Arbor Low
ARBOR LOW
Aileen stayed in the four wheel drive.
This was the sensible thing to do.
The wind was pure unpleasantness,
Slinging the rain like fistfuls of gravel,
Beating the gnarly stones. They looked
Friable, like left-over wodges
Of dirty snow. When I imagine
A priesthood for these places I see
Such men and women as Stukeley emoted
In oakleaf coronets- not today;
This weather favours no ghosts but the slatted,
Air-treading low-lives of Gibbet Hill.

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Air-treading low-lives of Gibbet Hill.
I wish you would send this one somewhere. It is ghostly.
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I'm glad you like those particular lines- they're the ones I rewrote this morning.
I don't really know where to send it. I opted out of the poetry scene a few years back. Such contacts as I used to have are all severed.
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Mostly what I know are speculative markets. I will gladly link you to them, if you are interested.
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I'd like to know where else to try.
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Faber have a website, do they? I may go and take a peek.
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All right!
The markets I recommend instantly are Not One of Us, Mythic Delirium, Lone Star Stories, Goblin Fruit, Strange Horizons, Electric Velocipede, Flytrap, and The Pedestal—they publish consistently excellent work, and I do not say that simply because some of it has been mine. They are all small press; they all really care about what they are doing. Magazines where I have never placed poems myself (or not for a long time) but whose company I would like someday to keep include ChiZine, Star*Line, Farrago's Wainscot, and Sybil's Garage; they are interesting reading. And I think you are the caliber of poet who should turn up in pages like The New Yorker, but unfortunately I am not an editor there . . .
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:)
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Whatever, it was pure unpleasantness.
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It's a poem I wasn't entirely happy with until I "fixed" it this morning.
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"Friable" is such a brilliantly tactile word.
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The place I keep going back to is Avebury.