Walt Whitman’s butterfly It’s as if Walt Whitman’s butterfly completes the composition, as if photographs never lie. It’s as if Walt Whitman’s butterfly perches on the calloused finger of the callo…

Source: Poetry by Kenneth Salzmann

Brilliant thought!

Trish Hopkinson

phv2Poetry Has Value is a blog created by professor and poet Jessica Piazza. Jessica is a great supporter of poets and has been tracking her poetry dollars since early 2015. For 2016, she’s not alone–several other poets have committed to sharing their dollars spent on submission fees and other related purchases in comparison to the money they bring in for publications. You’ll recognize names like Karen Craigo, creator of Better View of the Moon blog and Sarah Frances Moran, editor of Yellow Chair Review, along with many other talented poets–all contributing to the efforts of Poetry Has Value. With bold transparency, you can see directly into their submission/publication process, where they submit, what it costs, what they bring in.

Her blog description reads:

“Here you’ll find posts about my experiences over the year, but also lists of paying markets, interviews with and advice from editors and publishers who pay…

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Today marks the 10th year anniversary of the attacks of September 11, 2001. There are so many others writing about it, I almost didn’t want to, but I feel compelled to write SOMETHING! So here it goes….

I decided that I should examine my own feelings about 9/11 and my own memories of that dreadful day and the days that followed.

I was still in bed, trying to ignore my alarm clock. Actually, it wasn’t my alarm, it was my phone ringing, a rare occurrence, and I of course had to find out who would dare ring me so bloody early or what the earth shattering event was or who had just died. It was, in fact, a friend, sounding very shook up. She asked me if I was watching the news because the U.S. was being attacked. I immediately turned on the news just in time to see the…

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Things I remembered today, September 11, 2001

Grandma and her sister Kate were raised in Brooklyn, I remembered this morning, of all mornings, that when I was young, we stayed for awhile with our grandparents. I was always sitting in grandmas house, either in grandpas lap, and then when I was too big, on the floor, (I’ve always loved sitting on the floor for some reason) probably watching tv, or playing with whatever was handy, or reading one of those wonderful books I had as a kid, but definitely NOT doing homework, haha, I have very fond memories of grandma and grandpa, sitting in the kitchen, probably playing cribbage, the smell of the coffee, always on, their voices filled my head with the past, and I also remembered when her sister Kate would come over, grandmas middle name was Myrtle, and  Kate, who fiercely held onto her…

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Old Voices


We watched in horror as the 2nd plane hit

Dad rose from his near slumber, silent, intent

A look in his eyes that we both thought

We’d never see again,

I thought of old voices, of old angers, of issues long gone

Thought of second comings, can we begin again?

We listened to them as they told us what to do,

This is whom we need to blame, they said, and we believed them,

They told us what our truths were, it’s so much easier that way,

I thought again of old voices, things long dead and buried

Mary went to work this morning just like any other day,

Johnny had been long gone, his presence lost long ago

We remembered the day he came home, we didn’t go to the station,

Didn’t want to recognize what he’d done,

Couldn’t relate to him anymore, couldn’t reach his dark distance,


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A place with flowers

And twigs of lavender

Or a crown of thorns,

Are your sidewalks always so clean

As you scrape your feet on the path?

The angels of heaven,

You say, “They can’t see us”.

Ah, but they can!

Their tears are the rain

That falls on the coffins

Of every refugee

Who never met

The better world.

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