Buy my Book when it comes out! Old Post Revived

Having just received word my latest chapbook, Friday in the Republic of Me, is about to hit the presses, I thought I would revive one of my old posts concerning publishing and the concept of contests.  To be clear, I have won exactly one chapbook competition in my life.  Since then, I have had the good fortune to have found an editor willing to work with me on a whole laundry list of publications.  Michael, over at Foothills Publishing, has been wonderful through the publication of three chapbooks and one full length book.  

So, in addition to this being a sales pitch, I want you to read what I have said in the past about the things which I feel are important regarding contests, publishing, fees, awards, and a lot of other ramblings.  This particular post comes from August, 2008, about the time I received my contributor copies of my third chapbook, Working in the Bird House.  Long before my full length book was accepted, dropped and then picked up again.  It was just before I started writing what would become my manuscript, Sailing This Nameless Ship, based upon The Telemachy.

The first part (smaller font) was my response to a post by Collin Kelley.

150 years ago, a poet could make a living being a poet. Poetry books were plentiful and some were dreadful (just like the over saturation of the so-called psychological serial-killer murder novel) and some were astounding, but most poets could make at least a simple living.

Poets look to the contest because that seems to be one of the three or four so-called legitimate publishing venues offered and virtually 90% of all presses who make themselves known to the writing world at large (see what I did with the word large?) operate on contests and the fees they generate. They try to attract quality judges with honorariums and hope to pay poets a stipend up front because they know if a press run of 500 or 1000 sells out, that is a contemporary miracle unto itself.Readership of poetry is down. 

That much is obvious, but what should be as plain to see, is the establishment refuses to acknowledge that. Where the old leadership could once get away with putting down self-publication as being base and tacky, they forget that money has become a part of the series of questions editors have chosen to be subject to when deciding what to publish. The big houses only publish the 3-4% of those poets who will sell out a first run without breaking a sweat---and that determination is based a a whole lot of assumption.

One of my old professors, a dear friend of mine, who used to publish his books through Copper Canyon gave one of his strongest warnings against self publishing while ignoring one very telling contradictory statement. He basically admitted that if Sam Hamill himself hadn't taken a liking to him, he doubts any of his books would have been picked up elsewhere. Now that Copper Canyon turned down his latest ms. as 'un-readable,' he's in a position where other presses have had a chance to see what his poetry is, and actually ask him to submit. But without that break where would he be?

Most new poets find themselves in the same boat, and look to contests to break in to the world of publishing. They want to feel legitimate or legitimized, and a prize has that connotation. It isn't the money if you are in serious contention for a book, and it isn't prestige. Well, not in this world anyways.

Publishing poetry today is like navigating the perfect storm. Too many elements controlling the issue which spill over into to many other realms, which cannot all be solved at once, except for brief calms or cloud breaks, where the occasional poet is lucky enough to slip through.

As you can see I have said a few things about the subject, but I really do feel as if I am leaving a lot out, and that is why I am here to say even more. What I am about to say is based not on my intellectualizing about the publishing industry, or assumptions about what other poets think about the issue. It really is my personal side of things---that conflict I feel between my position as a Poet and poet.

I am not one of those people who can claim to have never submitted my poetry to a contest. My first chapbook made it to about a dozen contests in various forms, about half of them for pay at $10-12 each. It finally was a contest which sent it to publication, but I honestly cannot remember if I paid a reading fee or not. I honestly cannot remember. I know there was no cash prize, only books. My second and third chapbooks were submitted to only one press each---Foothills Publishing. What an honor it was to have found an editor who liked my poetry, especially poetry of such divergent voice and subject matter, enough to give me the green light almost instantly.

I know that's not every one's experience, but I have had my woes, too. I have explained in various formats and versions the 18 month communications blackout one editor imposed who was supposedly very interested in publishing my first chapbook all the way back in 2001. That first book made it out in 2005, almost 9 months late from its scheduled release. But I digress.

I am not so sure that I resent the contest system. Above I mention how presses need money for attracting quality judges who are respected by their peers. But there is more. Presses feel a need to offer money to the winner of the contest, which in all reality will be the only royalties a poet will receive from his or her book. Money in itself is not so much a draw for the poet, because $1000 here or $1500 there is certainly not going to provide a living for any poet. But I can tell you that if I received notice that my full length book was going to be published in the coming year and I told all of my friends, about half of my non-writing friends would be asking me how much I was going to be paid. You see, while poets try to think of themselves as being better than placing a monetary value on their art, the rest of the world isn't so stuck up. What matters to them, to most people, is getting paid for your work. If I am honest with you and myself, I have to admit that I feel some pressure to feel as if I am being compensated for my writing. I don't want just satisfaction for a job well done, either. I want to show people that I can prove that I have beaten the odds and established myself to be higher on the food chain than what is popularly perceived to be a poet's place in contemporary society---that of little more than pond scum. Let me be plain about this: There is nothing bad about feeling as if you have been justly paid for your effort. 

While there are certainly mis-management issues all over the publishing world, and large, commercial presses continue to ignore 99% of the best poetry being written and published in journals in favor of those three or four names they know will sell, it does not mean they are responsible for everything that is wrong in the attitudes which prevail in the publishing world. As Collin and others have pointed out, the proliferation of MFA programs has a share of the blame. Where they once were the solution to the sometimes snobbish image of The top programs in the nation, they are just as likely to be nothing more than a cash cow for the university which sponsors them and a quiet, anonymous haven for the mediocre faculty who populate them.

