Transition: Poems in the Afterglow | 11 07 20 | Emily Jo Scalzo

A poem from the What Rough Beast submission queue

Emily Jo Scalzo
2020 Election

they say it’s the edge
of a chasm so deep
we never hear the echo
but in reality we tripped
into it so long ago
we don’t remember
that we’re falling

—Submitted on 11/03/2020

Emily Jo Scalzo is the author of The Politics of Division (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her work has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Mobius, Blue Collar Review, New Verse News, and others journals. Scalzo holds an MFA in fiction from California State University, Fresno, and is an assistant teaching professor of research and creative writing at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana.

SUBMIT to Transition: Poems in the Afterglow via our SUBMITTABLE site. 

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value our online poetry series, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

Transition: Poems in the Afterglow | Submission Guidelines

From November 7 until January 20, the Indolent Books website will publish a poem-a-day in celebration of the unprecedented presidential transition we embark up today. We want poems about what we are seeing, hearing, thinking, feeling, hoping and fearing in the aftermath of this historic election. Let’s use poetry to engage in a rich and layered conversation about the ongoing polarization of this nation and the opportunities bringing the nation and its people together, for moving forward, for making a difference.

We value poems that use all the resources of poetry, especially in ways that are innovative, provocative, and risky.

IMPORTANT: Poems submitted for this series must be previously unpublished.

SUBMIT up to 3 poems or 3 pages of poetry in a Word file. NOT PDF. Word.

INCLUDE a brief bio that includes in the following order:

  • Any books published (including publisher and year of publication);
  • any journals in which poems have appeared;
  • any anthologies in which poems have appeared (including publisher, year of publication, and names of editors);
  • a few other personal or professional details of your choice.

PLEASE NOTE: This is a poem-a-day series, and as we work our way through the Submittable queue, we pick a poem and post it immediately without notifying the author beforehand. You’ll get your acceptance email via Submittable within a few minutes of the poem being posted, but generally not in advance of the poem being posted. Please be sure you are comfortable with that modus operandi when you decided to submit work.

A NOTE ABOUT DONATIONS: At the end of the submission form, we provide an option to donate from $2.00 to $100.00 to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press. Submissions are treated the same whether accompanied by a donation or not. We urge you to donate as generously as you can. Plain and simple, your donations make it possible for the press to continue its work. The more revenue we have, the more poems and books we can publish. If we don’t have revenue, we cannot publish poems or books. It’s as simple as that.

Click here to submit via Submittable.

Check out the series here.

We look forward to receiving and reading your work. 

SUBMIT to Transition: Poems in the Afterglow via our SUBMITTABLE site. 

If you value Poems in the Afterglow, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

Transition: Poems in the Afterglow | 11 07 20 | Indran Amirthanayagam

Indran Amirthanayagam
To Oz and Beyond

You must be depressed, Mr. President
watching the drip drip of tabulating,
red wall crumbling, and all the king’s
men turning mum, just your sons
and personal lawyer braying on Twitter,
and yes, an army of a thousand others
bringing spurious charges before
what was to have been your last line
of defense, the federal and Supreme courts.
But your plans were stymied by
the electoral calendar, this unfortunate
need to be reviewed by the people
every four years. Just not enough time
to seal the borders of justice and democracy,
to gut the civic dreams even of your own
party members. Depressing and certainly
cheering to your opponent, that sleepy fellow
who has crawled over the finishing line
with pride while you founder somewhere
in the attic of that now windy mansion,
wondering whether the last ride will come
from a helicopter out and above the Potomac
on the way to Andrews and the final flight
to Mar- a- Lago, then after a swift packing
of bags, by private jet to some territory
in the back of yonder, Oz, beyond.

—Submitted on 11/07/2020

Indran Amirthanayagam is the author of The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur L’ile nostalgique (L’Harmattan, 2020). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly.

SUBMIT to Transition: Poems in the Afterglow via our SUBMITTABLE site. 

