I’ve been cataloging my poems — all the poems I’ve written since my little book was published about a decade ago. I’ve got about 120, approximately 80 of which are in a folder called “Finished,” and the rest in “WIP.” Work in Process.

Does that seem like a lot? Not to me. But it’s more than enough to go another small book, and to send pieces out to journals. Why haven’t I been doing that? A friend says I’m not good at promoting myself. True. I have the self confidence of a bar of soap. When I’ve been published, it’s usually been with the help of friends.

The last poem I had published was Shadow of Ferns, in 2000, in Pembroke Magazine. That’s a bit of a hiatus. And as I recall, I actually submitted to them in 1998. So it’s been seven years since I sat down with envleopes and stamps and printed things and mailed them out. Ouch.

Well, I’m going to try to turn this around. I’m actually not a bad poet, notwithtanding the meager responses my stuff gets on this blog. Some of you are as bad at expressing your reactions to what you read as I am at dealing with envelopes and stamps. I don’t hold it against you. But if you have any suggestions on where I should submit, please leave them in comments, or use the e-mail link. I’d be grateful.

THE SHADOW OF FERNS

Some night you will be cold
and alone. Maybe an animal
is crying outside or the wind
is dragging a branch of palm
across the roof and it wakes you.
If you love me, say my name aloud.

There is no ceremony.
Just say it once or twice
into the darkness, or into the cool
electric glow of your lamp.
Say it slowly to a patch of moonlight
on the rug.

Maybe I will hear it, as I stare
at the vague shadow of ferns
cast by the moon on my drapes.
Then say it for hope, for life,
for the distance between us.

Kyle Kimberlin
Copyright