Poets have a portion of the blame to share themselves. Both Poets and poets have a share they must own. On one level we are an amazingly supportive group of people. We rally around each other's successes, and of course we are outraged by injustice in it's many forms against poets. However, there is an ugly side to each ones of us. I myself have many times been quite critical of others as well as being the outsider. Many times this is my own doing, but I can no longer count how many times I have been snubbed as a poet by other poets because I was on the wrong side of the state, or because I don't have a full length collection behind me, or because I haven't been a featured instructor at a high profile workshop.

The Old Guard has its slice of crow pie to eat, too. Though I feel there is currently a shift in attention happening, too many people are still identifying each other by who they learned from or who they like to read. Let's face it. The Old Guard likes that, and who wouldn't? They get all the great gigs, a lot of the judging fees go to them for reading a dozen manuscripts, people come to hear them read and tell amusing stories about the dead, and their books bring real revenues to publishers which guarantee the next book. They no longer have to play the game because editors fall all over themselves and each other trying to get them to send their next manuscript their way. The Old Guard simply doesn't speak out enough against the kind of crap going on. And why not? They had to face down the big names when they were young and they see it as a rite of passage. To be honest, some of that is a good thing.

So now we are to the editors. Some editors, as you know, are the most wonderful people on earth---better than the Elks. They champion the people they can rather than those who will be a shoe-in for sales. Unfortunately there are a lot more editors who see a dollar sign or are too consumed by what they think others will think of them if they publish 'you-know-who.' Editors need to be more brave in choosing the right poet for the day rather than trying to guess who will sell. Let me say that again. They need to be brave enough to choose the poet who is right for the day. Poetry is transitory. Poetry is meant to reflect the spirit of the day, be an immediate impression brought to the world's attention.

So now we are back to the contest system. Like I said, I am not so sure I hate the system. My full length book is out to four to six presses. I think two are pay contests. However, every one of the places I submitted to were presses I felt an immediate connection with. One press isn't even offering cash---just copies. The other press is $500, which if I win, will be gladly traded for author copies. You see, I am not entirely naive. The contests worth winning are those contest we would buy from even if we weren't poets, but merely readers of poetry. This is connected to the poets, because we have the real power in this. If we don't submit to questionable presses, they don't do business. Now I know there are far too many naive poets out there who think the first forty-five poems they ever wrote are ready for book publication, so they send it out to press after press, paying $20-35 a pop. That brings us back to the poet community and awareness education, which is, I suppose, what everyone is doing by bringing attention to this latest scandal.

My overall point, if you have decided to skip all of what I just wrote, is that there is not any one thing which can account for the problems that contests create, nor can we simply dismiss the system as flawed beyond any chance to redeem itself. Ask any contest winner and see if winning the prize and publication was the worst thing that could have happened. Most will say that their experience was just fine. We need to take Stacey Brown's experience for what it was---an example of a press who obviously has their priorities way out of whack.

Clarification

I have always been kind of slow when it comes to these sorts of things, so bear with me.  I was just informed by someone my post yesterday, regardless of my explanation near the top, might be taken by some to be an accusation or sour grapes on my part for not being “embraced” by the poetry community as much as I might hope.  It was also suggested what I have said might come across as being ungrateful by those who have indeed accepted my into their personal neighborhood of said poetry community. 

Let me be very straightforward and blunt.  In no way am I trying to express anger, sour grapes, or come across as being ungrateful.  In this regard, I am none of these things.  I am simply trying to come to grips with what I see to be a list of expectations in the poetry profession and my inability to meet those expectations. 

For the record, I have had a great deal of success in the poetry community.  Three chapbooks, another about to be released, a full length collection, and publication in many wonderful journals.  I also count among my successes the many acquaintances I have made because of this blog, poetry in general, and the many presses from whom I have purchased books.  I count myself very fortunate to have so many poets consider me worthy of their time and trust when they share news and new poetry with me ahead of the public in general.  Thank you to everyone (and I hope you all know who you are) because you have made my life in poetry something I cherish.

My point is this:  I am at a point in the development of my life as a poet where one might accurately state my serious apprenticeship has begun.  With the amount of success I have had, a certain amount of devotion and effort was required.  And to use the analogy of martial arts, the original black-belt was a mark not of mastery, but that the student was serious about studying the art.  I am not a master by any means, but I am serious about the art.  Unfortunately, I am at a critical juncture I see several of the poets I admire have gone through, and I am simply not equipped to travel along any of the paths they have taken.  I am not speaking of the “every poet takes a different path.”  I am speaking of the routes a poet must choose between when getting ready to make that next advancement, reach that next level of devotion and commitment to his or her art.

What I  know about the next step for me is that it will not be the same next step (again, generically speaking) I have seen so many other poets take.  My commitment to poetry remains high.  I am still in love with poetry.  I still dearly admire the same poets I did a week ago, and I will still take great delight in discovering new poets.  It’s just that I am going to be busy trying to find my own way, watch most of you from a distance.  No anger.  No accusations.  Just how I see my place in all of this.

I hope that if any of you were offended by what I said yesterday, this helps to clarify what my real intentions were.  I hope you can make some sense of this.

Getting it off my Chest

For years I have been toying with the idea as to whether I can call myself a professional poet.  The argument against such a distinction rests in the word, amateur.  Of course.  An amateur doesn’t do something because of the money.  An amateur does something because he/she loves that activity, and there is something noble in that.  I write poetry for the love of writing poetry, not the potential for some monetary or external gain.  I agree.  However, the word professional has its own set of meanings and connotations which are virtuous.  A professional is taken seriously.  A professional lends credibility to a discussion.  A professional has freed him or her self from the shackles of the work-a-day world and has chosen passion and commitment to a higher purpose over perhaps what might be easier and more convenient.

