. His new novel a psychological thriller entitled Seeing
Soriah is now available as an eBook or in Paperback on
Amazon.
Monday, November 05, 2012
Ray throws a party
Littlefox Press warmly invites you to the launch of Ray Liversidge’s new poetry collection
no suspicious circumstances: portraits of poets (dead)
with illustrations by Kathryn Bowden.
Date:
Thursday 22 November 2012
Time:
6.00pm for 6.30pm
Place:
Bella Union, Level 1, Trades Hall, Cnr of Victoria & Lygon Streets, Carlton South (Enter off Lygon Street)
Launch speaker:
Kevin Brophy
If you are unable to attend the launch but would like to buy a copy of the book please contact
christine@littlefoxpublishing.com
Margie's Back
THE WORLD LAST NIGHT
by MTC Cronin
Poetry | ISBN: 978 0 7022 4951 8 | November 2012 | B Paperback | 200pp | RRP $24.95
From one of Australia’s most daring poets, MTC Cronin, comes her eagerly awaited new volume of poetry The World Last Night. Rich, polished and delightful, the collection has confidence and grace as it moves from wit to whimsy, encompassing profundity with the lightest of touches. It is intellectually invigorating but wears this erudition lightly – there is a vital sense of joy running through the poems, and a beautiful evocation of the possibilities of a joyful life.
‘I can stick to straightforward words of praise, such as brilliance of technical address and originality of utterance, when describing her verse.’ Peter Porter, Age
‘These beautiful, contemplative poems are questions asked at the brink of the abyss.’ Rodney Hall
Friday, October 26, 2012
New Poetry by Robert Demaree
RENTAL
PROPERTY
An old apartment,
In someone or other’s
mews:
Years of cooked
vegetables
Linger in darkened
grout.
Screwing a curtain
rod
Into soft
wood:
Too many
people
Have already lived
here
- Robert Demaree 2012
IN THE CHAPEL
1.
A
funeral today at Golden Pines,
The
chapel full,
Amber afternoon light across
Crimson-cushioned pews.
The
elderly receive familiar texts,
Celebrate a life, mourn a loss.
We
knew almost everyone there,
Which was part of why I wept.
2.
A
year later, at 92, he wed again,
Perhaps as she had planned,
His
bride a widower’s widow:
To
affirm a way of living,
To
affirm the act of living.
- Robert Demaree 2012
CARRIERS
Morning walk at Golden Pines:
Late
February sky deep blue
Through trees for now still leafless
But
about to change their minds.
A
moving van packs up the contents of a cottage,
Fewer since her husband died,
And
takes them to Assisted Living,
As
if there were some other kind.
Across the pond, the hink and honk of geese,
Heading north, programmed to care for their
own.
An
ambulance pulls slowly away
From
the Health
Care Building ,
Siren, blue lights turned off.
- Robert Demaree 2012
“Carriers” first appeared in
Tipton Poetry Journal Winter 2009.
Robert Demaree is the author of four collections of
poems, including Fathers and Teachers
(2007) and Mileposts (2009), both
published by Beech River Books. The winner of the 2007 Conway, N.H., Library
Poetry Award, he is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina,
Pennsylvania and New Hampshire in the eastern U.S. He has had over 600 poems
published or accepted by 125 periodicals in the U.S., Australia, Canada and the
U.K., including Cold Mountain Review, Red Wheelbarrow, miller’s pond, Bolts of
Silk, Louisville Review and Paris/Atlantic, and in four anthologies including
the 2008 and 2010 editions of Poet’s
Guide to New Hampshire and Celebrating Poets over 70.. For further
information see http://www.demareepoetry.blogspot.com
Sunday, October 21, 2012
New Poetry by William G. Davies

The Farmhouse
The wheelchair leaned
Into the finials
Of the porch,
Apparently left behind
Like the vacancy
In the windows
After everything
Was packed
And loaded into
A U-Haul truck.
So someone made
The decision it
Was no longer needed
Because like a child
Mistakenly left behind
No one intentionally
Forgets A wheelchair.
- William G. Davies 2012
Out To Pasture
The grasses around the barn
Are red, pearlescent pink
As if in homage
To the dilapidated workhouse
Like the costume jewelry
On a grandmother.
- William G. Davies 2012
William G. Davies Jnr. has had work published by The Wilderness House Review, Gloom Cupboard, Jellyfish Whispers, The Blue Lyra Review and others. He has been married to his wife, Theresa, for 38 years and lives in rural Pennsylvania where they make their own wine, "Rooted Womb." They have three grown children and four grandchildren who live in Florida. This is William's second appearance at Bluepepper.