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value our online poetry series, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit



TwoSeventyThree | 11 07 20 | Indran Amirthanayagam

Indran Amirthanayagam
To Oz and Beyond

You must be depressed, Mr. President
watching the drip drip of tabulating,
red wall crumbling, and all the king’s
men turning mum, just your sons
and personal lawyer braying on Twitter,
and yes, an army of a thousand others
bringing spurious charges before
what was to have been your last line
of defense, the federal and Supreme courts.
But your plans were stymied by
the electoral calendar, this unfortunate
need to be reviewed by the people
every four years. Just not enough time
to seal the borders of justice and democracy,
to gut the civic dreams even of your own
party members. Depressing and certainly
cheering to your opponent, that sleepy fellow
who has crawled over the finishing line
with pride while you founder somewhere
in the attic of that now windy mansion,
wondering whether the last ride will come
from a helicopter out and above the Potomac
on the way to Andrews and the final flight
to Mar- a- Lago, then after a swift packing
of bags, by private jet to some territory
in the back of yonder, Oz, beyond.

—Submitted on 11/07/2020

Indran Amirthanayagam is the author of The Migrant States (Hanging Loose Press, 2020) and Sur L’ile nostalgique (L’Harmattan, 2020). He edits The Beltway Poetry Quarterly.

SUBMIT to TwoSeventyThree (formerly known as What Rough Beast) via our SUBMITTABLE site. 

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value our online poetry series, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit



What Rough Beast | 11 06 20 | Michael Cunningham

Michael Cunningham
Corona Psalm

You don’t have to feel lonely.

You don’t have to eat from cable news
like an endless buffet.

Listen, the birds are singing.

Listen, the rain is making love
to the city streets.

Watch, the leaves give birth
and the trees that hold them.

You don’t have to be alone.

Drink from the stream
within yourself.

Pull yourself away from the world
the same way you would tug a child
away from an open flame.

Drink from the stream
drink and be well.

—Submitted on 10/17/2020

Michael Cunningham is a school librarian and outdoor nature educator trained in Waldorf education and biodynamic farming.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

What Rough Beast | 11 05 20 | Michael Cunningham

Michael Cunningham
Crucifixion

After Jesus called out
father, father why have you
abandoned me?
He must have called
out for his mother.

She was there when the men
had flown in fear.

He must have called her

When then they whipped him, when they tormented him, when they spit on him,
When he wore the crown of thorns, when he carried the cross.

Isn’t that what all good boys do?
Call to their mama.
even when someone is
kneeling on their neck.

America, Jesus is still calling
is anyone listening?

—Submitted on 10/17/2020

Michael Cunningham is a school librarian and outdoor nature educator trained in Waldorf education and biodynamic farming.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

What Rough Beast | 11 04 20 | Margo Taft Stever

Margo Taft Stever
Immigration Policy

When I demonstrated against child separation at the border with a small group outside of Susan Collins’s office in Biddeford, Maine, I wrapped myself in the same flimsy mylar blanket given to children when separated from their parents and read a quote from a sixteen-year-old migrant mother to the small gathering:

The day after we arrived here, my baby began vomiting and having diarrhea. I asked to see a doctor, and they did not take us. I asked again the next day, and the guard said, “She doesn’t have the face of a sick baby. She doesn’t need to see a doctor.” My baby daughter has not had medicine since we first arrived. She has a very bad cough, fever, and continues to vomit with diarrhea.

Trump, Sessions, Homeland Security, Barr, and DOJ knew then and know now exactly what they are doing. They are doubling down on punishment, hoping to prove America is no longer a refuge, but a jailhouse, not just a jailhouse, but a torture chamber, not just a torture chamber, but a freak show—no longer a place for self-respecting immigrant families escaping from torture and starvation. More than 5,400 children at the border are separated from their parents, ripped from them, pried from them, pruned and slivered from them. Trump would like to jump start the child separation program during his second regime.

Let me start over. As an effort to deter desperate migrants from attempting to find refuge in America, the Trump regime has coerced them to cross the Sonoran Desert; since then, over 10,000 refugees have died. In the desert, it takes eight days for a body to totally disappear—first picked clean by vultures, ravens, ranch dogs, then by the ants that chip remaining bones and drag the fragments to their nests.

Five men came out of the desert so sunstruck that they could no longer remember their own names, how long they had traveled, or where they came from. But migrants keep on trying to cross because they are persecuted by authoritarian regimes in Central America, cannot find jobs, and their children are starving. Children cry in cages. We lost their parents; we don’t know where to find them.

