Posted in submission call

Submission Calls – cahoodaloodaling

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cahoodaloodaling is a collaborative publication. Our quarterly issues are shaped by an eclectic staff and a revolving guest editor. We also have varying calls for submissions, based on either a theme or a style, and we love to see how our collaborators interpret them. As such, our issues are ever-changing and our style ever-evolving. Feel free to send us cross-media work, push the envelope, or even suggest an idea for a future issue or feature. We especially love collaborative work, but it is not a requirement for submissions. We are what you make us.

Current calls include:

Issue #24 – Solitude’s Spectrum

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” —Hemingway

Solitude—whether alone on the road in a car, train, motel room, or a forest trail, or even secluded and tucked away in your home, whether it’s a welcomed moment of peacefulness or a lonely state of despair—times of solitude shape us, recharge us, and break us down to our essence. Sometimes we choose to step away from the world. Sometimes the world breaks us and casts us aside. In those moments alone, if we make the choice to continue and create, true artists are born. We cross a border we cannot uncross and heal through our words, finding ourselves—and sometimes finding new selves in the process. As Hemingway said, sometimes we’re strong in those broken places, and sometimes we’re not. Sometimes that jagged broken part affects us forever afterward.

This fall issue we are interested in capturing both the positive, reaffirming pieces about solitude along with those that reveal pain, heartbreak, and introspection. We seek to investigate those breaking point moments, those halting discoveries, those empowered decisions that compel us to walk away from the world and to let the silt settle in the pool of water in our soul. Whether you enjoy locking yourself away or you had to in order to save yourself from hell, we want to hear how these moments lead to creative revelations and re-energized focus, or how they still haunt you to this day.

Guest Editor: James H. Duncan of Hobo Camp Review
Submissions due 9/9/17
Issue live 10/31/17

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Issue #25 – Queer Spaces

The queer identity is multitudinous and multifaceted. Despite the strong sense of unity we share, wherever it is that we go, being queer in one place is going to be different than being queer in another—often times, vastly so. As such, the individual delivers to the world an identity that is comprised simultaneously of sexual and geographic orientation. We as a community embody what it means to be African and transsexual, Alabamian and bisexual, Russian and lesbian, Californian and asexual, Iranian and gay.

Whichever letter of the queer alphabet you ascribe to, that identity is worth expressing in a manner that does not separate you from the culture that you belong to, but rather reveals the complicated relationship between exterior and interior place. The world needs to know us as we really are, not as we are stereotypically perceived to be. In this issue, we invite works that deliver a sense of the relationship that exists between queer person and place.

The topics of your work do not have to be queer in theme, but we do ask that you as a contributor belong to the queer community. Also, if you would rather be published anonymously, please specify and we will be happy to keep your name private.

Guest Editor: Alesha Dawson, editor-in-chief of the upcoming
Screen Door Review

Submissions due 12/9/17
Issue live 1/31/18

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Posted in poetry, published

A Woman in Town Tells Me

my grandfather was a native;
there’s no paperwork to prove it,
but old pictures seem to say more

than new words. Told me she lived
on the same hillside as him when
they were young, that once they were

working around the same garden—
said she never knew he was there,
not until she backed into him while

raking the land, looked up to see the sun
cowering behind him like a shadow.
He frightened her with his footsteps:

my grandfather could walk across
dry leaves without making any sound;
a white man, she said, could not.

I saw it in his face, the nativeness
that she spoke of: the cut of his jaws,
eyes which spoke bluntly without

his mouth shaping the words. I learned
gentleness by the way his tired hands,
palm-rough and cradling, gripped

my small frame, how one might
cup water before bringing it to the lips.
Most depict him with harshness,

misunderstanding more than much else.
My grandmother, on the other hand,
and on the wrong hand, married him

for his looks. His darkness, too hard
to look away from, drew her to him—

never his light.

Previously published at Forage
https://foragepoetry.com/2017/04/29/a-woman-in-town-tells-me-by-rachel-nix/

Posted in poetry, published, Uncategorized

Rivertown

From the edge of the Tennessee River
on the Muscle Shoal’s side, we lean
into the humidity sitting atop those still waters.

The sunset hits the old railroad bridge
with all intent to steal the glory of the city
and succeeds,

rallying with it the headlights
from cars headed into the humming.

By evening’s latter end,
folky new south singers and blues bellowers
have not only taken the city back,
but have stolen the light.

 

Originally published at Hobo Camp Review – Issue 29
http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/2016/07/rachel-nix.html

Posted in poetry, published, Uncategorized

Prayer

          for Rachel Woodard

Grey as the in-between of everything
never meant to be understood—
your eyes had a way
of taking the weight of the day
from my shoulders;

 

when they could not, I found in them
such forgiveness for my defeat.

Heartfully, I always listened
when your wisdom asked for my attention—

our words, sparse enough,
were generally traded
with playful mischief.

Grandmother,

in the years since I saw your face last,
photographs have come to feel
something like prayers.

I miss, most of all,
the way your smile sounded.

Previously published at Black Elephant – Issue 3 / September 2016

 

Posted in poetry, Uncategorized

Shut the Front Door! — Shanti Weiland

Hey, y’all. Shanti Weiland, one of my absolute favorite writers, featured me as a guest blogger on her site last week. Check it out, eh?

This week, we hear from guest-blogger, Rachel Nix, who discusses her haunting poem, “This House”! Enjoy… Shanti and I met last November when I nudged her to go with me to see Andrea Gibson perform in Birmingham. Well, that’s when we met in the normal sense. I poem-stalked her much earlier after we were published […]

via Shut the Front Door! — Shanti Weiland

Posted in poetry, published, Uncategorized

The Language We Bury Them In

for Hannah Hamilton

You wrote of comfort, crawfish boils and Port Vincent – for your father
and the South and all of the things I’ve ever loved or never knew about.

I read more and I learned you: your voice, flat on a paper, but heaving
from aches, jerking from anticipation, and then rising with syllables

slapped together to represent something more full. When I found a way
to trade words with you over coffee and curry in South Mississippi,

a middle-ground place where neither of us held reputations more than
what we’d imagined, I knew you were more than a poet, more than

a culture-fed woman on her way; wild-eyed, you described yourself
a sleepy sheepdog and I’ve yet to understand why. In our first meeting,

instinctually, I suppose, we became locked in a stare-down, allowing
ourselves to learn each other’s breed: similar in the way we claw at truths

and how reliant we are on the packs we run in. Sitting with you that day,
across from your Iranian eyes and pure Louisiana rhetoric, I swear

I eyed your words while you spoke them, realizing they held breaths
of their own: graceful with grievances and with an air of atonement.

I can see now why you write them on your skin. Words deserve more
than the language we bury them in; they’ve earned the right to live.

But Hannah, no one wears declarations the way you do. Yours reach
across the table, grab my hands, and place in my palms maps to live by.

Previously published in Paper Swans’ Chronicles of Eve anthology / Spring 2016

 

Posted in poetry, published, Uncategorized

Believer

I do not need you
to pray for me.

I am a common woman,
prideful

&

reckless,

lust-ridden

&

forbidden
by your kind:

those who point to me,
wanting to anoint me
with all things pure,
unsure
of my worth
until I feign their ways.

I am no follower
of fire and brimstone;

&

as your kind says of me:
I am too far gone.

 

Previously published in Bop Dead City – Issue 14; January 2016
https://bopdeadcity.com/buy/