Let me be clear: I’m not interested in polite verse. Nor in poems that play nice, congratulate themselves, or perform intelligence. I know this won’t sound polite to poets—but I’m not here to soothe readers or tidy up life’s messes with literary ribbons. If your poem reads like a Facebook post or ends with a moral, I’m already gone.
Here’s my advice: Don’t try to reinvent the wheel—but make sure it turns with friction. Too much contemporary poetry is smooth, ornamental, inert. I want the kind of poem that resists, that drags something sharp across my mind. Not the one that pleases—the one that lingers, irritates, exposes. And not with endless declarations of how the world should be, but with the terror and wonder of how it is.
Form, for me, is only compelling when it emerges from necessity. Don’t break your lines because that’s what you were taught. Don’t plant stanzas like flowerbeds around a lifeless thought. Follow the logic of the line, not the decoration of the page. (And please—no more manuscripts in whimsical fonts or with theatrical formatting.) If the poem breathes better unstructured, let it. If it rhymes, let it. But don’t force anything. I can tell when a poem is trying to impress rather than speak.
I value clarity over cleverness. Give me metaphors I can see, touch, smell. Abstract gestures don’t move me. I don’t care how obscure the reference is, or how well you conceal your intentions. If I need a seminar to decode your poem… next. I have no patience for poetry that uses opacity to mask a lack of substance. And above all, I hate hermetism. I know you’re the center of your world—but I live in the suburbs, and I rarely visit the downtown.
I don’t want declarations. I don’t want conclusions. A poem isn’t a place to explain yourself. If it closes with a tidy bow, it probably shouldn’t be published. I prefer endings that fracture, that shift underfoot, that linger like a bad taste or a beautiful threat.
If you write about yourself—and most of us do—make sure the self is not the point. Your experience, by default, is unremarkable. It’s what you do with it that matters. If you’re offering me a diary entry in disguise, I’ll see through it and move on. I publish poetry, not therapy sessions in verse.
What I want is urgency. Boldness. Shameless thought. Give me the subjects people lower their voices to mention. I want work that touches nerve endings. Sex, death, inheritance, addiction, betrayal—politics without platitudes or self-censorship. I don’t flinch from the controversial—I seek it. I thirst for it. But it must be handled with craft, not slogans. I’ve had enough propaganda on X. I don’t care about the color of your skin. I care about its fever when touched.
And here’s what I hate most: poetic vampirism. Please—don’t send me a poem clinging to the corpse of someone else’s brilliance. Drop-naming Rilke, Celan, or Anne Carson doesn’t impress me—it irritates me. If your poem arrives “inspired by” another poem, I stop reading. I don’t publish homage. I don’t publish fanfiction. If your lines can’t stand without someone else’s spine, don’t bother.
What I want to publish has teeth. It cuts clean and close. It opens a wound and refuses to cauterize it. I don’t care about your CV. I don’t care how many websites you’ve been featured on. I don’t care who praised your workshop draft. I care whether the poem you send makes me sit up, sharpen, and read it again. I care if it won’t let go.
If you have something real to say—and you can say it without vagueness, borrowed voice, or sentimental padding—send it. Otherwise, keep your diary to your damn self.
