For a long time, these poems lived in notebooks and drafts, jotted down each day aboard a ship circling the world. They began as small postcards to myself—10-line dispatches from the deck, from memory, from wherever the sea carried us. Over the past year, I’ve revisited each one, sometimes gently, sometimes with a scalpel, trying to listen for the real voice underneath. My voice.
Some poems didn’t make the final cut into the collection. A few felt too similar in tone or subject to others, some didn’t quite carry the same voice as the rest of the collection, and a handful, let’s be honest, were probably beyond redemption. But I’m not concerned. They could be replaced easily enough by my stories of previous cruises of events I would have talked over with our little group of friends we chatted to every night.
I’ve edited every poem now. Not just for line breaks or punctuation, but to be sure each one sounds like me. That they belong to the same world. That they carry the tone I meant, even when I wasn’t sure what I meant at the time.
DAY 83: EPITAPH FOR A DAGGA BOY (CAPE TOWN)
Mark, our guide, eases the jeep to a gentle halt,
and we fall quiet where old bones sprawl,
brittle edges breathing dust and dried blood,
sun-baked marrow, silence thick as heat.
A buffalo’s ghost still lingers here:
its hooves once thundered the open plain,
its breath defied the wind’s sharp reply.
In its prime, a match for anything wild.
Vultures pirouette the sky above
in a slow, macabre ballet of wings.
Ragged feathers rasp against dry air,
like sandpaper drawn across a drum.
Their shadows reel across cracked, red earth.
Hyenas skulk just beyond the scrub,
their laughter splits the afternoon wide open
like a snapped femur, white and unclean.
Mark surveys the scene, his brow furrowed tight.
“Looks like this old Dagga Boy,” he says,
“couldn’t keep up.” His voice dips, softening
the way it does with what can’t be explained.
“He picked a good spot by the river’s bend,
golden grass, mud baths, the works,” he says.
“A buffalo’s kind of retirement.
No golf carts though, ja?” His smile flickers,
fading as he stares down at the bones again.
“Had a decent run, I’d reckon,” he adds,
leaning back with a slow and satisfied creak.
“Stood his ground, maybe found love out here
beneath the thorn trees, in the dry season.”
The jeep roars again, kicking up old dust.
We lurch forward, heat waves curling ahead,
leaving the skull grinning in our wake
as if it knows something we’d rather not.
Another mile, another hour slips by,
closer to whatever waits in the grass.
The next step is to begin letting them go.
I’ll be sending them out in small batches, one a week, to magazines that might welcome them. I don’t expect a flood of acceptances, but I do believe these poems will find their way. Here’s a list I’m considering but of course there are many other magazines I want to submit to, and of course there are poetry competitions as well.
Here’s a list of some journals I’m considering:
- Atrium – Emotionally resonant, well-crafted poems that balance clarity with depth.
- Bad Lilies – Bold, contemporary, often formally adventurous work.
- Interpreter’s House – Thoughtful, image-rich poems with a narrative thread.
- London Grip – Accessible, reflective poems, often subtly political.
- Magma – Regularly welcomes travel-based or themed submissions.
- New Ohio Review – Image-rich, humane poetry with emotional resonance.
- Ploughshares – Prestigious but approachable for grounded, serious work.
- Poetry Review – Ambitious, layered poems with strong, distinctive voices.
- Rattle – Open to narrative, humorous, and heartfelt poems.
- The Fig Tree – Visual, nature-inflected or spiritual poems.
- The High Window – Lyrical poetry with an international or literary edge.
- The Long Poem Magazine – Poems over 50 lines: narrative, meditative, or experimental.
- The North – Intelligent, place-based, and reflective poems.
- The Rialto – Original work with character and clarity.
- The Seventh Quarry – Musical poems with international flavour.
- The Southern Review – Place-rooted, quietly observant poems.
- The Threepenny Review – Clear imagery, wit, and understatement.
- Under the Radar – Emotional, precise, and accessible poetry.
- Wild Court – Welcomes both lyrical and narrative work.
I believe they should be published because they speak to experiences many people share but don’t always talk about: the strangeness of time at sea, the joy of small rituals, the weight and humour of memory, and the quiet ways we carry grief and love. They’re not grand or showy, but they’re honest. And sometimes, honesty travels furthest.
Publishing in magazines isn’t just about recognition, it’s about giving them a place in the world beyond my notebook. Letting them speak to someone else, as they once spoke to me.
After so long living with them, the thought of sharing them feels both unsettling and necessary, like watching something you’ve grown used to keeping close begin to take its own shape and life elsewhere.
If you’re reading this and know of magazines or journals that might be a good fit, feel free to suggest them as I’m open to surprises.
Thanks for following the journey so far. I’ll post updates as the poems begin to appear, if and when they do.
Rodney Wood 