The Substation is a space to prepare poems to enter the real world.
Publications. Chapbooks. Full-lengths. Manuscripts. Submissions. Applications. Personal. Whatever the motive for serious dedication to your craft, the Substation is here to give you confidence your writing will achieve the goals you have.
In addition to peer review, a weekly livestream to discuss one member's poem will be held, with a private link to rewatch as often as desired.
Because our editing forum and streams are membership only, feel comfortable posting here without the public, and journals you may be submitting to, accessing the work.
Transform poems to poems that transform.
All are welcome to post in Writing Prompts/Free Write
Poems For Editing is open to Substation,
Poet Business Institute, and Premiere Members
Any post/user deemed inappropriate by diVERSES is subject to removal without consultation
A puddle of tears lie before the nursing home. unaware I was there, papa’s blank stare shrunk my heart into remembrance. The nostalgia of the combination, 1700 visiting time every Sunday, through rain, sleet, or shine over a mountain peddling, I’m aware that I care.
Where is the rider
owner of the bike's wheel
stuck in mud
A puddle of tears lie before the nursing home. unaware I was there, papa’s blank stare shrunk my heart into remembrance. The nostalgia of the combination, 1700 visiting time every Sunday, through rain, sleet, or shine over a mountain peddling, I’m aware that I care.
locked
tire to bike rack
ripple puddle