who doesn’t want me visible on their shiny pages
Though the junior editor thought I was so good
He wrote “poignant, try another medium locally”
in the corner of the 4×6 rectangular rejection notice
in green ink on ecru paper.
Last night I read poems to strangers
Following a discussion of Rashi’s Daughters
At a book club in Scottsdale with bright women
Wanting to know what I had to say about the Holocaust
Learning I too have stories to tell
Lots of stories…
I have a bestseller inside me
Of poetry no less
One that shares stories with the world…
Stories that others are unable to share
Along with the 6 million
Who no longer have voices of their own.
New Yorker? Anybody home?
All I want is 4×6 inches of space in your prize periodical
So I can share a little story, one little story
Of a girl who lives in the foothills of the Catalinas
In a place called Arizona
A girl whose story began…
Began in Tashkent, grew in Munich,
Was nurtured in Jerusalem, grew-up in Phoenix
I am ready, I am whispering, I am shouting
I am silently waiting…
As The New Yorker magazine rejects me
Feelings of rejection gone
Replaced by a new mind set “Moronic Editor,
what do you know about me anyway?
Look at the spinning globe with the red dots
200,000 people, 191 countries,
Poems are bestsellers!
Ask Emily Dickinson, ask Pablo Neruda,
Ask James Kavanagh.
After all, how much space does one little poem need?”
*submitted to the New Yorker 6/20/2012
All rights reserved. ©2012 by Sara Fryd