Unfortunately, or perhaps it is better for me this way, I think I have already made that decision, whether I wanted to or not. 

Before reading any more of this blog post, you need to know I am not saying anything negative about those who are able to, in my mind, be or label themselves as professional poets.  I am speaking of my very personal inability to see myself in that capacity.  I have tremendous respect for people who earn their livings as writers and poets, as well as those people who teach writing/poetry/literature in college and are associated with teaching in any capacity.

Evidence: 

 I am a high school teacher.  I do not teach in a college writing program, and I do not advise a literary journal.  I edit one, but that is not part of this discussion.  I am part of the ‘problem’ many college instructors bemoan.  After all, I teach high school students all of those nasty habits you hear about from college writing instructors.

 I lack credentials.  Now before you go off the handle, you know as well as I do that the days of a poet being able to make a living as just a poet are gone.  I did not go to graduate school in literature, creative writing, or even American Studies.  I went to college and found poverty to be something I didn’t like, so I went out and got a job.  Yes, I teach, but I teach high school, and in today’s poetry world, I may as well be busting tires and pushing spark plugs at Bob’s 24 Hour Garage, for all the credibility teaching high school lends me.  If you are a poet and you want some credibility as a professional but don’t teach college, you had better be a doctor or a lawyer.  Of course I am exaggerating, but not by much.  There are a few exceptions to what I have said, but you should know there is also a lot of truth.

When I did go to graduate school, I did not do so for the sake of my art.  I went to school where it was cheap and for the most base of reasons.  I wanted a raise.  Again I am going on popular perception, but I seem to lack the devotion to my art which the label of professional demands.  I was not, and I am not ever going to be able to justify attending a graduate writing program so long as I find the cost not only prohibitive, but quite distasteful. 

I do not write scholarly papers regarding the act or art of writing.  I write plain-spoken poems which do not jump headlong into the waters of figurative language, and I do not write about the act of writing with much seriousness whatsoever.  I don’t rate a who’s who of readers of my blog, and I generally stay out of most of the poetry fray when controversy arises.  Well, that is unless I can find a way to release my innermost desire to be sarcastic.  Rest assured, nobody really takes much of what I have to say about writing with any level of seriousness.

I am quite literally out of the loop.  I don’t mean that in a bad way, just a statement of fact.  I am 120 miles away from any population center which warrants a Wal-Mart, let alone any sort of writer community.  I don’t attend readings, and I have to say the closest thing I have to a network is this blog, which because of Facebook will soon be one of only a handful left in existence.  As the months pass, less and less information about the poetry community is coming my way, ad I am forced to rely upon hearsay and Facebook status updates.  How do I learn about books coming out?  I don’t go to readings or faculty parties, and I don’t have anyone in my immediate life who does. I usually have to wait for a blogger friend to tell me or a press announcement on Facebook.  I know a few writers by way of e-mail, and even fewer as real people.  As I was once told by a certain poet, I “don’t know any of these very real people.” Because I am not a part of an English department or a graduate school faculty, I have very little contact with what is happening.

* * *

I have also seen a divergence between what I want to do as a poet and what I keep reading in the books of poetry I have been purchasing of late.  Don’t get me wrong.  I admire a great deal of these poets and what they are able to do.  I am simply seeing I want to go a different route.  For example, in my second Springville book, of the last 10 poems I have written for it, exactly none are the kinds of poems I want to submit for journal publication.  I want them to be the best poems I have written and I want them to be precise in language and image, but I simply cannot see any of them being accepted anywhere for publication based upon their subject matter and my execution. 

In my previous manuscript, I had 19 of the poems written for it accepted almost immediately---I was taken aback at the success I had in getting poems accepted and published.  Then nothing.  And I mean nothing.  I have been submitting other poems from the manuscript now for three years and nothing.  Now I can accept some of the poems may not be particularly well written, or written well enough, but not all of the other poems.  That I find hard to believe.  I may be a blind fool, but I believe in those poems and I cannot accept that every single one of the other poems I have submitted are not worthy of publication. 

I have also seen some pretty dreadful poetry coming out from successful poets.  Now I am not talking about poetry I don’t normally gravitate to.  I am talking about poetry which stinks up the page.  Why do those poems get published and not other poems I am reading from some very fine poets?  That’s the publishing world, and there are just some things I can’t fix the way I want. 

What it does tell me is that Collin Kelley is absolutely correct when he talks about poetry being a matter of taste for the most part.  And what I am writing, for better or worse, doesn’t seem to fall into what is trending right now.  I am not trying to come off as better than what is happening right now, just different.  I would love it if I was asked to be a part of a team to edit an anthology of poems or  contribute  to a collection of essays about writing or poetry.   (And here I must state I do realize one of the reasons I will never be asked to contribute to an anthology of essays on writing or poetry in general is because I don't do much serious writing about the act of writing.  Still,  there is a difference between not writing a lot of serious essays about writing  and poetry, and not being able to write seriously.) I would love to see my poems in Poetry or Western Humanities Review.  I would love to have my poetry anthologized or featured as an editor’s selection, or perhaps nominated for the Pushcart.  I really would.  Unfortunately I am not writing that kind of poetry.  As I stated earlier, I write poems which rarely swim in figurative language, and there are times I wish I could do that, but in the end, that kind of poetry, that place of poetry creation is not where my writing resides.

