Perigee Blog

Pict Grooving: A New Literary Blog

Perigee's Managing Editor has launched a new literary blog, and you are invited to submit!

Pict Grooving: Poetry, Flash Fiction, Rants, is described as a quiet place for reading and writing—though the writing may be anything but quiet. The blog is updated daily, and visitors are asked to comment or submit work of their own.

All work published on Pict is also, automatically, considered for publication in Perigee. And there's no lengthy waiting either: work is published within 48 hours or not at all. Groovy.

Stop by Pict Grooving today or as soon as you have a few quiet moments.

Welcome Poets & Writers

We welcome those of you coming to Perigee from the November/December issue of Poets & Writers magazine. We are glad you could stop by, and we hope you are excited about our 2006 Poetry Contest.

Marvin Bell joins us as Finalist Judge. We're giving away $650 in cash to the top four entries, along with publication in our 2007 anniversary issue. The winning poem will also be nominated by Perigee for the Puschart Prize.

To read our guidelines and submit, click here, or visit our main web site and navigate into our current issue. We hope you will submit soon, as we are eager to find our winning poems.

Newest Issue Released!

Perigee's 14th issue hit the Internet last night, at about 10:00 pm PST, 1:00 am EST. So far, the response has been excellent for this issue—one we are exceptionally proud of. Really, more accurately, we're appreciative: without good work from dedicated and creative folks, Perigee couldn't be here.

Our 14th issue includes 12 new works of poetry, 6 stories including the 2006 Fiction Contest winners, a feature on artist and writer Kitty Evers, a new Sue's Column, and a photographic Editor's Corner. Lots of great material we hope you will consume and enjoy.

We are also calling for submissions in poetry, fiction, memoir, and visual art. Those wishing to submit work should read our current issue and navigate to the "Submit Your Work Today" section.

Our 2006 Poetry Contest continues to receive submissions and we invite all to submit. Marvin Bell serves as this year's Finalist Judge. $650 in cash prizes, publication in our 2007 anniversary issue, plus a 2007 Pushcart Nomination are at stake.

Pushcart Nominee Lisa Galloway

Lisa's poem orginally appeared in our 13th issue. It is the final installment of the six pieces we've nominated for the 2006 Pushcart Prize. We hope you have enjoyed the encore presentation of these excellent works. Our thanks, again, to the writers.

     She Was a Chagall

     I was the Hulk, not green
     but ugly and muscles, a transformation.
     That night, I drank something nasty,
     Jagermeister and Coke,
     she called it sassafras, it was brown yuck
     in a squat rocks glass. My face contorted,
     and it slid to a clinking crash while
     pretzel-like she showed me a yoga pose
     called something I can't remember
     but it looked to me like kama-sutra.
     We brushed hands and torsos, trading turns
     to the kitchen for more drinks.
     I mocked her multi-vitamins, one-a-day,
     her freezer filled with ginger root
     and bagged kumquats.
     When she laughed, she squinted and clapped.
     I was a slave to her smile, tried to impress, I preyed on her
     entertainment, my life a calendar marking days,
     waiting for her legs, dancer-like to scissor open ooh—
     and then after that night
     for her paintings to include flying cows or chickens,
     for her watercolor to bleed
     goldenrod to raspberry. She always wore
     black socks and sandals, but it was somehow okay
     because she could peel an orange
     into the trash can and make it sexy.

(This poem is copyright protected, all rights reserved, and may not be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.)

3by3by3 Sets New(s) Standard

Poet Lance Newman has launched what might be the coolest new poetry blog out there. We sure think it is. The recipe for a 3by3by3 poem is almost as neat as the resulting verse—a glorious adulteration of the pseudo-news cycle. We're pretty sure that before long the New York Times will have forgotten all about those Fibonacci poems.

But enough foreplay. Check out 3by3by3 before it makes the news cycle itself and you have to compete with all those New York Times subscribers.

Got a Web Site?

Have you contributed to Perigee at any point in the past? Do you have a web site or weblog you want us to notice? We're building our "Contributor Links" on the right hand column of our blog—and we'd be happy to include yours.

Let us know about your snazzy site by commenting here; tell us your name and URL and you'll get permanent inclusion on our blog. But do it now, this is a limited time offer.

Pushcart Nominee Gwendolyn Cash

Gwendolyn's poem first appeared in our 13th issue. It joins our other nominees for this year's Pushcart Prize.

     Choosing Berries and Onions

     Someday, I will be old, wrinkled,
     always tired, a little bent, graveled
     in voice, deaf to the small sounds,
     more in tune to the big notes, the harp's
     vibrations, the trembling of the galaxy.
     I will forget to worry about my
     sagging arms and ass. I will smell
     like soap from the grocery store and cherry
     cough drops. Maybe someone else
     will tie my shoes. I will still wear earrings,
     though, turquoise drops with French hooks
     to emphasize the only color left, my same
     two eyes. I want to see myself
     in the market then, my white hair
     in a wispy knot, bony fingers poking
     out the sleeve of a moth-eaten sweater,
     olive green, picking through the cabbages
     and pears, choosing potatoes and limes,
     all my life's fretting just more grist
     for the dust this body daily grinds.
     So what if love was a missed shot, a failed
     approach, an off stroke of the brush
     on the unforgiving canvas? And so it was.
     Always in its rhythm, the heart listens,
     and the heart resists itself. Among
     the mangoes out of season, I will say
     to myself out loud, staring the young box boy
     in the eye, All this here? Ha!
     Give me back all I have lost.
     He won't have any answers, either.
     In the apples he carefully polishes, though,
     I will see a light glowing, expanding,
     two blue eyes glaring back. This is
     how I will, I think, know god.

(This poem is copyright protected, all rights reserved, and may not be reproduced without the express written consent of the author.)