I made it, #2 on the list!
Check out this beautifully written, blush-worthy review of my poems where I am called “the daughter of Sexton and Ginsberg” and keep an eye out for all young poets recognized this month!
4th - AS220. 115 Empire St. Providence, RI. 8PM.
21st - Take Back the Night. Parker Quad. SUNY New Paltz. New Paltz, NY. 12PM.
21st - Sip This. 64 Rockaway Ave. Valley Stream, NY. 7PM.
Help make this list longer. Bring me to your campus/venue/living room!
Email me directly: MeganFalley@gmail.com
How ya doing? Any chance that today you’re feeling not worthy? A big sham? A waste of paper? BOO. Such is often the blueprint of the writer, constantly doubting and questioning the worth of one’s work, BUT, as the brilliant Marge Piercy said “The real writer is one who really writes. Work is its own cure. You have to like it better than being loved.”
April is coming up (National Poetry Month) where many poets partake in a 30/30 challenge and write (& post!) a poem each day. It is incredibly important to write daily. Sometimes I forget this myself. But you know what? Musicians practice. Figure Skaters practice. So what’s this delirious idea that we have to wait for inspiration to write? That’s silly. We need practice too, so that when inspiration comes we know which end is up. That being said, start writing now! About anything. About the shape of the clouds, the sounds your cat makes, your least favorite chore. It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be. I recommend using your good old fashioned hand (if you can!) rather than typing, which is prone to judgment and self-editing.
That being said, it’s also submissions season for many presses, chapbook competitions, grants and fellowships. As I’ve said before, submitting to Write Bloody Publishing was the most important decision of my writing life. All you need to do is read the guidelines and submit just three poems by tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if you’re “not ready.” Finding out that you’re in the top 20 is a way to quickly kick your ass into gear to get ready and produce a manuscript.
Also, I just submitted to the Ruth Lilly Fellowship, which offers $15,000 to 5 American poets between the ages of 21-31 each year. The submission process is super easy. All you need is ten pages of poetry. And you know what? This may be YOUR YEAR.
But even if it isn’t your year to win, it is your year to start trying. To put your name into the publishing and fellowship ether and hope that it clings to something. To be in the process of submitting, waiting, and even being rejected so you learn that it doesn’t hurt so much. What hurts later in life is not the rejections you receive, but the not-trying. The fear masquerading as safety.
So, in the words of Sugar, WRITE LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. But go submit like a motherfucker too!
I Root For You,
Thank you for letting me consider your rejection, though unfortunately I’ve decided not to accept it at this time.
- Interviewer: Why did you become a poet?
- Megan Falley: I was frustrated that there is only on word in the English Language for “dream.” That is why I became a poet.
WHAT THE HOUR HAND SAID TO THE MINUTE HAND
At 7:35 A.M, you lay your tired body on mine
before peeling off, like a slow band-aid.
At 8:40 you sprint home and make instant coffee.
At 9:45 we finally drink it, cold.
I finish your leftover half.
By 10:50 you are already breathless.
I live for every time we overlap.
When 11:55 comes I spend the entire minute convincing you to stay.
You never do.
By noonI put my hands on your shoulders and say, “Baby,
you’re getting thin. All this running in circles and barely sitting down to eat.”
At 1:05 you tell me that while you were gone,
15,300 babies were born.
At 2:10 you don’t say a word,
just come in and kiss me for sixty seconds straight.
At 3:15 we sit quiet, listening to rain falling everywhere
in the world at once: all 15,000 tons.
At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint I keep behind your ear.
You do not inhale.
At 5:25 you meet me for happy hour.
My neck already salted, a lime wedged in my teeth,
a shot of tequila sitting on the bar.
At 6:30 Ihear the ticking.
I count your heartbeat like seconds between thunderclaps.
By 7:35 I can see you in the distance,
each second a tease until you drape over me.
We always love quick and you never let me hold you.
I dream of drinking you through a straw.
At 8:40 you watch my beard grow 0.00027 of an inch.
At 9:45 we do not speak.
Too many people have died since we last met.
At 10:50 we pray for a meteor,
at least a clumsy kid to spill sugar in our gears.
11:55is my favorite.
We’re only apart for mere minutes.
But at midnight you’ll apologize sixty times
because it will always be like this.
At 1:04 AM I am already sleeping.
It’s exhausting loving someone
who is constantly running away.
A newer, shinier, awesome-r version of this poem will be in my upcoming book, After the Witch Hunt, available on Write Bloody Publishing Press. You can pre-order that shit on amazon HERE.