Nearly

I wonder if it’s normal to feel pleased with a rejection? On the advice of (the very kind) Rob Mackenzie, I submitted a couple of poems to the magazine Anon and today, I heard they hadn’t made it (they've taken some of Rob's work though). However, they were short listed and, I just can’t help it, that makes me really pleased!

The poems I sent were ‘Dante’s Café Bar’ and ‘The Gypsy’s Devoted Son’ and I hadn’t sent them anywhere before. In fact, this is the only submission I’ve made in almost a year – I just never feel the need to send things out usually – but I was feeling quite pleased with where I’d got these two to and thought it’d be fun.

So, glad I nearly made it – and maybe I’ll send them somewhere else some day. For now, they’ve returned to the ‘work in progress’ folder, and here’s the Dante one (never can get those line breaks right):

At Dante’s Café Bar

I. Superbia
At six o’clock the host lights up
each table’s centrepiece, and edging
chairs with the toe of one lustrous shoe,
marvels at his creation of such a homely
mood. By seven, he’s polishing his palms
for the diners at five tables, and glowing
with resplendent satisfaction, he welcomes

II. Invidia
the latest customer who takes the sixth
with an awkward air, a meandering step.
As she twists her body into a chair, smiles
at him without her eyes and orders a green salad;
she stifles her desire for his polished silverware,
condiment bottles and convivial surroundings.
Appetite aroused, she appraises the possessions

III. Ira
of the man seated at the next table, stabbing
ravioli to a staccato ceramic screech. His concentration,
splendidly absolute, colours his skin the same vermilion
shade that smears his plate. He forces
a gulp of yielding sweetness past the garrotte
that is his shirt collar and, unappeased, he growls
deep in his chest, disturbs his neighbour,

IV. Acedia
who sighs. She pushes her fork around the dish
she has eaten countless times, and wishes
for something more than equilibrium, but her transitory
hope subsides. Complacency returned, she eats
(remembers to chew), a daub of sauce escapes
the slackness of her lips, oils her blouse.
She spreads the stain with languid fingertips, shrugs

V. Avaritia
as a man across the room takes a moment
from his Blackberry to notice her and suppress
his distaste. His dinner pushed aside, he immerses
himself in thoughts of greater pleasures, of the market’s
thrills and tides. He taps at numbers on the screen,
checks his balance; his surplus succour an indulgent
need. His coffee arrives, the aromatic tendrils drift

VI. Gula
to the receptive nostrils of a fellow patron
who pauses, fork in hand, to anticipate delights
yet to come. Returning to her unstinting
plate, she eats with large and steady eyes, punctuating
pasta with generous draughts of wine, that hint
at an excess of summer in European climes.
Numb, her nourishment ever incomplete, she watches

VII. Luxuria
a couple move from table to bar, perch on stools,
order Amaretto over ice. The woman’s foot, heel hooked,
bends until the satin of her shoe gapes wide; the man’s
shoelace sprawls untied. Leaning forward, muscle straining
the red silk cover of her thigh, teeth pressed against
her bottom lip, unconscious of the sin she is enraptured
by; she loosens the restraining knot of her married lover’s tie.