Speaking of Poetry
So eight weeks ago I went online and submitted my poem to the New Yorker. Basically you just email it in as described on their website. They say it can take up to three months, so I shouldn't be impatient. Frankly, I'm not. If they want to publish it that's fine. But I have my own publication outlet so if you want to read it then click on the link below.
Driving to the airport
The phone rings and I hold it to my ear
A voice speaks to me, haltingly
From a country across an ocean
Two thousand miles awayNext to me, you stare out the window
I've known this voice since childhood
Softly speaking of familiar things
From a place with a different culture
From a place now his homeI glance quickly as you turn and smile
His excitement is buried in muffled sounds
The Parkinson's limits him though he denies it
Almost whispering, he strains to convince me
What he says is importantYou are laughing at people on the street
I listen patiently as he tells me
His plan to return to New Orleans soon
A dashing fantasy of independence
In truth, he no longer travels aloneWe arrive at the airport and I let you off
As I drive away, I begin to miss your laughter
I begin to get used to your absence, and
I long to be free of needing you.
I keep thinking of what he asked me:"Ernest, which things are close to you, and which are far away?"
Wow, that is a really powerful poem - hope it does get in the New Yorker - it's one of those pieces that I would read, and then flip back to read it again
Posted by: Emily Mann | October 02, 2005 at 12:54 PM
Enjoyed this very much. Thanks for sharing.
Posted by: Stephen Terrell | October 03, 2005 at 06:25 AM
Dear Ernie:
I just read your poem entitled "Driving to the Airport," and am trying to interpret your message. Are you trying to push this person away and go on with your life close to you or are you trying to bring this person back in?
Thanks.
Chohophub
Posted by: ChoHopHub | October 03, 2005 at 02:12 PM
An excellent poem, Ernie. (I wish I could write long ones!)
Clarence Darrow said "inside every lawyer is the wreck of a poet." haikuEsq says "Inside every lawyer is a heck of a poet."
Posted by: David Giacalone | October 03, 2005 at 04:30 PM
Is it that you have an elder parent with Parkinson's that you can no
loger relate to, close but still very far away, and memorie are all you
have left. It's sad but this is when you need to be there.
Posted by: Morenike | October 05, 2005 at 12:50 PM
Today I got the email from the New Yorker rejecting my poem, and apologizing for taking so long to get in touch with me. No problem. I didn't expect anything from them. I still like the New Yorker and I'll still keep reading it.
Posted by: Ernie | October 28, 2005 at 03:26 PM
wow, that's actually a pretty fast rejection turnaround. who knew?
also, i love this poem's form. it's so tight and restrictive. and that last line kills me.
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