POET’S LAMENT
What happens to the poem sent out for publication? Perhaps, this is the answer?
Margaret Roxby was an award-winning poet published internationally in poetry magazines and anthologies, in addition to her two chapbooks, Glass Rain, Golden Rain and Medley. She was a fellow with the World Poetry Society International, local chapter board member of the National League of American Pen Women, and active in the California Federation of Chapparal Poets. She was included in the World Who’s Who of Women, Yearbook of Modern Poetry (1971), and International Who’s Who in Poetry (1971-1973). Margaret was often requested to speak on poetry and to present book reviews to local organizations. Her favorite quote was, “God, you have been good to me. You gave me a love of poetry.”
Margaret also dabbled in prose publishing articles in the Sunday supplement for the Long Beach Independent-Press Telegram newspaper, Los Fierros, a publication of the Los Cerritos Docents. She had a long running column for LBCC General Adult Division newsletter. She authored several more articles, short stories and a science fiction novel.
Margaret was a native of West Virginia where she worked through the 1930’s depression as a typist/clerk typing 200+ wpm. After marriage and the start of WW2, she moved with her husband to Long Beach, California where she worked several years as a secretary. Margaret served several years as a Camp Fire Girls leader and was elected the area’s PTA representative to the state-wide convention. When her son was ready for pre-school, she enrolled in LB City College studying psychology and later creative writing with Alice Wright, founder of a popular, long-running writers’ conference hosted in Long Beach.
What happens to the poem sent out for publication? Perhaps, this is the answer?
…no sooner born, beheld than slipped the fragile snare..
The author’s poem attempts to explain the happening of a poem.
A poet is born, not made. Yet the poet must be made once born…
A thought born when Winter lingers too long.
The light turned green and he shuffled his aimless steps across the street…
A bright colleen was comely Molly…A feisty lass bred on Ireland’s soil…
“My home, where is it?” Pavlova asked.
In the dark, quiet hours of night, I thought of you, Helen…. A Tribute to Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan.
…The snarls, the crashing of men to stone…
…all winter held: a fairyland in frozen time…