The last two months have been so fucking strange. I’ll confess that I selfishly thought that once everything shut down and I had to work from home that I would be so much more productive, as if the fact that people dying in a pandemic was a great excuse for me to write some pretty poems. Then, I felt guilty about that. Then, I felt guilty because I didn’t end up producing much of anything for a solid month. I did end up firing off a small COVID-19 poem, one of those poems you write in one go, and to my surprise it was almost immediately picked up a new poetry journal called Passengers, with a first issue planned for July 1, 2020.
I tried to write a few other poems but nothing seemed to take, so I started thinking of other ways I could do poety works. First, I’m going to be a reader for a journal. A prose poem I wrote for my fiction workshop last year is now out in the After Happy Hour Review. We did a live zoom reading on May 5 and afterwards I volunteered to be a poetry reader for them. Second: I’m putting out a chapbook. A poet I know from South Bend (now Arizona), Charles Edward Payne, has finished a chapbook and we’re working with Marcos Guinoza, a visual artist, to put out a chapbook under the dormant Retirement Plan brand. I’m organizing a live virtual reading that will take place in a month.
I know I need to be doing more. I could start reviewing chapbooks, for one. Ok, I’m going to order some chapbooks right now. Ok, I just ordered three chapbooks. I’d like to start writing a few reviews per month. If nothing else I’ll *feel* more connected, you know?