The 7th issue of Shift: A Journal of Literary Oddities contains an important milestone for my writing life. The journal recently published my poem, “Hands-free,” which happens to be my 100th poem to appear in a literary journal or anthology. I’ve meant to go over each acceptance and figure out how many of the 50 states I’ve appeared in, but other tasks have taken precedence.
“Hands-free” is a contemplation focused on how my late father’s dreams have bled into my own. It is fitting that such a poem marks this juncture. My father was also a poet. He was, to use his word, tickled, with the idea of seeing his work in print. Yet he was shy about the submission process. The few rejections he did receive had the effect of paralyzing future efforts. Fortunately, he forged ahead with the actual writing of poetry as he went about his days until he passed away in 2002.
I wasn’t actively writing poetry during the years when I listened to my father talk about his work. I regularly wrote newspaper articles back then. I chipped away at a couple of children’s novels. Yet when I could sneak in a visit, he often shared his favorite poets with me, and I felt my interest in poetry pique. Alas, my schedule was weathered by my library career and the aforementioned writing projects.
As I lived my busy life, I often pictured my dad walking a backroad as he took in a stark winter Northwest landscape, say, before stopping to jot down a few lines in his grubby notebook. Every so often he’d mention how he might submit a poem to this rag or that one. I usually did not hear if he followed through on his intention. I do know I would have heard if he’d received an acceptance.
While I’ve experienced my own moments of agony over rejection letters, I have learned how to try again. Though I must admit, I did not discover true resolve over this necessity until I was about 50, some 10 years after my father’s death. I wish he’d lived long enough to have known the 50-something (and now 60-something) me. If he had, I would have rolled up my sleeves and helped him develop a system for submission. I would have employed my methodical way of sending batches of poems out to journals around the country, if not the world. Because I am certain my father’s acceptances do exist in some parallel universe. Though I am not sure if I will ever be free of the wistfulness I feel over the intermittent “if only” that continues to prick my thoughts.
It’s a clear morning on the central Oregon Coast, the first one in a while. We’re hoping for a similar weather pattern a week from now, when the solar eclipse moves to barrel across the country (in actuality, the planet will turn, like it always does, beneath the eclipse). The spectacle will hit the Oregon Coast first, crossing a section that spans from Waldport to a stretch of coastline above Pacific City.
Voice Break 