Poetry Rules

I am very grateful to Cooper Renner, poetry editor of elimae  for having sent me a lovely rejection mail just a few days ago. He took the pain of writing back that the poems I had sent his way weren't right for the magazine, but that they were accomplished work and that he suggested I should send them to the editor of their sister magazine with his best wishes. I promptly did so and well, one of the three has been accepted to be published. I am still a novice, but I am learning a lot about the publishing world out there!  

It's been a hard choice deciding whether I should have marketed my erotic poetry with a pen name or not. I frankly believe that I have nothing to hide, but I somehow hope that this will increase my opportunities too. As my friend Kate generously pointed out, some of my works have a John Donne feel. So, the surname Marvell pays hommage to one of my favorite metaphysical poems, whereas Sasha is the nickname that Jack (Hirschman) gave me. Ever since he has called me that way. I believe that, what Kate says is particularly true insofar as the two poems that have just been published by Safeword  in their July edition is concerned. Sasha Marvell exists at last! http://www.safewordmagazine.com/

I have discovered that the poetry that works better for me is the one that--albeit metaphorically--has its deepest roots in life. I was reading this poem by Anne Sexton again a few days ago and I was struck by the cruelty it depicts. It's not about Briar Rose, or Sleeping Beauty, indeed. It's more about girls having to deal and cope with abusive fathers. Anne's strength comes alive within an armor of words. Can words be abusive? Certainly not as acts. But, even if they cannot kill they can perhaps be of help in effacing the past.  Consider a girl who keeps slipping off, arms limp as old carrots, into the hypnotist's trance, into a spirit world speaking with the gift of tongues. She is stuck in the time machine, suddenly two years old sucking her thumb, as inward as a snail, learning to talk again. She's on a voyage. She is swimming further and further back, up like a salmon, struggling into her mother's pocketbook. Little doll child, come here to Papa. Sit on ...

I found this poem by Angela Carter on the web today. It struck me with its terse words and apparent simplicity. There is a great writer's wisdom in the use of few words and strikingly compelling images. The cat with the spoon ears is just a brilliant sentence, but the last two lines literally give me goose bumps. I feel I have learnt a whole poetry lesson today. You've got a long way to go, my dear Alessandra! My cat Is the snow queen,   This frigid virgin four   Winters old crooks   Her paw to wash a face   White   As starlight, twice   As cold.   She puts back   her ears like spoons to listen to the wind   behind her. She eats   For breakfast, hearts;   For supper, northern lights.