Welcome to miller's pond, a poetry magazine that offers two unique versions, one in print and one on-line.
Our print version is published annually with approximately 40 poems perfect bound in a full-color glossy cover. One of the aspects of miller's pond that sets us apart from other printed poetry magazines is that we pay our contributors, and not just in copies. As a small, independent press publication, miller's pond doesn't have deep pockets, but we do believe a poet should be paid, in cash, for his/her work, even if that payment just covers the cost of postage. We will accept electronic submissions for our print version.
The 2009 edition of miller's pond in print form has currently been suspended until further notice. We are overstocked and do not know when we will be able to publish the next print issue, so please do not snail mail your submissions until this notice has been removed.
Our on-line version is published 2-3 times a year, as quality poems are received and accepted. We only accept electronic submissions for our on-line version, and there is no payment for these. Beginning March 1, 2010, Julie Damerell, the web editor, will not be reading or responding to submissions until June 2010.
Please see our Guidelines for further information on how to submit to miller's pond.
Each issue of miller's pond in the on-line version is archived and accessible for your enjoyment. And most of our print copies are still available for sale. Please help support the magazine for future publications by buying a copy of two. Also check out the poetry chapbooks published by H&H Press, available in our bookstore.
poems by Julie Damerell
One Easy Answer
Before us sparrows curve into the sky
like ashes tempted by wind, flying from bones
of another fall. My children wonder
why our road is dirt, why we live so high
on this hill, why stones interrupt our walk.
I cannot deny the small deaths that brought me
here. Desires sown but untended: three loves
left on a vine, two secrets borne, one promise
to return, unkept. We are here because the way
is up, our road unpaved to atone for holes
unfilled, our path rough to remind me the journey
is long. To them I reply, here is home.
In the Heat of an October Night
Black before time, the sky spools yellow
through treetops, illuminating maple skeletons.
Thunder tumbles across sullen fields, spills fear
from chasms that spit dark, then darker.
We ignite candles, gather flashlights, rummage
for a cache of candy.
Shadows thrown by fingertip flames drop
from walls, shift left to right, lengthen to reveal
secrets normally wound tight within our frames:
we’re more alone than we thought, more afraid
than we admit, less defined by day than night.
In the absence of color, the absence of clamor, desire
assumes shapes recalled to the tune of water on glass,
the hollow of night, a flicker of light wrapping bare trees.
Green Is Not Enough
As the crow flies
is better than not at all,
and though brushed by knees in jeans
climbing to the sky is better
than never touching blue
these branches wish they were wings.
Blame it on the snake
whose coil left the tree
wanting more than green.
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