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Thank you for sending your work to Tearsea.We regret to inform you we have passedon your poems 'Mr. Met' and 'Bonne!'While we thought they were funny / topical,we are looking for poems that bypassthe faddish ephemera of Americaand happily land in more timeless quarters.We are looking for commitment:poems sturdy as a pioneerwho's spent seven winters in a soddy,poems as determined as a space probesailing towards Neptune's hollow moons,poems that radicalize the Tory troughyet still satisfy the Roman epicure.For example, Tearsea is very proudto have introduced poet Megan Kiels,whose new collection, The Yellow Swelters,stages etymologic politieswhere jouissance meets gravitas like a kissbetween a suburban blond with barrettesand Lord Byron perched on a Harley.Hers is the rarity we most cherish,not common in the subway-stop livesof television's constituency,where it's all Kelly Clarkson Sings Songs of Hopeand saving money on bags of Cheetos.Our Turner Madsen special edition,which you've undoubtedly read yourself,further demonstrates the bold standardsTearsea has set for literary risk:like Madsen's unforgettable poemin which paunchy and foul-mouthed golfers trudgeover the grounds of an ancient burial site,their English curses coming out of bunkers,their clubs gleaming 'like fixèd bayonets.'It is true, Tearsea's authors are the best.Our pages are frequently occupiedby the famed authors of such classics asThe Feverfew Shop, East of Mud Falls,Zinna's Charm and A Serving of Lenity.We're not bragging but note, bona fide,these writers have won, on many occasions,the country's most prestigious awards,both the Webscott prize and Adrianna grant,but we do not put stock in such things .-awards are meaningless to us. Tearsearejects the language of radio call-ins,the language of the late-night hipster,and the language of 'after a few drinks.'We welcome those who are versed in progress,those who feel the future depends on verse,who compassionately tune lexiconsaway from gum-stuck seats in the nosebleedsso we may finally hear a poem's smack.We welcome the woman whose mute fatherleft her to 'voyage between shadows'and unpin the prose of her oppression;the bad boy who can't help but sweet-talk,who sends columbines to his mistressesand bodyshaves in the complete dark.Even at its inception, when Tearseawas handmade and called La Raffinata,we wanted only poets of blood and saltcod,poets of heath-damp ankles and scraped shins,poets who love the clip-clop-clops of hooves,poets who believe in their native beauty,poets who know freedom to eat Burger Kingis not freedom but rank servility.Tired of the gimcrack catachresis,the meretricious pettifoggeryand farouche intemperabilityof kids raised on Gilligan and powdered juice,we ask poetry to retain its own mien,and for that, Tearsea's never embarrassed.We are not just a simple magazine,but a sherry-high, leather-bound huzzah.We don't drink 'sodee,' we don't watch 'the tube.'Sure, there's amusement in some of your lines,like 'Who will buy my dirty potatoes?'But does 'Who will buy my dirty potatoes?'bear repeating a full twenty-two times?You might want to try a different journal,maybe one with a more fun philosophy,one of those tickling little lit-magswho might love your little quiz-show things.Do they not burst like bubbles over time?Or, as Tearsea's Rebecca Plover wrote,Freed from maple shade and smoked-eel supper,you gave back to the unswept city squarewhat advertisements said you must owe.Thank you for taking the time for Tearseaand good luck placing your work elsewhere.

© McGimpsey David