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petak, 14.01.2011.

Writing From Heartache Without Showing Blood

When my son died, I wrote. It saved me. However everything I composed in my journal and computer files was not to be seen by the world. While it was important to me because it was either my raw guts spilled forth or memories of my four-year-old whose laughter echoed down the hospital corridors, it was not what poetry magazines wished to publish.Recently I reread some of my poems from five years ago. My stomach filled
with queasiness. Now I understood why editors rejected my work. My pain was
c.

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