“Rejection” Letter with References
- From the Random House Unabridged Dictionary
* Best of the Issue - January 2009 winner! *


1. “The act or process of rejecting.”

We are in the process
of rejecting your poems,
which is a kind of art

because their stark abstractions
simply don’t complement
the impressionist pieces

already hanging
on the paper walls
of our little magazine.


2. “The state of being rejected.”

Now you’re probably feeling
dejected – too long
since your name
has lain down in black ink
and looked up
from a bound page’s great plains.
Remember though
how the prairie rises each spring
and offers itself again
to nourish the few remaining bison.


3. “Something that is rejected.”

The poems come back to you
sheepishly at first, as if apologizing

for some flaw in the cat’s eye marbles
of every editor, or perhaps because

it takes time to get used to
the cover letter letting them down

and the S.A.S.E.’s sly smile
as it holds them close. Still,

they have their passports ready
to head back into foreign lands

hoping next time
they speak the language

and can stay long enough
to secure a cozy cottage

on the banks of a lazy river
where they can finally just relax

and listen to the wordless water flow.



The Thought Fireflies
after Ted Hughes

I imagine light painting me slowly into view one point at a time, Seurat playing guardian angel and working now exclusively in fireflies. Through the window I see Ted Hughes scribbling furiously, frustrated by how little language captures light. The fireflies of my eyes shine like tiny twin suns. My fingers shaft brightly away from my cupped hands as I raise them to my lips. I have succumbed completely. Hughes can’t stop writing.

I am flashbulb. I am streetlight. I am supernova. I am etherized in the great jar of Seurat’s vision on a hill outside Hughes’ house. I am the still, bright point at the center of everything, containing Whitman and Dali, dimmer switch, pull chain, particle and wave. Turn around me and see I am static, white noise, blue moon. I am wood pulp, black ink, wi-fi. I am the invisible signal to the amazing machine on which the page is printed.




A song named for that thing right next to that other thing


As if anyone knows the true name of anything. As if
singing could make language more effective

than simply speaking. What is the word
for gone? How can the answer be spoken

when the question is nothing but blood? Tell me.
I contain everything, Walt Whitman

and Shakespeare who share syllables
because letters don’t care about you

and your insane titles for random poems, because
even when you try to harmonize with anything

the harmonica of your throat fails
to offer anything memorable. I ask you

for the name of one thing, like Adam
with Apple’s juice dripping down his chin

until he can’t remember when he loved this world
even though he couldn’t call to it

as he drifted off to sleep, even though
he couldn’t carry a tune to save anyone,

even us.


Robert Wynne is the co-editor and publisher of Cider Press Review. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University. He has published 6 chapbooks, and 2 full-length books of poetry: “Remembering How to Sleep” (which received the PST’s 2006 Eakin Book Award) and “Museum of Parallel Art.” He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America. He lives in Burleson, TX with his wife and daughter.