—Submitted on 10/17/2020

Margo Taft Stever is the author of Cracked Piano (CavanKerry Press, 2019), Ghost Moose (Kattywompus Press, 2019), The Lunatic Ball (Kattywompus Press, 2015), The Hudson Line (Main Street Rag, 2012), Frozen Spring (Mid-List Press, 2002) and Reading the Night Sky (Riverstone Press, 1996). Her work has appeared in Verse DailyPrairie Schooner, Connecticut Review, Cincinnati ReviewPlume, and other journals. Stever is founder of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and founding and current co-editor of Slapering Hol Press. She lives in Sleepy Hollow, NY.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

What Rough Beast | 11 03 20 | Ed Madden

Ed Madden
At the Most Worshipful Prince Hall Grand Lodge, Columbia, SC, October 31, 2020

Across the parking lot, a man with a mic
is calling out drop, pop, and roll, and two
women just in front of us in line dance
along. It’s getting a little festive, a little
restless as we get closer to the door,
where they let in six or seven at a time.
One woman shuffles the heel-toe in fluffy
pink house shoes. They name the moves,
call out a few they don’t think quite right.

A golf cart bumps by with boxes of popcorn.
A church offers bottled waters at a table
where the line curls along the back fence.
It’s been a two-hour wait. We got here early
enough, but the line was already around
the building. Everyone is wearing masks except
a middle-aged white couple in black and
sunglasses, taking occasional deep pulls
on their electric cigarettes. Most of us look

at our cellphones as we wait, another
kind of social distance. The line wraps
around the building then coils around
an adjacent parking lot. An old woman
leaves crying because the county isn’t
providing provisional ballots for early voting
sites. I don’t know why. Once inside
we line up on the thick strips of gray
tape that mark off the floor. A poll worker

behind a plastic shield stares at my license
a bit—I can’t tell if she’s comparing
signatures or if it’s just the COVID hair. Finally,
she hands me a slip of paper, a cotton swab,
points me toward the wall of voting machines.
I use the cotton swab to touch the screen.
I get an “I Voted” sticker when I leave.

—Submitted on 11/02/2020

Ed Madden is the author of Ark (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2016), Nest (Salmon Poetry, 2014), Prodigal: Variations (Lethe Press, 2011), and Signals (University of South Carolina Press, 2008). His poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, Los Angeles Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, and The Forward Book of Poetry 2021 (Faber & Faber, 2020), among other journals and anthologies. 

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




submit

What Rough Beast | 11 02 20 | Chad Parenteau

Chad Parenteau
Patient Nero

Lick flames
fan flickers.

Why fiddle with self
when others can join.

Mother whore not complex.
There’s a line for both.

World’s best actor
needs supporting cast.

None who jump in
dare call it pit.

How can one burn
if all play along?

—Submitted on 11/01/2020

Chad Parenteau is the author of The Collapsed Bookshelf (Tell-Tale Chapbooks, 2020) and Patron Emeritus (FootHills Publishing, 2013). His poems have appeared in Résonancee, Queen Mob’s Tea-House, Cape Cod Poetry Review, Tell-Tale Inklings, Off The Coast, and other journals. Parenteau is a regular contributor to Headline Poetry & Press as well as associate editor of Oddball Magazine. Online at chadparenteaupoetforhire.com.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.




What Rough Beast | 11 01 20 | Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl Caesar
Envoi on Election Day (whenever that is for you)

Blessings on you, all my friends,
as you go out to vote today.

May no pillow malfunction, no mis-set alarm
delay you. May your coffee perk
and your toast pop up unburnt.

May no deer or bottleneck
block your journey. May the lines
be short, your ID and registration ready.

May you find the real drop box,
and no Republican fake.

May the levers pull smoothly,
and the rectangles fill with black.
May your reward sticker stay stuck
to your lapel all day.

Because you deserve it.

You love animals; you may hate hunting.
But this was a rogue elephant, insane
in musth, crushing cars and villagers.
It had to be killed.

We will not take trophies,
no ivory keepsakes, no foot-on-head selfies.
We will burn it decently and with regret
for the noble animal it once was.
And then we will start to rebuild.

—Submitted on 10/16/2020

Cheryl Caesar is the author of Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era (Thurston Howl Publications, 2020). Her poems have appeared in Prachya ReviewPanoplyLight, Origami Poems Project, Ponder Savant, and other journals, as well as in the anthology Nationalism: (Mis)Understanding Donald Trump’s Capitalism, Racism, Global Politics, International Trade and Media Wars (Mwanaka Media and Publishing, 2019), edited by Tendai Rinos Mwanaka. Caesar holds a PhD in comparative literature from the Sorbonne. She teaches writing at Michigan State University.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem and you value What Rough Beast, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.