But because I love poetry, love writing poetry, love reading poetry, I will take what I can get and I will keep addressing my relationship with poetry in the ways I know how.  Even if it means I can never be a professional poet.  I am a little sad to be making this choice, or having already made it, but I know I will still write my poems, still have plenty to say about poetry, still submit poems for publication, still love what most of the poets out in the world are doing.  I will just have to be happy riding the bi-ways and back roads instead of the Poetry Freeway.

New Book: Karen J. Weyant's Wearing Heels in the Rust Belt

I just received Karen Weyant's book, Wearing Heels in the Rust Belt, and I must say my first impression is that it is a lovely book filled with some really great poems.  Certainly worthy of Main Street Rag's 2011 Chapbook Prize and your patronage.  My head is not in the right place to do a review right now, but I will heap a lot of praise on how Karen is able to use the idea of religion throughout the book and bring the reader around to a more contemplative response to accompany the very real visceral reaction one gets when first reading the poems.  There is also something delightful in the personification she uses at various and unexpected moments within the book I find fascinating.  Go out and buy this book.  I think Karen still has some copies left, so go to her blog and order one directly from her.

The Little Things

I have been looking at what I do recently, comparing it with what other poets do.  For those of you out there who say artists shouldn't compare themselves to each other, I can't help it.  I am past the whole thing about comparing myself to see who writes best.  I know I don't and I am okay wit that.  What I am talking about is where most of my poetry comes from.  Most of what I write deals with the past.  My past, the distant past of my home town, but not so much the recent past.  I seem to have a disconnect between the narrative "I" in a poem if it means talking about who I was just a month or year ago.  Ask me who I was 30 years ago and you can't stop my tongue from flapping.  However, if you want me to write truthfully about who I am now, record some episode from my recent, real life, then I shut down. 

I see a lot of other people write about their lives and I see people who can weave their lives into these wonderful poems which are quite moving, but that's not me.  I write poems based in history, and anything more recent than say the past 20 years is going to be skipped as a possible topic for a poem or simply be terrible---too terrible to survive even the first draft.  Another thing I would love to try is magical realism.  I can't seem to get my feet off the ground when it comes to writing/creating a magical realm for my psyche to inhabit.  I can make strange observations, but that isn't really the same, is it?  I am not complaining, mid you, I am just wondering how we (poets) fall into the familiar routines we seem to when creating our poetry. 

Is that all there is to voice, being able to tell a poem without seeing the name?  I'd like to think that's at least part of it, knowing a poet before seeing a name.  I guess I just need to be content to be writing about anything, really.  At least I am writing

Passing Along the Gospel

Go and see Mary for her incredible news, today. 

Congratulations, Mary!

As of Late

Right now my sophomores are testing and I have created their guide for the next unit, so I am going to get up on this blog and do a little bit of writing.

What have I been up to as of late?  Well, I have been looking myself up on Google, and I have been looking up Hobble Creek Review, too.  I have finished my proof reading of my chapbook, Friday in the Republic of Me, and I have been writing and working on poems for my "Springville History" manuscript.  I have 24 poems for the book, and I seem to be moving along nicely.  I have the same problem I always do, narrative poems, but I am still writing and I still have the determination to crack the narrative nut, and that's that.  Here are a few things I have learned:

There are a lot of people who talk or mention Hobble Creek Review in their list of credits.  That's a good thing.  I'd prefer a little more recognition, but then, what literary journal editor wouldn't? 

It's been a while (99 Poems for the 99 Percent excepted) since any of my poems have appeared anywhere.  That bothers me, but I do have some forthcoming in Burnt Bridge, so I am okay with that for now.  What really gets me is the huge smack-down I have received from Submishmash over the past year or so I have used it.  It is a little disheartening to know all my rejections are just a click away when I log on, and I have to admit I am drawn to my past failures like a moth to the flame.  That's why I never keep rejection letters or rejection e-mails.  I can forget them and move on.  I understand why records are kept, but I really do prefer my lack of organizational skills in this realm. 

My blog is really losing a lot of traffic.  Now, I don't know whether that is a result of the blogging world decreasing, more people using a reader of some kind, or simply because I am not the awesome draw I used to be.  However, I do know my old blog had an average of 30-35 unique visits per day, and this blog I am lucky to get 5-10, and the truth is, at least 5 are my own visits from my school computer as I have occasion to check, read other blogs, and write new posts.

I don't do nearly enough to promote myself as a poet.  My web presence in general is not nearly what it should be.  I have been reading books and I have been doing a lot of looking around, but I have not left very many footprints.

Friday in the Republic of Me is going to be a really great little chapbook.  Michael Czarnecki, over at Foothills Publishing is doing a lovely job with the layout and design.  I think it will end up being a fun little book to own.  Once again I am asking for people to buy directly from them because they need the support, as all small presses do.  You must get tired of me telling you all to buy more books, but I don't care.  It needs to be said.

Addendum (and I am not being falsely modest):

I am still amazed and flattered when poets I admire refer to me as a poet.  Some people don't realize how wonderful a thing that truly is.  Thank you.

Always a Bridesmaid . . .

 . . . but it's not like that is a bad thing in some cases.

I don't mind telling you if I had to do half the crap I see some poets doing just to be known by other poets for doing poet things, I would be dead by now.  I mean it.  There are a lot of things I would live to do inside of the poetry community, but there are some things which simply scare me to death.  But then, I am certain the overwhelming majority do all that crazy stuff because they love it.

Have at it, all ye laurels, have at it.  I admire you and all, but boy, I sure like my down time.

