At the moment it’s August 1st and I’ve got 609 pending submissions (at least, ones I’ve logged on Duotrope). There’s a batch of poems I’ve been submitting to everyone and their brothers for the past two months. Some of these poems have found a home in various magazines. You can check out one of them here to get a sense of what the collection is like.
Some of these poems haven’t found a home yet. If they’re still unpublished by September, I’ll hold onto some and release others onto this site.
I’m thinking about using Reddit again to share my poetry once it’s published. If I do, I’ll make another post about it here.
After an email from a reader I realized I hadn’t put much effort into updating this site on a regular basis. For those wondering, I’m definitely still writing new stuff. However, much of my effort has been focused on a novel that I discussed in some early posts on this website.
Today I sent out close to 200 poetry and flash fiction submissions to some magazines I found on Duotrope. I have received replies from a few already, and some new poems and short stories of mine will be out later this summer and into the fall.
A couple of shorter poems that don’t fit in with the large batch I sent out for publication will be made available on this site if they aren’t taken anywhere.
I’d like to use my writing Twitter (@samuelswauger) a lot more frequently, but I’m not sure what to post there. I’m not really into social media.
Some book reviews and essays are in the not-so-distant future for this blog, too. In short, I’m not dead, and a lot is on the way. Stay tuned.
You who hear in disbanded prose
unbroken by rules of art
a sweet chocolate symphony
walk a wet city street.
A storefront washed in neon
reflects in leather eyes.
Windows flash shiny trinkets,
and old folding knives.
Pale hands, red-tipped,
dive in plastic bins and
pluck out a rusty watch.
Now it ticks quietly on your wrist
and the wild torrents of its heart
say “I love you.”
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If you are still interested in using my writing, email me!
In between each flap
of a butterfly’s wings
the air currents recede.
Tides on an pale beach wash
in a pebble, once a fish.
I am forced to think of
the ages it’s taken in
rings of a tree to build