Posts & Pieces

Reflecting on Spring 2018

Hello Writers & Readers,

Now that the Spring Submission Period has come to a close and all the pieces have been published. All I can say is… Thank you. I am so glad to see that Crow River Ink continues to grow.

This submission period was great, we received more submissions than in the Fall. The only thing that was lacking this period was variety. In total every single submission that was received fell under the Poetry category (with the exception of one photograph/media piece) … We would have liked to have seen more fiction, nonfiction, media, etc. So, that will be something to focus on next time.

The hardest part about being a up and coming publisher is getting people to submit their work. I know, it sounds CRAZY. Who WOULDN’T want the chance to get their work published? I mean, personally in my own writing endeavors I am often held back by the fear of rejection, but as I’ve seen the publishers side of things it reminds me not to be afraid. There is absolutely no harm in submitting. The worst thing that can happen is… Well, nothing happening at all. So, as I mentioned after the Winter hiatus, it is time to buckle down and get into more marketing & getting our name out there.

Though, I should also mention, there was one other “hardest part” for me as the publisher, which was making the time for all of the submissions. Life happens, people are busy, technology doesn’t cooperate, etc. One thing I definitely need to balance better is time management. Scheduling submissions and keeping a strict itinerary on the reviewing process is something I am going to be deeply structuring in the future.

Summer is fast approaching and the Summer Submission period will be a little bit different than the previous ones have been. There will also be some changes coming to the Submission Guidelines & the process as a whole. But, I don’t want to give too much away so keep an eye out for another announcement or two in a couple weeks. Just as the mighty Crow River changes with the Spring, so will this humble literary website.

Thank you all, once again, for your support and interest. It is appreciated more than you know.

X
Stephanie Dixon, Head Editor

Old River – Amy Johnson

Old river––carry on,
carve the ground,
glide serpent-like
through this land.

Old trees––don’t tarry,
trill your leafy tunes,
rise your heads above
us all.

Old wind––exhale now,
excite the branches,
heave the water
in patterns and rhythms.

And me––I will go,
and see the fields,
and drink in their grassy waves.


Amy is a lover of lilacs, old books, and authentic community. Her work has appeared in the Southwest Metro and Plymouth magazines, and the St. Paul Voice newspaper. She runs a blog called The Writer’s Refuge

the stillness that separates and conjoins – Benjamin Reigstad

I leave the mud on the soles of my boots and step into the stream, not hesitating or wishing for anything in particular—except, perhaps, for the feeling of water surrounding me. leaves, yellow and pale, drift on the currents around my ankles, their anchors left far behind. I try not to lose my footing on the loose pebbles. there is nothing to hold onto except my slippery breath. the quavering waters slip past me and lift me off my feet. almost. I look down and watch the water striders, their legs as thin as spiderwebs, always reaching out for something elusive, something just out of reach. they grab for my boot laces, which trail in the stream like loose thoughts, but thoughts are elusive and just out of reach. the bugs are carried downstream, yet they never stop reaching.

I can only wonder. I can only stand in these colorless waters and stare around me—at the sparrow tucked away in the thicket, at the speckled fish waiting by the banks for winter to put them to sleep, at the group of spruces leaning against a decaying oak, at the cardinal that is almost ready to burst into flame and set the forest on fire—and hold my silken breath before it escapes me and drifts away with the stream.


Ben has been dabbling in poetry for the past seven years and has work published in St. Cloud State University’s Upper Mississippi Harvest (2018, 2016, 2015), Kaleidoscope (2017, 2016, 2015), and Penn State’s The Dangling Modifier. He lives in a rural town encircled by corn and soy fields in South-Central Minnesota. As of now, he is writing a middle-grade fantasy novel.

Morning on Lake Mille Lacs – Sandra Sidman Larson

A man, his arm bent back, grips the tiller
of his boat, turns it towards open water,
ripping off the lake’s aluminum cover.
The boat picks up speed, jitters past our dock,
kicking up a wake, creating ripples
on the water like pearl necklaces strewn
about. He rounds the island, disappears.
The lake surface quiets. Other boats remain
at rest in their slips, their flags
fluttering, slightly.


Sandra lives in Minnetonka, Minnesota and is the author of a book of poetry published last year by Main Street Rag (This Distance in My Hands) and four chapbooks.  Her poetry has appeared online and in print journals throughout the USA and Britain.