Hobble Creek Review is Live!

Hey everyone:

I know how you like new blog posts from me on the weekend, so I am letting you all know Hobble Creek Review is now live.  You should go read the issue and then tell everyone you know to go read it.  You know you want to.  You know all the cool kids are reading Hobble Creek Review.  You want to be cool, don't you?


Here's who you can expect to find in this issue:

Paul David Adkins              
Therese Clear                    
Grace Curtis                      
Maya Ganesan                   
Joseph Harker                    
Jason Hertz                        
Kathleen Kirk
Brandon F. Miller                      
David Oestreich                  
Lee Passarella                   
Sylvia Byrne Pollack           
Brian Simoneau                  
Ken Turner   

Bees: Poem from the distant past

 Here is a poem I am going to take some time with and see if I can make better.  Maybe I will try to make it a different kind of poems.




Bees


“At first they seemed just errant bits of shade,
until the humming grew too loud to be denied
as the bees flew in and out, as if choreographed”

–Eleanor Rand Wilner, “The Girl with Bees in her Hair”


I


You’ve read the headlines, I’m sure. All the bees
are disappearing from around the United States—
what researchers call Colony Collapse Disorder.

Millions of bees are simply abandoning their hives
as if they’ve stopped taking their MAOI’s,
to discovered they don’t like themselves any more.

Leaving the queen and their developing pupae
the adults leave no trace of themselves as they search
for their lost childhood amid the scattering winds.


II

Researchers are puzzled. Blaming everything they can
from parasites to pesticides, they blindly offer
this small modicum of well thought out advice:

“Do not combine collapsing colonies with strong colonies.”
“If you feed your bees sugar, incorporate antibiotics.”
“Hide the abandoned hive, as to discourage coming home.”

Most important, if you see honey bees where you
have never seen them, report your sightings
to the proper authorities and try to act normal.


III

With the disappearance of all the honeybees, experts point
to the decline of the almond crop and global warming,
laying yet another doomsday scenario at our feet.

I believe they have forgotten the music of bees en masse,
that noise of Yeats, the solace of the world like a choir,
harmonizing with all the other beasts, great and small.

I myself will miss their dance, their swarm, men wearing them
for beards. I will not soon forget that imagined masterpiece
of Monet: Tiny specks of light against a canvass of meadow green.

.

The At-Home Poet's Workshop

     I was just asked by a friend who read a previous post to explain some of the things I do to create a writer workshop environment seeing that I am all alone.  He wanted me to say more than, "I just write."  He wanted to know what things I do to give myself a construct for writing without the benefit of other writers to urge me on.  Here are five things I suggest writers, specifically poets should try to do if they are on their own.  Of course, most poets know these things already.  As creatures of solitude and habit, we are prone to learning different ways to generate ideas and poems.


      Feel free to share your ideas in the comments or on your own blog.

           1.  Read.  I mean it.  Too many poets say they read for pleasure, and because they love this or that particular genre, but not enough pick up a book determined to actually learn something new from it.  There is a sort of osmosis with reading, but why settle for that?  Read not just for pleasure, but to consciously learn how the masters craft sentences and thoughts.  As poets, no genre or type of reading is benign.  We poets have a responsibility to absorb everything.  So get to it and don’t be a passive reader.

 .    

      2.  Copy.  I have talked about this before, but copy out a few poems.  Whether you write them out by hand or type them, it makes little difference.  The very act of copying out really great poems will teach you a lot about how they were written and what specific choices the poet made.  Copying out poems is what taught me the most about line breaks at a time when I was really terrible at it.  I still struggle with breaks, but I am a whole lot better than I used to be.  Learn from the best.  See the world as they see it, if only for a moment or two.

      3.  Imitate.  Write your own version of the poems you admire.  Write your own version and put them into the context of your own life.  This is more than a fun workshop I teach on a regular basis, it is how I learn about strophe and conceit.  By imitating a poem you can see the obstacles the poet faced, you start to see solutions, too.  I also use this activity when I am blocked.  Do I ever count these poems as mine?  Not until I have revised them to the point they no longer resemble the original, but the revision of these imitation poems can be quite entertaining and instructive.  Imagine learning why one poem works in one form, but maybe not another poem in that same form.   

      4.    Steal.  Go on-line and simply steal quotes and phrases.  Record these thefts into a notebook to be saved for later.  I am a compulsive thief when it comes to quotes I can later use for epigraphs.  I use them for old poems and for new poems.  I will even use them to start a poem from scratch, meaning I answer the question the quote begs, and move on from there.

      5.  Deconstruct.  Take one of your of poems and turn it into a prose poem.  Take one of your old poems and turn it into a sonnet.  Make certain it is a poem you hold near and dear to your heart because you need to ensure you are taking the exercise seriously.  Note what you are forced to change, what is made impossible, and that which becomes easier.  As you watch one of your own poems become something else, you are exposed to ideas of transformation you normally would not see. New expressions become possible, and new is always good when it comes to your writing, even if it reaffirms your decision to stay with older, more familiar forms.

Reflection

This post is inspired by a new discovery.  Eduardo Corral linked to this blog and I liked the discussion Ryan has there, so I am going to write a response of sorts.  Now I know I have told this story before, but I believe in retelling some stories, and every time I tell this story, it changes a little which is a good thing.

One small piece of business:

My poem, "Ode to Neruda (Esperanza)" has been accepted for inclusion on the 99 Poems for the 99 Percent Blog.  Go have a look here to see the other poems on the site.  I will be certain to let you all know when my poem is up on the site. 

