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Poetry and the Sea

Not every poet lives near the sea, but I’ve found welcome inspiration in the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and textures of the south coast of Ireland, and it should come as no surprise to anyone that the island has produced some of the world’s finest poets. Soon after I began living in Ireland, I wrote “Is It All Workaday to Them?” — something I’ve wondered about seagulls.

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Searching for Last Lines

Some poetry shares a kinship with flash fiction, possessing a narrative arc. A poem I’ve submitted unsuccessfully a few times already is a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’m happy enough, provisionally, with the beginning and the middle. But I’m having trouble with the end, and I suspect the editors of the journals that rejected the piece shared my dissatisfaction with the last lines, not in substance, but as poetry. Today, I returned to the piece, experimenting with revisions. I suppose I’ve made some progress, but the lines still leave too much to be desired. I’ll have another go tomorrow.

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