no, I didn't get a poem accepted because I didn't submit one.
But those of you who know me know how much I adore the way Tony Hoagland
puts words down that seem as though he can read my mind and codify what I need to say. I don't know why I feel this link to him- it came to me the second I met him, though I had criticised viciously a poem posted at Slate magazine many years ago. Another friend was severly wounded by him and did not write for three years after we encounteered him (in a workshop). I love both of them and this is inexplicable to me.
Hoagland has three poems in the latest issue of Poetry Magazine, the most uneven publication I know.
The first one makes me ache with recognition- There is no word. I have been writing this for years.
The second is Note to Reality and holds the final twist that I find so fascinating about his poetry.
The last is called Don't Tell Anyone and so squarely captures the secrets I carry I wept when I read it.
I know some people like Mary Oliver and her deep nature, or the Dickman's and their cruel humor, but Tony Hoagland and I seem to share a loving cynicism that is only tamped by how we cling to life and all it's disturbing wonders.
My absolute favorite poet, besides myself.