* * *

I started writing when I was about 15 or 16.  I was trying to find something that was mine, and I really stumbled into poetry almost by accident.  I was acting in drama class and trying out for plays, and I was debating in class and at debate meets across the state, but those things weren't really mine in the way I wanted something to be mine alone.  I say I stumbled into poetry because there were exactly three books of poetry in my home, and those three books of poetry were more praised for the connection to family than for the poetry inside of them.  I honestly cannot tell you why I found myself reading through those books.  I was an unremarkable student, and to read on my own was part of my family culture, but poetry was not (and still is not) part of my family's reach when it comes to reading.

I grew up with my grandparents after the age of 7.  Both my parents were living, but I was with my grandparents while my father had my older sister and his other kids with his second wife some 15 miles away.  It may as well have been an entire continent because I had little to do with them, going months at a time or perhaps a half a year without seeing them.  I think I was looking for something which could be mine because I was not confident I could ever count on anyone else for my happiness, and everything I tried up to that point still relied on somebody else or other, external conditions.  Poetry could be just mine, and I could take it anywhere I was going to go.

That first book?  The Complete works of Henry Wordsworth Longfellow.  I have no idea where that book is now, but that was the one.  For a teenager of the 1980's it was an odd choice, but we go to what we have, and I had his book. The book most likely belonged to my great-grandmother's sister, she being a teacher, and as I said before was in my grandparent's home for the familial connection.  In the book was story after story, lyric poem after lyric poem, and of course the biggies: Tales of a Wayside Inn, Evangeline, and The Song of Hiawatha.  Years later I would eventually buy my first book of poems, Lawrence Ferlinghetti's Endless Life, but there is only ever on first book.  What I remember most is that I was almost afraid of Longfellow.  I would thumb through the pages and read pieces and snippets, too afraid to fully commit myself.  I now believe I was afraid of people finding me reading the book, and so I reacted by only sneaking glimpses and sneaking the book away.

The strange truth is that in a family of readers (and my genetic ties to this family are uncertain at best) I am the only person who actually writes much more than family history.  Oh, I am certain I have brothers and sisters and cousins (I have 12 brothers and sisters, and literally hundreds of cousins) who write stories and poems like a lot of kids do, but I am probably the only person who actively seeks out publication on a regular basis.  My family has a tradition of writing family history.  We share stories and we are constantly mining each other for memories and clues which will flesh out an accurate picture of who we are as a family (it is a very typical Mormon thing to do) but there are no others I can think of who write apart from these family histories and perhaps school and college assignments.

By the time I had decided I wanted poetry, I had also decided I was going to join the army.  My standing as a student was dismal, and there was no way I could ever convince any school to let me attend with the gpa I had.  Never mind the fact I had never taken the ACT.  If I wanted to go to school, I would need to start off by going into the army.  Being a poet in the army is not as difficult as it might sound.  Most people in the army love to talk and tell stories.  There is a real oral tradition in the military which is fully supportive of poetry, though I will admit many people in the army would not immediately make that connection.  It was while I was in the army that I started to buy a lot of books and start writing poetry.  Unfortunately, I was not reading as much poetry as I should.  I remember mid-way through my appointment in Texas, I had purchased The Early Works of Ezra Pound and the Selected Neruda.  I was reading them and I suppose if a poet was going to limit his or her self in reading, that poet could do a lot worse than those two.  I remember pissing off an officer by talking about Ezra Pound, and impressing the mother of a girl I liked when I mentioned Pablo Neruda.  Both good omens.

However, I was too busy writing the bad poetry of my youth to understand that if I was going to be serious in my life as a poet, the best thing I could have done was read for 120 years before attempting my first poem.  I have been trying to catch up ever since.   Yes, it was hubris.  I was convinced I had this poetry thing down and my career at the top of the literary heap was waiting for me upon my release from the military.  Oh, I would go to college and take off a semester every now and then in order to promote my latest book, but I just knew I was destined for greatness.  That all stopped when I started to get hate mail from editors.  My second mistake it seems, was to start submitting my poetry 10 years before I should have.  Every time I tell this story I mention the hate mail I received.  Every time I mention it, I get somebody asking me if I really did get hate mail, or if I am exaggerating for dramatic effect.  Yes, I did in fact receive hate mail from editors.  However, I will also say I received some encouragement from a couple editors who had the patience of angels, and thanks to them, I kept writing, kept getting better, and kept submitting knowing full well I would receive too many rejections to count before I ever had any success in being published.

That's how it went for some time.  When I found myself in college, I submitted to the school's literary yearly and had two poems accepted.  One was selected as the best submission received.  I was in heaven.  I was on my way now.  Nothing could stop me.  Well, nothing except the three years it took to receive my next acceptance, and the three years it took me to receive my next acceptance after that.  By that time I had learned my lesson.  This poetry thing was going to be an up hill struggle for the rest of my life, and I really think that's one of the best things about poetry for both the poet and the reader.


So why all of this reflection?  Well, when I read Ryan's account, I was taken back by his language.  I have no gift for his kind of language when I talk about my art.  There is very little art in my art, and even though I tend to say these sorts of things in a perfunctory manner, it rises up from the same feelings,  the same desire to share with the reader.

Next time I will talk about the process I went through to get my first chapbook and first full length book out into the world.  After that, is anyone's guess.

The Lurning Curve

I have been typing out a few poems by poets I admire.  Gary Short, Linda Pastan, Sandra Beasley, Sandy Longhorn, Kenneth Brewer, Zachary Schomburg.  I have been trying to reinforce my understanding of the strophe's expression in line and how line breaks affect the presentation.  Well, I have if that really is a thing.  If I just made it up, then pretend I didn't say anything about why I was doing it.

