Submit Your Poetry
Hemingway’s Shotgun is an online magazine devoted to all manner of poetic verse but with a particular emphasis on poetry on the topic of literature, books, and reading.
Send us your poetry today. We’re not particular. Iambic pentameter? Cool. Sonnets? Sure, why not? Haiku and haiku sonnets? Absolutely. Anything that displays the art of rythmical composition and speaks to the subject of literature will be considered. And of course all authors retain their copyright(s). Include a two-line bio.
What we’re doing is community building and exposing good craft with verse. Which is another way of saying that there is no compensation.
Send your submissions to rodger_jacobs at yahoo dot com
Hemingway’s Shotgun is a presentation of Carver’s Dog
[...] new project, Hemingway’s Shotgun, is strictly editorial. From the call for submissions: Hemingway’s Shotgun is an online magazine devoted to all manner of poetic verse but with a [...]
Hi,
I publish my poetry on-line and would like to contribute to your web-site. Check out my website and let me know what you think…
Many thanks,
Nuit
I’m the author of the poym Terroristic Threats.
Devil’s Hill, my CD, can be downloaded. Don’t know if I can get a picture to you.
I’d like to see Kerouac’s Big Sur, the movie. Thanks
Roger:
I had two new poems that I hoped might be of interest to you. One is literary, one not really.
Anyway, thanks in advance for reading them.
Sincerely,
Christopher Dean
——
The Weekly Game
At 2 p.m. each Thursday,
the wraiths enter limbo’s
most exclusive casino
for seven card stud,
five card draw, and games
involving bluffing
and blind luck.
The ghosts leave behind
the pens, typewriters, and paper
of their worldly trade.
They would bring them,
but a darker spirit makes
the rules here, and he
won’t have people remember
The hot flash
of any living thing.
So, no writing is their only rule.
besides this one: you cannot speak
well of the living. . .
or the dead.
Most nights the players are the same:
Sam Clemens, Dorothy Parker, Li Po,
Hunter Thompson,
and blithe Jane Austen.
Clemens usually deals first—
from the bottom of the deck—
and it takes little time until Hunter
pulls out his glock (which is allowed)
and threatens Clemens and some
invisible swooping bats.
Then cards begin to float and fly
in the gray ether of
their, diffuse, liminal world.
Li Po drinks and thinks:
“hard is the journey,
hard is the journey,
so many turnings,
and now where am I?”
Austen muses on the sensibility
of gambling when you only
can bet your boasts
and the oblique contours
of your stilled hearts.
And Parker, bereft of smokes
and even the cheapest of gin,
sinks into her deepest,
and most satisfying, vice.
She lets insults slide
with each card discarded.
She calls Clemens, “Mock Twain,”
Austen, “A satire spoiled” and Thompson,
“Honey.”
The game meanders on,
and cards come and go—
like dead leaves tossed
in the late November air.
But the words cast into space
glow with the spark of vast
fires kindled in the living
spaces of white pages.
Nothing is written down
in the space of the wraiths’ game.
But that doesn’t mean
that nothing will be remembered.
—–
Bureaucracy Tanakas
Ride the line ride love
To the front counter where joy
Comes to die on the vine.
Let’s two step with bureaucrats
Til we turn blue and pass out.
Love, desire, and drive
Have sliver-gray leeches on
Their distended guts.
But that the price we all pay
To the Orwellian gods.
“We don’t do that here”
Is the only prayer offered
In the burnt bowels of
This nada land. Never heard
Is the sibilant love of “yes.”