Resumo de Poetry - Stephanie Kjaerbaek

Hello, I was just wondering what anyone thought of this collection of
poems. As usual, my poetry was refused by a small, independent
magazine. I have sent maybe 75 submissions or so, possibly more, in
the
last two months, and most of them have been refused. I have heard back
from 1/3 of the publishers so far.

Now I can get 90% of my work published on any website I have been to.
Also, most people who like poetry at least see some point to my work.
I am not saying I don't get criticism, but I feel bashed over the head by
these publications. After all, they publish mostly stuff on mud moving
over a rock, someone making coffee, or a dead frog. Some are dedicated
to paganistic pursuits and other things of that nature.

I am curious as to why they don't have high standards of publication.
If they refuse me, I would hope to learn something from the supposedly
excellent collection of poems. Most of them look like bad versions of
Margret Atwood's poetry. Now she may be a great writer, but I hate her
poetry.

Thanks, Stephanie

Faraway from Him

We walked away from the fire.
He waved goodbye from the pond;
While the steam was still rising.
I just let out a sigh.
He wished us well as we wished him well.

The clock struck upon the hour;
The echo resonated with a certain power.
His peroxide blonde hair wove a tapestry;
In mud and muck that stiffly stuck;
To the luminescence of his hair.

Silver and platinum reflected in his eyes:
Pools of excess he used to drown in.
Chemicals ran through his veins.
Words, soothing and kind, from his mother;
They could not heal the pain.

He took abandon to pleasure;
Anger was a sort of leisure.
We used to go walking in the canyon;
Till he decided to rise up to the cavern.
He lit a fire onto himself.

He wants to go into the wilderness;
Where the cougars nurse their young.
He wanted to pet one for fun;
He wanted to play with that wild beauty;
A return to nature out of duty.

His Anarchy

He architected chaos into his life;
As Duncan moved up and down the ladder.
The bricklayer used to watch him carefully;
His boss inspected each layer.

His world was built on a slippery foundation;
The walls sank slowly into the mud;
As the dungeon beneath nearly collapsed;
All the anger he supported himself with disappeared.

As ice melted off glaciers;
The runoff fueled waterfalls.
He observed the icicles all winter;
Now in springtime, he bathed in the rapids.

Dancing in the cold, icy waters;
He heard a wailing cacophony;
She leaned over the balcony, screaming;
He could drown himself or wake up from the dreaming.

Fire

Bodies were thrashing and burning;
Against the outcome of actions .
Their questions were still yearning;
They hunted around for his presence;
In seconds, he comes crashing down.

Their faith forces him to relate.
He's leaving the last hill by the seventh gate;
He's making his getaway;
That need to break away haunts him;
As people gather in the town centre.

He remembers how they taunt him;
The latest round of words could hit him again;
This martyrdom game demands too much from him;
The papers will insist he either disappeared,
Or else, he just left on a whim.

He treasures the pain against pleasure;
A burial beside white candles holds him down.
Slowly the sweet, deathly leisure enters.
Roses bleed on the fingertips of a blade;
Cut goes a little deeper.

Damaged copper canyons look steeper;
On the perfection of the clearest day.
Cut as sharp as crystal and diamond lasers;
The fatal longing finds him now;
He follows dutifully.

Tumbling Down

In her longing, she abuses him,
She holds him down, against his will.
He escapes himself when nobody's around.

In the still evening, his mind meanders;
The mirage of boats lingers'
In his mind, he walks by the marina.

He once told her to take over his life,
"I can't handle this internal strife,
So won't you guidHe tells me to take over,
The last moment he's got today.
All my dark thoughts locked up.

At the dock of the bay, as I stare;
I hope he makes me beautiful again.
Rough side of my wounded pride demands.

Feelings cause me to crave the contraband;
Actions that lust for denial;
Chemicals burn and crush the vial.

Bare

As the hate spreads across the counter,
The fire burns shards of broken glass,
Blood winter freezes the smashed flask.
White smoke went off as a hazard.
A terrifying warning walked in.
He strips away each layer of me;
I wanted honest reciprocity.
Beneath neon lights of a midnight city,
Razorblades slash the body's beauty.
As if she flirts with a nightly car crash,
Dirt clings deeply to exposed bleeding flesh,
Unravelling slowly inside her mesh.
Lit lanterns dance against these stark skies.

Shocking Blue Eyes

He did not write but for symbols;
A sick corruption that sings of:
Placid waxed moon lyricisms that flood;
The violent flow of poetic misdeed withstood,
An overflow of white noise.

He broke down when nobody was around.
Shocking blue eyes of a man;
Who has taken so many lives,
In these caves and canyons, he planned,
With a cursed and chatic danger in sensibility.

His words methodically possessed his children;
His hypnotic family begged and bled for him.
In his lyrics, not a sign of humanity carved deep;
Into the warm landscapes of birth.
His heart reflected on the value of mirth.

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