Theory of Everything
Hello Good People
Us folks at TOE Magazine are excited to announce a little thing we're
calling the Fifty-Two Sundays Project.
The idea is this: A poet is selected to write a poem a week, for every week
in 2013, in return for AUD$10 per poem, and the publication of a chapbook of all
52 poems at the year's end.
Send us your entries! Spread the word!
Warmest regards,
Kuba
Friday, October 19, 2012
New Poetry by Nathanael O'Reilly
Six
Poets
Six poets drinking
wine
in Jimmy
Watson’s
discuss
poetics
submission
strategies
other poets’ latest
books
the likelihood of
acceptance
by Publisher
X
the ideal amount of
time
between
composition
and
submission
whether one can
publish
too much too soon or
too often
(one labels it “the
Kinsella effect”)
stimuli and
imagination
revision and editing
techniques
the need for varied
experience
John Leonard’s unerring
eye
and who will be
read
fifty years from
now
- Nathanael O'Reilly 2012
Nathanael O’Reilly was born in Warrnambool and raised in Ballarat, Brisbane and
Shepparton. He now resides in Texas. He is the author of two chapbooks,
Suburban Exile: American
Poems (2011) and Symptoms of Homesickness (2010), both
published by Picaro Press, and a recipient of an Emerging Writers Grant from the
Literature Board of the Australia Council for the Arts. His poetry has been
published in journals around the world, including Antipodes, Cordite
Poetry Review, LiNQ, Blackmail Press, Harvest,
Transnational Literature, Mascara Literary Review,
Windmills, Postcolonial Text, Prosopisia, Page
Seventeen, Red River Review, Correspondances Oceaniennes and
Social Alternatives.
New Poetry by Betty Johnston
Gleanings
Mayhem in Hanoi’s old streets
in Vientiane
a confusion of voices
next door.
Wall hangings in the market
all look the same
as do the infinity of Buddhas
in the mountain cave.
There must be a way
to cross streets in Hanoi
the man with baskets on a pole
threads calmly past families on motor bikes.
At the markets they tell me, I see that
these hangings are fine silk, these
less so, these
cotton embroidered with silk.
Some Buddhas it seems bring rain.
Next door in Vientiane people
laugh
and through my bedroom window in the heat of the evening
I hear, I
hear
sa bai dee, hello.
- Betty Johnston 2012
Betty
Johnston is a former mathematics educator, who lives in Sydney and writes poetry
and short stories. She has several stories published, one in Room to Move, an Australian anthology of
women’s short stories, and poems published in a number of collections – Illumina 2007, Minute to Midnight - and online.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
New Poetry by Claire Roberts

VISIT
Elevators
rise like bubbles in a wine glass
and the blue-grey linoleum floors
shine like water.
and the blue-grey linoleum floors
shine like water.
He’s attached to a drip
that bubbles with dull music;
I kiss his shaking hand and his smile
that bubbles with dull music;
I kiss his shaking hand and his smile
appears
and flees like a mirror-light.
- Claire Roberts 2012
AFTERWARD
The
fluorescent lights turn on
and blink like someone waking
I take my backpack and pass
through the automatic doors
into the shivering night
and intersecting stairs
that descend to the lawns
where I see raindrops
and blink like someone waking
I take my backpack and pass
through the automatic doors
into the shivering night
and intersecting stairs
that descend to the lawns
where I see raindrops
cling
to shrubs and glitter
like ornaments on a chandelier.
like ornaments on a chandelier.
- Claire Roberts 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
New Poetry by Stuart Barnes
Bear
Hill
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill,
no
longer ‘Bear’: no barbered beard, no buzzcut.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.
Three years back he flushed his crystal
meth, his skunky crack pipe down the dunny.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill,
supine, arms a crosspiece, eyes ascensional.
Tawny Frogmouths mimeo his wonder.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.
I tried to make myself so ill,
so ill,
horny as a cane toad for nine
months.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill
where the darkened musky grasses fill
his
lungs with larks that can’t be shushed.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.
Far too many weeks of vinous
meals,
that Godlike quack—I should be
cuckoo, nuts.
Evening, he’s alone atop Bear Hill.
Moonlit bats renew him with a squeal.