I say that because I just received a letter from a friend which punctuated the fact that I lack the training I see in  most of the poets I know.  I have had exactly one poetry course (one course specifically about poetry) and one creative writing class in my entire life and I often feel as if I lack the vocabulary to discuss poetry with all of you.  Now, I have long been an advocate of not thinking of an MFA program as something more than a place to read, write, and read and write some more.  I believe poetry, more than any other writing genre, is a product of the whole.  In short, our lives in their entirety are part of the curriculum of poetry.  However, I can't help but think there is something constructive about being in an environment where everyone speaks and expands their vocabulary and understanding.  Whenever my friend writes me, it is very clear my understanding of poetry is extremely myopic and site specific.

For me, AWP would be a chance to see poets being people and gathering together, seeing their duality---that of poets in panel discussions and readings, and that of people simply congregating because of a similar interest and allowing the topic of conversation to travel organically, without the constraints of blogs or literary journals.

But we take what we can get, and what I get are letters from friends, teaching me a few ideas at a time.

* * * 

So, what did I learn from copying poems out for myself?  Quite a bit.

Take for example Sandra Beasley's poem, "Making the Crane."  First off, it's not "Unit of Measure" which was featured in the 2010 BAP.  I mention this because I like working with poems which might not get all the attention like others.

I love origami, and that's what the poem is about on the surface.  There is a certain amount of magic in the poem, a sensuality rarely expressed at such an intimate level.  Beasley feminizes the crane, provides multiple incarnations of the crane and discusses a process, and in that there is almost a guide by which one can learn about the feminine itself, not simply origami.  By typing it out I was able to hear the poem better, strip away the artifice of the poem and literally feel how precise Beasley's language really is.

In Sandy Longhorn's "Nights When it Rains" I learned about cadence.  I learned about pace in a poem.  I could see a poem about attachment, how details can carry the momentum of a poem.  And if that wasn't enough. I caught a glimpse of how to avoid crass sentimentality when writing a love poem---how quiet confidence can trump exaggeration even at the height of passion.

* * *

What remains is to see how these small lessons find their ways into my own writing.  After all, isn't that the hope?  Isn't it the the goal to be affected in the best way possible by the best poetry?

Fragments

I guess what I've got going on right now is a little bit of a measured rest.  I have very little actual work today, to accomplish during my preparatory time, so I am listening to music and letting my thoughts wander and stray.  I decided to go ahead and write.  If I am going to let my thoughts out into the universe, I may as well write them and practice what I need to practice.

1.  I spent the day in Salt Lake, yesterday, at various locations related to the Veteran's Hospital.  My headaches have taken a weird shift in their appearance, interrupting a daily routine I have known for more than a decade, so I needed to re-connect with the VA and start down the path of taking care of this. 

Now, having been away from the VA for more than 12 years, I needed to go through my entire narrative for the new nurse practitioner, who is going to be my primary care-giver at the VA.  She had to do a lot of typing and she asked a lot of really good questions.  However, that is probably the best of my experience in coming back to the VA for help.  At almost every other level it is a royal pain in the ass, and I have to tell you, I am already remembering why I thought my departure so many years ago was not all that bad of a thing.  Everything from take a number for almost every small procedure, to witnessing the golden standard for bureaucracy at every turn is par for the course when dealing with the VA.  It's a middle management world, and woe be the person who forgets that little morsel of truth while running the gamut of actually accomplishing anything there within.

2.  I spent a considerable amount of time with a childhood friend yesterday, too.  It was actually want made about a fourth of my dealings with the VA tolerable.  We told each other stories and had a good time talking about old friends and new developments in our lives.  One of the establishing themes of our time together was how we both had learned how to stop worrying so much about the things in life which make us angry.  Now you know I constantly worry about my writing and my varied ability to effectively communicate with my poetry, but that isn't what I am talking about here.  I am talking about the issues of being people, living and loving the people in our lives, and accepting the reality of what we have made of our worlds.  It was a wonderful time and I am so happy to have been able to re-connect on that level.

3.  I am back here at school, looking around and I am feeling renewed for the new semester.  With the 40 minutes I have left in my prep period, I am feeling pretty good about the world in general.  Becky and I are gearing up for some major changes and there will be more on that later, but I am starting to work out a lot of other issues and get some new energy from them.  My biggest concern is keeping the energy I need for my current book project.  I have pretty much written off Sailing this Nameless Ship as a failed diversion.  I will count it as therapy, but it will more than likely never be published.    Not that I wouldn't love to see it in print, but I have pretty much figured out that nobody likes it enough to see it published.  I am certain some out there will say I just need to re-imagine the manuscript in some manner, give it an overhaul, but I know better, and if I don't, then it will take a miracle to convince me otherwise.

4.  Somewhere lies the answer. 

Forced Break

I am on a mini hiatus in my classroom.  The students i have now have already taken their final, and I have a strict policy of grading exams in front of students of the same or like subject class.  As all I have for grading is the same kind of test these kids have already taken, I am not grading right now.  With that in mind, I am taking a little time to work on my Springville project.  Here are the stats so far:

I have 22 poems written for the book.  This may sound like a lot, but every time I write a poem or two, I keep expanding my scope, realizing that if I am going to write the book I want written, I am going to be in the high 90+ page count before I am finished.  And with my need to over-write in order to have the strongest manuscript possible, I am looking at a lot more writing ahead of me.  The more I write and the wider my scope becomes, the more research I have to do.  Whenever I research, I widen my scope and write more.  A vicious circle.  

