You sat down by me (poem journals Book 1)

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Contents

  1. More by Robert Frost
  2. Posts navigation
  3. more on this story
  4. Poetry Society of America

For this reason, my instructions in this article apply more to online submissions than ones mailed in, although you may find some useful tidbits here either way. Many journals have their own submission managers, or ask that you send submissions to them via email. Nevertheless, there are many that are free to apply to. Take these guidelines seriously. Furthermore, following the instructions to the best of your abilities will show that you carry yourself with professionalism. If you have a question, you can always shoot them an email requesting clarification on an aspect of the submission process.

One way to get comfortable with the genre is to read work by contemporary poets up on The Poetry Foundation , which is a giant in the world of established and renowned institutions, publishing the popular Poetry magazine. You can also find The Poetry Foundation and other poetry publications on Instagram , where they post snippets and full poems alike, featured in their latest issues. Sometimes, they provide sample issues. If not, researching them online can give you an idea of what and who they publish. Another trick: research the editor. Guess who edits poetry for a literary magazine?

You got it. A poet. A cover letter is an opportunity to ensure you come across as professional. At the end of the day, your poetry will stand for itself, but even so, the cover letter is your chance to tell the editors a little bit about yourself. I always include a line expressing gratitude for any exposure my work receives. Assuming you plan to keep submitting to literary magazines, these are connections worth fostering.

Sad Cat Diary

Many literary magazines are volunteer-run or managed by students, since many are affiliated with universities. But two that do can't live together with them.

More by Robert Frost

Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human. Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother--loss of a first child So inconsolably--in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied--' 'There you go sneering now! You make me angry. I'll come down to you.

God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand--how could you? I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes.

You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed. What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlor.

You couldn't care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. Friends make pretense of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the world's evil. I won't have grief so If I can change it. Oh, I won't, I won't!

You won't go now. You're crying. Close the door. The heart's gone out of it: why keep it up. There's someone coming down the road! I must go-- Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you--' 'If--you--do! First tell me that. I'll follow and bring you back by force. I will! His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip-band,.

His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat away from his forehead,. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there,. In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing,. To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes?

It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble,. They rise together, they slowly circle around. And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,. And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional,. And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else,. And the jay in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me,. And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night,. Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation,. The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close,. Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats,. The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings,. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,. They scorn the best I can do to relate them. Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods,. Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses,.

I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me,. Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,. Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,. Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,. The pure contralto sings in the organ loft,.

The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp,. The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner,. The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm,. The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready,. The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches,. The spinning-girl retreats and advances to the hum of the big wheel,. The farmer stops by the bars as he walks on a First-day loafe and looks at the oats and rye,. The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case,.

He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manuscript;. The quadroon girl is sold at the auction-stand, the drunkard nods by the bar-room stove,. The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, the gate-keeper marks who pass,. The young fellow drives the express-wagon, I love him, though I do not know him;. The half-breed straps on his light boots to compete in the race,. The western turkey-shooting draws old and young, some lean on their rifles, some sit on logs,. Out from the crowd steps the marksman, takes his position, levels his piece;.

The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee,. As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them from his saddle,. The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other,. The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron,. The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut eyes bent sideways,. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers,. The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it off in a ball, and stops now and then for the knots,.

The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago borne her first child,. The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at his desk, the shoemaker waxes his thread,. The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers follow him,. The child is baptized, the convert is making his first professions,. The regatta is spread on the bay, the race is begun, how the white sails sparkle!

The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray,. The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;. The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly,. The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck,. The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other,.

I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you;. The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries,. On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms,. The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold,. The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle,. As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change,. The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar,. In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;.

Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;. Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in the frozen surface,. The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe,. Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees,. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw,. Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsons around them,. The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time,. The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;.

And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,. And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,. And of these one and all I weave the song of myself. I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,. Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,. Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,. One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same,. A Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and hospitable down by the Oconee I live,.

A Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on earth and the sternest joints on earth,. A Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer-skin leggings, a Louisianian or Georgian,. A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;. At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland,. At home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking,. At home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan ranch,. Comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westerners, loving their big proportions,.

Comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands and welcome to drink and meat,. A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,. A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,. Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,. A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,. Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest. I resist any thing better than my own diversity,. The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,.

The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,. The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place. These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me,. If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,.

If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,. If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,. With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums,. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger,. It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appointments with all,. I will not have a single person slighted or left away,. The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invited,. There shall be no difference between them and the rest. This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,. This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning,.

This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,. This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?


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Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has. Does the daylight astonish? I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. Who goes there? How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? What is a man anyhow? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,. I do not snivel that snivel the world over,. That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

Why should I pray? I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,. I see that the elementary laws never apologize,. I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all. If no other in the world be aware I sit content,. And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,. And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,. I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,. The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,. The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,. And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,. And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,. Have you outstript the rest? It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,. I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.

Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love! You sea! I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean,. I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers,. I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me,. We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land,. Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse,.

Sea breathing broad and convulsive breaths,. Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea,. I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases. Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation,. Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them? I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?

Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent,. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance,. Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine,. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.

This minute that comes to me over the past decillions,. What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder,. The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse. Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all,. That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all. Hurrah for positive science! Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac,. This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old cartouches,.

These mariners put the ship through dangerous unknown seas. This is the geologist, this works with the scalpel, and this is a mathematician. Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,. I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. Less the reminders of properties told my words,. And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication,. And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt,. And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire.

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,. Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,. No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,. Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! And whatever is done or said returns at last to me. Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy,. By God! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms. Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves,. Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion,.

And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff,. And of the rights of them the others are down upon,.

Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart,. Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer,. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it,. Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you! You my rich blood! Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!

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My brain it shall be your occult convolutions! Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you! Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you! Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you! I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,. Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,.

I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,. Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again. That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,. A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows,. Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding,.

Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs,. The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction,. The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,. If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,. We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,.

With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds. Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,. It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,. Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation,. Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?

The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,. I underlying causes to balance them at last,. My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,. Happiness, which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search of this day. My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,.

Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,. I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you. I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,. With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic. To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,.

I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,. I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,. Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,. Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals,. The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,. The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence,.

The steam whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,. They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin. It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,. The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,. I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,. At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,. Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither,. I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,. They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,. Is this then a touch? Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,. Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,.

My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself,.

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On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs,. Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip,. Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial,. Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist,. Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields,. They bribed to swap off with touch and go and graze at the edges of me,. No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger,.

Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them a while,. Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me. The sentries desert every other part of me,. They have left me helpless to a red marauder,. They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me. I talk wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the greatest traitor,.

I went myself first to the headland, my own hands carried me there. You villain touch! Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me. Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward. Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,. Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.

They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it,. They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon,. The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so,. I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps,. And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman,.

And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other,. And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific,. And until one and all shall delight us, and we them. I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,. And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,. And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,. And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,. And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots,.

And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons,. But call any thing back again when I desire it. In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach,. In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes,. In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low,.

Poetry Society of America

In vain the buzzard houses herself with the sky,. In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs,. In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods,. I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff. They do not sweat and whine about their condition,.