Saturday, June 25, 2011

Summer Hiatus - Submissions Remain Open

Generations of Poetry is going on a Summer Hiatus. 
Submissions remain open.

In our initial three months, we have published 54 poems, displaying the talents of 42 different poets. We are very pleased with the quality of the submissions we have received, and hope our readers feel the same.

Submissions have slowed, so we are taking a publishing hiatus. Our plan is to return in autumn -- as the leaves are changing colors, and children are returning to school -- with more great poetry to share.

Interested poets are encouraged to read the submission guidelines.  We will maintain our goal of a two-week maximum turn around on responses to submissions; the hiatus will only impact the date of publication.

Friday, June 24, 2011

A Divided Plane

A Divided Plane
Diana Matisz

I look in the mirror
and chisel my face
into quadrants of four:

hands never still
Slovak and English
quietly falling from lips
kissing the sweet crown
of a newborn's head
her plump cheeks rest
on the bones of my face

stoic coal miner
living for family
dying for family
the one of four
I never knew
his nose delineates
my facade

inner steel beneath
soft Scots burr
pale soap-scented skin
the backbone of family
deep-lake blue eyes
those through which
life finds me

digger of earth
puffing pipe smoke halos
cigars and pinochle
reserved Englishman
my hesitant mouth
speaks his words never said

These four without whom
my face would be
just a face.


Diana Matisz lives in Pittsburgh, PA and writes for the simple joy of it. She's also a casual photograper and her work can be found at Diana's Words, and Life Through Blue Eyes.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Erected to the Memory

Erected to the Memory
Charles S. Carr

I could not find you
among the weeping cursive
of names scrolled on crusty pages
listing Donegal’s dead 1847.

But here you are enshrined
under the foliage of an Irish Yew
cultivating questions in me,
but I only have the silence

to address your stone
with the murmurs in the mist
a breath of your vintage air
the babble of birds.

Listening to the crunch of my steps
scratch your edges
fingers tapping,
trace the inscription:

By his sons in America.


Charles Carr is a native Philadelphian, born and raised in Southwest Germantown. Charles attended LaSalle College and Bryn Mawr College, and has a Master's degree in American History. For 35 years Charles has worked in social services, developing programs and advocating for the needs of abused and neglected children. Charles has also completed missions to Haiti and he is active in raising awareness and funds for Haiti. In 2009 Cradle Press of St. Louis published Charles's first book of poetry: paradise, pennsylvania. Charles has been published in various local poetry reviews and is the 2008 First Prize Winner for the Mad Poets Review. Haitian Mud Pies, Charles's next collection of poems will be completed in December 2011. Charles is married and has one son.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Genetic Counseling

Genetic Counseling
Matt Quinn

My Dear Client:

All of European descent
are statistically bent
to be born of kings
and other royal things:
More ancestors were needed
for you to be seeded
than people provided
so tree forks elided.

If I coupled Charlemagne
to your trim train
and attached Brian Boru
to your scant retinue,
it’s more about the fact
than where they’re tacked.

Best regards,
Certified Genealogist Evan Gerard

—Kindly note Queen Elizabeth replaces
Uncle Joe who bet on races.


Matt Quinn is a freelance writer and professional genealogist who lives in St. Louis, MO.

Friday, June 17, 2011


Sigred Philipsen

We were on vacation driving through the Okanagan Valley

Which according to my Time Atlas of the World (Compact Edition) 

Is open shrub lands (I think)
It's hard to tell the exact colour
(On the tiny map, my eyes older, the light dim)
It could be croplands (It is croplands) 

Fruit trees, peaches, cherries & pears (Tomatoes too!)

My Mom & Dad were in the front seat of the car

My Grandpa Odinsen, my brother Garry & I were in the back

We were all a little weary

The Okanagan is hot (In the summer)
In the winter, middling winter (It gets the occasional cold snap below 20 degrees)
Not as cold as the Cariboo (Not as mild as the Coast)
(Fair bit of snow)

We had watched mountain passes
Through the car window

And semi-deserts
Had had a sandwich lunch & a campfire breakfast
And had driven hard
In a crowded hot car

For miles & miles
(Miles & miles)

Miles & miles

"Look!" my Mom said 

"Turn in there. See that sign!"
And she pointed to a large sign 

A hundred yards

Professional lettering (Three bright colours)
A picture on it (Of a TeePee)

"Where!?" my Dad barked
Weary too

Hot, tired, stiff (Confined)

"To the right Frank. It's not a government camp 

The sign said it's a KeeWee camp."

