Poetry Rules

So, it has happened at last. I am so happy of having a chapbook of my poems published in the US. It is a dream come true. It is almost a great act of hybris for somebody whose mother tongue is Italian, but who has dwelled in the English language since the age of 8 when she lived abroad for 5 years--in Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates--attending American and International schools. I write poetry in Italian as well naturally but, I do believe that I write my best poems  in English. I hope this will not sound conceited. Honestly, I just look at some of my poems from this collection and think to myself that they make me proud. I guess I can say that a hint to how "good" one of the poems is came from a rejection that John Rosenwald, Co-editor of Beloit Poetry Journal  mailed to me: Dear Alessandra Bava, At our quarterly editorial board meeting that concluded yesterday we spent considerable time discussing your work, especially "Never Thirty-Seven" and "...

I have spent the morning re-reading Rimbaud's Illuminations and I have eventually decided that I need to master prose poetry. I have always been very reluctant to do so, but Arthur and Baudelaire have inspired me to dare write some prose poems today. It took me two hours to complete the first two. I have just sent "He Smothered Them In Rose Petals" and "Caravaggio In The Wilderness" to a magazine that publishes prose poetry. Wish me luck!

I dreamt Rimbaud last night. In my dream, I am walking along a solitary country road, surrounded by a Northern landscape dotted by dank pastures and gray clouds, when I see a man walking towards me. When he is close enough for me to recognize his features, I am greeted by the palest blue eyes and a smirk. The beauty of his face and the elegant legs clash with the worn, brown boots. I smile now thinking about the Bohemian lad in his soles of wind. One of the most mobile and restless poets of his age. His life is a parable of prophecy and hallucination. His sweetly poisonous words have always bewitched me. And, since I feel nomadic lately--as my dream possibly suggests--here is Arthur's "Ma Bohème"! I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;   My overcoat too was becoming ideal; I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal; Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of! My only pair of breeches had a big hole in them. – Stargazing Tom Thumb,...