Nighttime at an Old Farmhouse – Amy Johnson

It is dark and
the century-old house,
bony frame

creaking with age,
becomes dim. Its
entrance guarded

only by stoic, bristling pines.
An owl shrieks
my name through

the wind-shaken trees:
ami! ami!
I step outside to the

wind; it reddens my
skin. I hear
a distant drumbeat

of pursuing wings,
then nothing.
The rabbit screams,

and the owl flies
back to his perch,
I close my eyes.


Amy is a lover of lilacs, old books, and authentic community. Her work has appeared in the Southwest Metro and Plymouth magazines, and the St. Paul Voice newspaper. She runs a blog called The Writer’s Refuge

Late for Dinner in Grand Marais, Minnesota – Sandra Sidman Larson

Cirrus clouds cluster over the Sawtooth Mountains,
spilling orange coloring over the lake,
as the sun drops below the horizon.

From pines on the hillside, campfire smoke
rises, then vanishes. An evening
to remember. Gulls hover overhead

lamenting their laments, while happy
Golden Retrievers chase far-flung
sticks thrown across the harbor beach.

Distance dogs keep barking, helping you recall
the sounds of this moment, but even they will soon be
inaudible when you enter the Angry Trout for dinner.

You linger outside as leather-coated motorcycle riders
sputter, then speed off, letting whatever inequities
of distance settle with their disappearance.

Turning toward the lake before entering the restaurant,
you notice the upper half of a man paddling a kayak
and miniature people walking on the outer jetty,

stitching themselves into your recollections,
which may or may not hold fast in this
late summer evening that slowly sinks away.


Sandra lives in Minnetonka, Minnesota and is the author of a book of poetry published last year by Main Street Rag (This Distance in My Hands) and four chapbooks.  Her poetry has appeared online and in print journals throughout the USA and Britain.

The Echo – Amy Johnson

And then she closed the book
and wandered to the place where

the melancholic river
meets the sturdy bank.

Here she found an unrivaled
solitude––abandoned from

civilization––hearing nothing but
the water’s low moan,

mournful from centuries
of quiet, steady existence.

Deep in the riverbed,
blurry beneath the slow

current, she saw the
dull gleam of an

arrowhead. As she dug
it out, it pricked her––

the lost, once-new world,
gone like the echoing

cry of a stone struck
against a canyon wall.


About the author:

Amy is a lover of lilacs, old books, and authentic community. Her work has appeared in the Southwest Metro and Plymouth magazines, and the St. Paul Voice newspaper. She runs a blog called The Writer’s Refuge.

 

A Summer’s Breeze – Lexi Barduson

IMG_2138


This photo comes from Lexi Barduson. She is 16 years old, loves adventures, and hiking outside. She first got into photography when she was 15; her brother gave her his old camera to use and ever since then she fell in love with photography. She especially likes taking nature and animal pictures. 

God’s Words – Mackenzie Oswell

Standing there, not understanding what lied ahead.
He knew what was coming, so this is what he said.
“Everything’s going to be alright,” he whispered into my ear,
And after what felt like an eternity, the time for those words was here.

I was sitting on the floor, tears running down my face.
It had been a couple years since he told me that phrase.
But while I was on the floor, with my tears rolling down my cheek,
I remembered the words, quiet and weak.

I felt the darkness deep inside my soul,
But I wasn’t going to give up, give up, oh no.
I got up from the ground, and I yelled with all my might,
“Satan, get out of my head!” And that’s when I saw the light.

I knew what I had to do, and I knew it would be tough,
But he gave me strength, and trust me, it was just enough.
I walk with those words always in the back of my mind,
And I say, “Thank you, God, for never leaving me behind.”

 


Mackenzie is a sophomore at Delano High School. She attends Crow River Church and was baptized in November of 2014. She loves to sing, write, act, and draw. She anticipates taking part in her school play as well. She also enjoys reading. 

Out of Ink – Stephanie Dixon

I sit here waiting to be touched,
to be held again by delicate fingers.
For the ink to flow from my vein
onto the innocent white page.  

A black river awaits within me
to be unleashed with beautiful fury.
Words to be expressed through me,
as I am only a vessel for the mind. 

Forgotten now, my well runs dry
and I stand among my fallen friends.
Rejected tools with no further use
together in a cup on the corner of the desk 

Teasingly the hand may choose me once more
vigorously shaking me back and forth,
and pressing me to the paper until 
they see there is nothing left for me to say.