Poetry Motel: Open for Business

The legendary Poetry Motel is up on the web and taking "reservations." To apply for a room, here are the house rules:

Poetry Motel (publishing since 1984) is currently seeking submissions of poetry, prose, and performance art for upcoming issues. Submit typed text, audio or video (include a title list w/audio and video submissions) to jwl@poetrymotel.org.

We also accept submissions sent via regular mail (include a Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope for our reply) to: poetry motel, p.o. box 103, duluth mn 55801-0103.

We continue to publish work by both new and established writers.

Check in at the Front Desk and you will see the available rooms along the top and the guest list along the right hand sidebar. For instance, Room 103 is currently occupied by that old hand, Albert Huffstickler. Other veterans of the road include Ron Androla, Belinda Subraman, Tony Moffeit, Sheila Murphy, Steve Richmond, Lyn Lifshin, and many more.



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Almost ready to get back up on the horse and ride; on Tuesday, I will be leading an introduction to poetry session for lifelong learners and on Wednesday a reading at Modern Formations for the New Yinzer crew. Once these activities are in the rear view, I'll be putting some serious time in on the long overdue, one might almost say lost issues, of Lilliput Review. 4 issues, instead of the customary 2, will be shipping in the beginning of June, in order to get back on track. My sincere apologies to everyone for the long delay. The good news is that Lilliput is "bigger" than it has ever been in its 21 year history. More on all this soon.

The following poem is taken from Richard Houff's broadside issue, Lilliput Review #88, entitled Trimmed Lamps & Kerosene Barrels, April 1997 (& still available for a measly dollar or a SASE).

The Tallmadge Hotel
---(ca. 1968, Mpls, MN)

When you reach the top landing
turn left and step lightly.
Listen to the murmur of little
voices behind closed doors
presenting a thousand rumors,
as tongues scurry back and forth.
At midway, lower your eyes
to the bloodstained carpet
outside door number #6.
This is truth, a most distasteful metaphor.
The voices tell us that a poet
lived and died here.
But why dally with clocks
that continue to wind-down-into forward?
In front of door number #12,
the taste of thin air and stale nicotine
sends greetings one step further----
that's it, you're almost home.

Richard Houff

And the master, thinking about his fellow travelers:

imperial inn--
acting like he owns it
a snail

Issa
translated by Daniel G. Lanoue

best,
Don