As editors/selectors we read all submissions – it is true that with some poems we don’t always read to the end. What we have noticed is that our view can change completely between one reading of a poem and the next, often depending on how we were feeling at the time (tiredness can sometimes help). I read a comment, made by one editor of a poetry journal, saying he sometimes reads the magazine afterwards and wonders why he accepted a certain poem. We don’t wonder that. We do have concerns though about the gender balance in our magazine and for one issue put out a call for more women to submit – which happily they did.

Sherman Alexie, speaking about his selection criteria when editing The Best American Poetry 2015 established rules for his process, and admits to not picking the ‘best’ poems published in 2015 but those that ‘survived a literary ordeal that happened only in my brain.’ I do not identify with the ordeal part, but know that our process is rigorous and true and certainly adheres to this one of his rules: ‘I don’t want to know anything about any of the poets beyond what I already know or what is apparent in the poem itself. …I will do my best to treat every poem like it is a blind submission, even if some famous poet has written the poem…’ We also don’t read any information sent with submissions, and ask accepted poets about their process of writing rather than for a biography (or photo) for publication.

Our first readings are keen – after selection we close read each poem in liaison with the poet. I would now like to introduce you to the 20 poets in our current issue, having initially read, then close read, then skim read each poem:

Cento:   In my vignettes

I am something   I slowly turn round 

tear off   a small shoot   only body

slithering   a painted shadow

collecting itself    We  are always

interrupting ourselves   to hide

among the words 

My brain  locks doors

without  my mind’s permission

I catch myself   alone   have had  sight

of  kindness   –  a table  waiting

so careful   so utterly diligent  in detail

I cannot know   what happens next

mad  with sanity  perfecting silence   in my chest

all kinds of  ruins   In the day-hours

things are seen as separate   when I’m forgotten

like bits of  paper   I am neither  near

nor far   it ends  behind me  in mid-air  

I am squat on the porch rug   back

against the bookcase   I turn towards it   face

both ways   &  seem to ask  

but still …  a  person  is a path  

Who is tearing off   this page ?

With thanks to all our poets for their lines … I could have made it longer …

Linda Black