"What the hell is a KeeWee camp" GrandPa Odinsen
Rumbled up

From the right hand side (Window seat)
Me in the middle (The hottest)
My brother beside me on the left (His hand out the window)

"They're a privately owned camp site" my Mom explained
Often they have showers & sometimes a pool

"A pool!" I piped up"

Suddenly enlivened (By even the thought)
Of cool, blue, silky, wet, cool, weightless (Water)

"Oh can we, oh can we, oh can we!" I chattered

"We'll see" my Mom replied calm

"We'll see" GrandPa Odinsen replied ominously
"We'll see" my brother Garry mumbled so quietly only I could hear

My Dad swung his head to the back seat (I became quiet)

We turned off the paved road & travelled down a winding dirt one
Entered trees & a patch of groomed grass
And passed a children's playground

My heart fluttered & I leaned over my brother
Looking longingly at the slide

He pushed me back roughly (I squealed)
GrandPa's hand flicked up (ForeFinger raised)
Mom turned 'round (And scowled)
Dad growled (I shrunk in my seat)

"Over there Frank" my Mom pointed this time

At a concrete block building with a sign over the door that said

Office (I could read)

Dad went through a gate

Around a circular driveway
Past the building labelled office
And parked in a dusty parking lot
Underneath a green hill

And stopped the car
Turned the engine off

We all sat for a few seconds (Silent)
Getting used to the idea of not driving (Not moving through the air)
Hot (Dry hot hot)
Breathing (Hot air)

Dad turned round & looked at GrandPa
Checked out me
And my Brother too

"Well Gwen, what do you think?" he asked my Mother

I looked longingly at the pool (Noticed the showers beside the office)
Checked more thoroughly the slide in the park (And the merry-go-round)

Even my teenage brother had a soft smile on his lips (Watching the pretty girl at the pool)

"Looks fine to me Frank" my Mother said
With more enthusiasm in her voice

Than she should

GrandPa grunted (Dad made to get out of the car)

"I don't like me here" GrandPa mumbled

Dad swung open the car door (Letting in the heat)

"I don't like me here" GrandPa said louder

My Mom said "What?"
"I don't like me here!" my GrandPa said with no doubt in the tone of his voice
"I don't like me here!"

My brother groaned (My Dad turned to face GrandPa)
I moaned (My Mother looked straight ahead out the car's front window)
Straight ahead (Without a word)

"I don't like me here" GrandPa said one last time
His arms crossed over his chest

My Dad closed the door
And started up the car again

Drove past the office
Around the circular driveway
Past the pool & the patch of grass
Up the dirt road until we hit the highway

And then turned right (Or maybe left)


Sigred Philipsen lives with her partner in Ecuador. Prior to that they lived on a classic patrol boat in Vancouver British Columbia. Living on a boat or moving to Ecuador, they both take the same kind of general outlook on life. It's an adventure! Either that or they've both got a screw loose. In any case, there they are retired (finally) with their shih tzu Fredi, making a life for themselves at the equator. Sigred's poetry can be found on her site, Dangling on a Hook. There is also a blog, Planet Irony, chronicling their move from Canada to Ecuador over a 3 years period 2008 - 2010, and a new blog, Those Not Complicated Need Not Apply, which contains articles on Ecuador, random stories, cartoons from other authors, photographs, infographics from other authors, poetry, quotes and whatever else takes Sigred's interest.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

The Way It Was (1937)

The Way It Was (1937)
Matt Quinn

In town, a man came up to Amos
saying he hadn’t eaten in three days.
Amos knew he’d give the man food
if this were his farm,
but it was town.
“There are Colored folk in Sparta.
You can get food there.”
Sparta was twenty miles away.

Fifty years later, Amos still told the story
on himself, of the man turned away
because of his skin, Amos still wishing
he’d been more brave.

The Way It Was (1937) was previously published in Phantoms (2008)


Matt Quinn is a freelance writer and professional genealogist who lives in St. Louis, MO.