Richard Vallance
Jim Dunlap
CONTACTS:
If you have any questions about our submissions policy,
please contact the Editor-in-Chief, Richard Vallance or
our Co-Editor, Jim Dunlap at their “Contact Me” boxes below.
Guidelines & formatting rules for poetry submissions to:
Canadian Zen Haiku canadien ISSN 1705-4508
& Sonnetto Poesia ISSN 1705-4524
The following guidelines for poetry submissions strictly apply:
1. no poet may submit more than 6 poems per submission.
2. no poet may send a second submission until 6 months after the first.
3. All submissions must be in one attached document, in .rtf (Rich Text) format
(or .doc), with a copy in .txt format.
4. Absolutely required: the .rtf file must be preferably in Georgia Font 11 points
(the font used in our journals), or if unavoidable in Times New Roman 11 points,
and in no other font.
5. All submissions must be single-spaced, with 3 blank lines after each Title,
3 blank lines after the end of each poem, followed by the author's complete name
[if a pseudonym, please append “pseud.) after your pseudonym] In any case, you
must supply us with your own full name,
6. Submissions should be received by e-mail unless there is no other alternative
for the poet submitting, namely; that the poet has no current internet access.
The subject of your e-mail should read:
Submission of sonnets (or poems) by [your name]
****************************
The overall formatting of your submission should look like this:
poem 1
3 blank lines
poem 2
3 blank lines
poem 3
3 blank lines
poem 4
3 blank lines
poem 5
3 blank lines
poem 6
3 blank lines
******************************************
EXAMPLE
Anonymous Submission Example (some/all the sonnets may
not have passed muster with our editorial board). This example
is meant only to illustrate how a submission should look.
Remember to submit it as an attached file (3. above)
ATTACHED in .rtf
In Georgia 11 points as required:
[3 blank lines]
Equinox
[3 blank lines]
Tomorrow, marigolds alone will keep
in silver gardens. Red pines will bequeath
plump sporophylls to fill the Christmas wreath,
as Cortland windfalls swell the cider heap.
Tomorrow, geese turn southward, while below,
the woodchuck girds for winter sleep. My field,
but fallow, will leave furrows unconcealed;
my lusty stream will seal beneath the snow.
Tomorrow. Nature’s moratorium.
So now, when sun and moon bisect the sky,
I dance, regardful of the hours gone by;
I dance, regardless of the hours to come.
And though my feet shall bleed in this ballet,
a barefoot girl, I dance, dance, dance, today.
[3 blank lines]
Elderberry
[3 blank lines]
When I was twelve, my Saturday rained out,
with no specific plans to fill the day,
I sauntered, offhand, to her house. No doubt
I’d hear again of olden times; the way
each day was given to a different chore.
Her aged, knotted hands bore out the word:
for years they’d wrung the wash, they’d scrubbed the floor;
they’d kneaded, knitted, nursed. But as she stirred
the pungent crimson juice whose droplets wept
through cheesecloth to a saucepan on the stove,
I failed to measure promises she kept,
and thought the Mason jars defined her love.
Now that I understand, I ache to taste
those rich provisions, once consumed in haste.
[3 blank lines]
Henslow’s Sparrow
The Henslow’s sparrow lives among the sedge
in meadows where the tall grass sighs and bends;
it has been known to skip along the edge
of surface mines where the escarpment ends.
This delegate of an endangered breed,
whose song is but a whispering refrain,
will perch atop a rosy trumpet weed
unruffled by the darkness and the rain.
Or so they say; for I have yet to see
a Henslow’s sparrow, or to hear its song
outside my window in my window tree.
But I’m inclined to hope. I’ll play along;
declare I’m sure I’ve seen its tiny wings,
and pray for mercy on all feathered things.
Down Home
In remembrance of Edna St. Vincent Millay
Grow not too high, grow not too far from home,
she tells the tree, not wishing it be sparse
or stunted; simply that it cease to aim
for heaven for a while, and send its root,
its mother-strength, to crack the rock apart.
She asks it delve beyond what soil and rain
provide, past bones, beneath the precious ore;
descending ever deeper, to the core,
the furnace feeding every pulsing vein
that carries passion to and from the heart.
The tree is bare, and soul has followed suit;
Mi casa es su casa; but the name
I will not translate, that I dare not parse
keeps tick-tick-ticking on my metronome.
[3 blank lines]
