Here are three poems that actually exist, and, yes, have actually been submitted to a literary journal or two. Buckle up, we’re in for a bumpy ride.
1) GARDEN STATE
This first piece was written on the fly, whilst dicking around with a colleague, in the midst of, oh, 20 of our peers. Funny enough, this colleague is still a dear friend of mine, as well as a fellow professional writing grad. Let’s call him Kyle. Yeah, sure, Kyle works.
Kyle and I often hung out in a computer lab, usually between classes. Just two bros, chillin’, killin’ some time. However, this particular excursion was a bit more memorable than most; after all, some great news had just been bestowed upon Kyle: heading into next semester, he was practically guaranteed a lead editor position with [Insert Publication Here], our university’s premier literary magazine. Woo-hoo!
“So, hey, ya know what that means, Kutzy. If I review one of your poems, and it’s pretty good, I might be able to pull some strings, if ya catch my drift,” Kyle said.
Oh, ha ha.
Our conversation continued as normal. Until we stumbled upon state politics, for whatever reason. It turned out that Kyle, born and raised in Pennsylvania, was none too happy with Tom Wolf, their current governor.
Oh boy. Now he’d done it.
So, you’re finna talk about governors, huh?
Did he not realize that I was born and raised in New Jersey? Must I really explain just how f#@kin’ despised that rotten, bloated sack of sh*t Chris Christie is? That no-good, beach-closin’, bridge-jammin’, Korean-baby-dressed-as-a-hamburger-eatin’ S.O.B.
In that moment, a light bulb went off.
“Hey, Kyle, I’ve got an early submission for ya,” I said.
I’ve never seen someone in stitches over a poem before, at least not in person, but that did it.
“Kutzy, if you submit that, I’ll be damned if it isn’t published.”
In the end, Kyle somehow didn’t become lead editor, this poem wasn’t accepted by [Insert Publication Here], and I’ve never had the balls to submit this hatchet job elsewhere.
2) YOUTH
I don’t think I’d make a very good parent.
Why? Well, I’m sorta, uhm, defective.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kinda psychopath or nutjob, by any means. Nor am I an arsonist, rapist, racist, terrorist, extreme couponer, or anything like that; but, I do worry, quite often, about where my brain wanders during the creative process.
Here’s a solid example.
Senior year, in the school library, I found myself racing against the clock. The submission deadline for my university’s alternative art journal was in, like, an hour, and I needed to squeeze out one last poem.
Their staff seemed to favor hard-hitting, emotion-driven work. Stuff that’d pull on your heart strings. Unfortunately, none of my backlog fit the bill. I’d need to improvise.
What’s close to home? Hmmm, maybe family. Pretty much everybody has one of those.
How about parents? Gotta be born somehow, right?
I’d eventually whittle it down to a father and son, mono e mono. Perhaps in a grassy field, following a game of catch, on a sunny summer day.
Why couldn’t that be me? Just my boy and I, bonding on a Sunday afternoon.
Why not?
Now, as the parental role, I’d surely need to speak, think, emote, for the sake of narrative. Or, maybe, acknowledge some sort of guilt over a lack of understanding. A matter too mature for a youngin. Think real, raw, unexpected. Think, Papa, think…
Holy sh*t. That got super dark, super fast.
No kid deserves a father that’ll straight-up prove Santa isn’t real, that’ll inform them that Patches didn’t run away and was, in fact, flattened by a car; and, they definitely don’t deserve a parent prone to contemplating their child’s inevitable, unavoidable demise, especially right after a good ol’ game of catch in the f@#king park.
Sociopath much?
Needless to say, I’m going to rain check this whole fatherhood thing. Apparently it’s not for me.
Thanks for the warning, subconscious.
3) CLICHÈ
I’ve saved, in my opinion, the best for last. “Cliché,” among casual readers, always garners a response, a distinct reaction; yet, it seems that literary journals won’t touch it with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.
Can I blame them? No.
Then again, as a college freshman, I found this sh*t to be genius. Let me explain why.
It wasn’t until sophomore year that I’d switch my major, from electronic media to professional writing. Following a traumatic first-year breakup, I’d rediscover my creative side, composing and sending around poems via Facebook. Most of them went directly to my ex, sure, but some were sent to family, friends, and hallmates.
The response was unanimous: “Can you please stop sending us this sh*t?”
Or, as my mom put it, “Sweety, why don’t you write something nice, for once?”
Something nice, huh? Okay, mom. I’ll write something “nice.” Hell, it’ll be your Mother’s Day gift, too. I’ll print it out, frame it, the works.
I actually handed my mother a copy of this poem, under the ruse of a heartfelt gift. Wrapped up nice and neat, topped with a bow. Ah, how sweet it was to see her initial, genuine appreciation, as if she thought her 18-year-old son wasn’t an @$$h*le.
Then she read it.
As you can imagine, her reaction was priceless. Sorta like Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
So, in conclusion, not only should I never be a father, I, frankly, shouldn’t have been bestowed the privilege of life to begin with.
Isn’t reflection fun?
