We remember you speaking. The yard wasn’t green. The Sun wasn’t yet too large. We wanted to imply nicely that your words weren’t much. We’d seen your last step. So our look, is a look, and a word isn’t said. Now, let us tell you, the sun did go down. We found ourselves a book. In the book were the words you’d been looking for.
As a child we wanted rocks. They told us to be. We wanted to know more, but the rocks only spoke one line. We pilled rocks into our pockets. We felt them against our legs as we walked. When we ran, they didn’t mind. Every day we asked a rock, any rock, what it meant to be. We watched our shadow at noon. The sun pushed. The oil from the rocks stuck to our feet.
even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
and I just went on and wrote more and
I even considered rejects as
action; the worst was the empty
if I had a weakness or a dream
that I only wanted to see one of these
who rejected me,
to see his or her face, the way they
dressed, the way they walked across a
room, the sound of their voice, the look
in their eye…
just one look at one of
you see, when all you look at is
a piece of printed paper
telling you that you
aren’t very good,
then there is a tendency
to think that they editors
are more god-like than
hell is a closed door
when you’re starving for your god-
but sometimes you feel at least like having a
young or old, good or bad,
I don’t think anything dies as slow and
as hard as a
-The Last Night of The Earth Poems. Charles Bukowski.
I’ve just now read this poem for the first time. Which is fitting. I received a rejection email yesterday. I was told they needed to pass because my poems were *****, however they also wished me luck concerning my revision process and continued writing.
I considered the feedback from the editor to be incredibly helpful. I am determined.