Submission Policy

Mel BrakE Press acquires first serial rights to all work published. Mel BrakE Press also reserves the right to electronically archive any content published.

All other rights revert to author upon publication.

Mel BrakE Press has a liberal submission policy, and will accept poetry manuscripts (not books) for its next publication cycle, the Spring of 2018.

We do not charge a reading fee. We DO NOT PAY TO PUBLISH YOUR WORK.

We only accept submissions via email for collection of poems. Please send no more than 3-5 pages of poetry as an email attachment using standard MS format. We do not accept epic manuscripts:10 pages or more will be rejected.

Please note in subject line: "Submission".

Manuscripts that do not follow our guidelines
will be subject to rejection. We do not publish books.

Direct submissions or questions to:

Thank you

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Poetry Collection of Linda Woolven

Winter Strangers

The dirty grey of winter
laying its slush into storefronts,
as they open their winter doors,
yawning wet ice crystals
into breathy steam.

The bars burp into the night,
clouds of yeast churn
with the snowflakes that settle
in the hair of the regulars
trying to shut out
the cold:
the dark loneliness of December,
on bar stools
with other strangers,
equally starving,
in the death of winter.

Music plays, loudly,
like heavy feet
falling in the snow,
so distant,
of loneliness,
and the emptiness of
drunken conversations.

The blackness of the street
pencils in, like erasable charcoal visions:
all temporary for the night,
where amber bubbles
caress, then bruise
with forgetfulness.

Anxiety/Summer Storm

White caps of madness,
as memory stirs
the shadows
of the deep water:
the black wounded depths,
running from consciousness,
into huge untreadable
And you are swallowed
into the unbreathable strangle of the past,
suffocating in memories
so painful when they surface.

tries to dog paddle
in the storm.

as your lungs fill
with huge gulps
of desperation—;
howls from the past—;
force breaths of fear,
and crawls with indecision.

You are stillborn
on the waves,
locked in the
of your own

Cold and shivering,
in the
the thunder.

Childhood Hide and Seek

The smell of
damp wool
and summer wind
hiding with me,
and I am back
to all
those valleys
so long ago.

Little girl
in sandals
runs in the street
lost at play
with the neighbourhood children.

Her insides stilled for a moment
feeling free and happy in the wind.

The count is done
and someone is looking for her
in the twilight
as the stars stare overhead.

Soon the street lamps
will wink, light between the leaves,
and she’ll be called home for the night.

To bed and the darkness within,
where the wind is shut out
and the shadows sometimes
loom into
words raging
in her ears
and her tears
find her pillow
and she lies in
the wet dampness
of her

Night Sky

The moon
at the horizon,
slack eyed,
lazy its journey.

Summer’s ripe
on the stalk,
heavy and full on the vine.

Gossamer wings
edged in sliver,
whisper soft things
in the night.

little child goes to bed,
scared of shadows
and the voices in the dark.

The moon
slows to watch,
through the blind.

As stars select
their toes for pointing.

So soft on
the stage.
So fairy eyed
and dreamy.

As the child
falls asleep,
sucking the night
sky with his thumb.

Tucked warm
in the night’s embrace
and its midnight layers.

Two Italian Lovers in the New Country

He leaves his socks on,
he is always in a hurry,
puts the blinds down
so it is always dark,
like he can leave
the smell  of oranges
and sunshine outside.

In here, it is serious business.
Like a exercise routine, or morning ritual.

He remembers each of his moves,
going through then
one by one, so thoroughly,
making sure to do each one
as thoroughly and well as he
does everything else,
even with the lights off.
and the sounds of the old country dimmed.

It is his ritual,
I, am his ritual,
and we have been doing it
for over 25 years.

I am an anniversary, an echo,
of the old country:
his peasant girl
in bare feet,
smelling of olives
and the sea.

He finds it
in my recesses
where I keep it:
my gift to him.

It is belonging,
even here, with the rituals so far
from our home.

Two Italian lovers, husband and wife,
finely aged in the
Toronto cask that our
house is with its blinds down
on such days,
to a fine wine,
a memory of the old country.

Linda Woolven have published over 75 poems in journals across Canada, the United States and the U.K.. The poems have appeared in Journals like, Descant, Dana Literary Society, Amethyst Review, Write On, Sepia Poetry Magazine, New Mirage Quarterly, The Kaleidocope Review, Canadian Writer's Journal, Pink Chameleon and Fullosia Press. One of my poems received an award from Dana Literary Society. Linda also published a chapbook, called "Life's Little Lessons" a few summers ago that featured 26 poems. 
Linda have also published a short story in Happy, and a story in Characters.

No comments:

Post a Comment