- Stuart Barnes 2012
Tuesday, October 09, 2012
The last refuge (e)
Last week I signed the on-line petition calling on Alan Jones' advertisers to account for their continued support of one of the most bellicose and least-informed public figures in this country. And while not completely regretting my decision to do so, I see now that the 100,000-odd of us who signed the petition have been complicit in one of the classic fall-back positions of the venal.
For those not fortunate enough to count themselves amongst this island's sun-kissed 23 million, Alan Jones is an ex-Rugby coach, failed Liberal (conservative) candidate for a safe northern Sydney seat and now dominant (or domineering?) mouthpiece for Sydney talk-back AM station, 2GB. The call sign owes its provenance to the great Renaissance martyr to freedom of thought, Giodarno Bruno, and Alan Jones wears it like a flag, although I would argue that his particular preoccupation lies more in freedom of speech than freedom of thought, an important distinction too often glossed over in the interminable debate about the effect such "shock jocks" are having on our fragile democracy.
Such public figures assume a position (always on the high ground and well-entrenched) and await the serried ranks of ill-disciplined "bleaters" to come. They, like much of their audience, see themselves as a fixed point on the moral compass, and their opponents as the sorry remnants of some lost tribe of moral equivocators. It is, largely, a battle between the surviving members of the boomer generation that has been spilling over from their campus days these past 40 years. None of it has been particularly fruitful. Quite the contrary. And yet it has continued to dominate public discourse in both Australia and the United States.
Some weeks ago Alan Jones, at a private function, quipped that the Australian Prime Minister's recently deceased father, John Gillard, had "died of shame" over his daughter's lies in parliament. Whether he went on to itemise these "deathly lies" seems to have been lost in the ether of outrage and invective that followed. His public apology for this thoughtless, heartless comment was a loathsome piece of bus stop sophistry. And yet he is still on air and still ranting against those who would dare to call him to account, espousing the cause of free speech while undermining the cause of freedom of thought and expression by denigrating anyone who dares to part from the dominant paradigm of his target audience.
But it behoves Bluepepper to acknowledge the enduring grievance of this sizeable demographic of older, well-heeled Australians against the perceived dominance of a progressive slant in public discourse that in one way or another appears to threaten, not only their future prosperity, but the legitimacy of their collective past. The carbon tax is merely the latest and most salient example of a trend amongst Western democracies to unsettle those who thought they had bought sole rights to the apple cart.
The American Tea Party movement has played on this, although inevitably the movement has devolved into a last gasp for the GOP as the party of the "white", rather than as the guardian of the values that made the US the astonishing melting pot it is today. It has been just as difficult, nigh on impossible, for Barack Obama to list his successes in this wind tunnel of invective as it has been for the federal Labor Party of Australia, the "wonder downunder". And yet the far right are able to play the victim card with impunity because they are able to project themselves as the mouthpiece of the "forgotten people", the "silent majority", that Thylazine otherwise known as the middle class.
And I blithely signed a petition confirming them in their victim hood, dear reader, oblivious to their tragic destiny as "fringe dwellers" of the cultural paradigm for the steadier part of a roiling century. Forget, if you can, Celine, Malaparte, Bukowski, Pound, Larkin, Lowell et al. Alan Jones and his ilk do not favour the nuanced thinker, whether right or left. Nor, dare I say, do his more vocal protractors who have once again played politics with my conscience. But I guess that's the point.
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
Call out from Kit
Call for Poems for an English / Chinese parallel text anthology of Australian and New Zealand Poetry for Children and Young Adults
ASM /
Flying Islands are now calling for contributions for a new project – a
bilingual parallel text volume of Australian and New Zealand Poetry
for Children and Young Adults. Deadline for contributions is Sunday December
2 nd, 2012. (Please feel free to send work as soon as you have it to
hand!) Previously published work is acceptable, but in this case please
provide the proper accompanying acknowledgements. It is hoped that selection
of poems to be published will be made by the end of the year, that
translation processes will be completed in the first half of 2013, and that
the book will be published (initially by ASM in Macao) by the end of 2013.
No payment is offered for inclusion in the volume, but if it is possible
to sell it on to a Mainland, Taiwan or Singapore publisher,
then payment/royalties arrangements would be negotiated at such a
time.
Please send contributions to me (KitKele at umac dot mo) in word
file attachments. Please identify the project (ANZ poems for the young
Chinese reader) and your name in the subject line of the email and in the
title of the file you are sending. Please include contact details and a
short biographical note in your word file with your poem/s. It will be
helpful if you can include notes for the translator to accompany the poem
(though please note that it is not our intention [at this point in time] to
publish these with the volume. Your notes may however be helpful in the
translation process).
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