Another issue is I have envisioned a three part manuscript, and I have started to put new poems in their appropriate place, but the more I look at it, the more I keep thinking I am writing primarily for the first section, and none of what I want to come for the other sections is getting written.  That might be normal, but I suspect I am fighting for a non-sectioned book again, and all of the section two and three poems are meant to be a part of a different manuscript.  My evidence? 15 of the poems go in the first section, and almost all of the other poems can be a strong part of the manuscript if I went the way of having no sections.

I am here to tell you something you already know: Any writing is good writing, and any writing is better than no writing.  What remains to be learned is what one does with that writing.  Michael Meyerhofer's little essays on the matter are among my favorite.  He always puts writing in a great perspective.  I am using one of his latest essays in my Honor's course, as part of their semester final exam.  I want them to concentrate on the subject of revision and crafting their writing as opposed to simply doing it once and walking away.  I will be sure to let you know how I think they did answering to that question.

* * *

I am waiting for my proofs for my latest chapbook, Friday in the Republic of Me.  I have a few edits to make, but I am really anxious to see what the cover looks like.  I have also decided to buy green pens to be shipped with the book as it sells.  I am going to sign the book with green ink and send a pen.  I think I will also be designing little cards to go with the book as ephemera.  It went over really well with my last book, and I want to make sure people buy books from Foothills.  They need the money. 

I am, for the publicity, considering doing a subversive giveaway, too.  I want to find people willing to sneakily give my book away to unsuspecting people.  Keep that in mind.  If you are willing to give away the book in a surreptitious way and write about it, let me know.

There are other things I want to do, but those ideas aren't as well formed, so you will have to wait to see any of those.

* * *

The saga of my trying to give my hometown library a copy of my book is ongoing.  So far I have twice spoken to librarians about donating my book.  All I asked was that they notify me if the book was placed in the permanent collection or if they decided to sell it as part of their continual silent auction.  Never mind the librarian at my first meeting with her told me she would have to read it to make certain it was an "appropriate" addition.  Never mind that the book is about the very town for which the library serves.  At my second meeting all of the key people were on vacation, but it has been a month since that meeting and I still have heard nothing.  I will tell you this:  I will gladly match up the politics and dirty pool activities of any small town with any national election campaign.

More from the other side of the culture warp when I have time.

So, This morning

I accidentally wrote a prose poem.  This is one of my favorite things about being a poet.

I was reading from some new chapbooks I received in the mail over the three day weekend and out of nowhere a poem started to come to the surface.  I started writing it, title first (which I hardly ever do) and all of a sudden I started to integrate it with some other fragments more than two years old from another notebook. Somewhere in the middle I realized I was actually writing a prose poem but I continued to write line by line, paying attention to breaks.  This too, was strange.  Normally I know ahead of time if I am going to be writing a prose poem, and normally, I will start over if I decide on a format change mid-point.

Of course only time will tell if I like it enough to send out into the world to withstand almost certain rejection, but that really isn't the point.  This poem caught me by surprise, and what a lovely thing that is to have happen at random.  It makes me think of very specific lessons about writing to always keep in mind:

1.  Be ready for the muse with pen and paper, if you in fact believe in the muse at all.

2.  Carry a book of poems with you.  You never know when you might have time to read a poem(Thank you, Ed Hirsch), and where one good poem ends is always a good place to start a new poem.

3.  There is no right way to write a poem.  Beginning to end; end to beginning; like a wellspring flooding the meadow.  It's all the same. 

4.  Be flexible in your writing.  Let the poem lead you for at least the first hour, before you ruin it by trying to tell yourself what it should really be.

5.  Remember poetry is not an end sum activity and defies a balance sheet.  There is always room in this world for another poem.

10 More Books I Would Love to Own

As it turns out, the post I did on imaginary books everyone should own was immensely popular.  I had over 450 hits on my blog the day after I posted it.  I know it's not likely I will get a repeat of that success, but I do love doing these things.  So here's another round:


1.  Huntsman, John.  How Not to Run for President But Convince 5% of the GOP You Really Are: A Where's Waldo Supplement.  Little Brown & Co, (2012).

2.  Gingrich, Newt. The Dirty Truth About Minorities.  John Birch Society Press, (1996).

3.  Bachmann, Marcus.  The Straight Man's Guide to Everything Fabulous. Bravo Network Publishing, (2012).

4.  Evans, Justin.  Bringing Corporal Punishment Back to the Public Schools & Other Essential Elements of Education.  Imbecile Press, (2010).

5.  Kardashian, Kim.  How to Achieve Fame in Three (or fewer) Sex Scandals.  Attention-Whore Press, (2011)

6.  Jenner, Bruce.  A Season in Hell:  New & Selected Poems 2007-2001.  Copper Canyon Press, 2012.

7.  Santorum, Rick.  What's in a Name?  The Almost Completely True Confessions of a Homophobe.  Crazy Lazarus Publishers, (2005).

8. Winfrey, Oprah.  The Art of Manipulating the Answer:  How to Remain the Most Important Person in Any Conversation or Interview.  Harpo Productions, (2005).

9.  Cheyney, Dick.  101 Places to go Pheasant Hunting.  Harper Collins, (2008).

10.  Rove, Karl.  The Mane Idea:  A Collector's Guide to the My Little Pony Universe.  Harcourt, (2011).

Mmmmmmm, that's good.

Last night, we ate a variety of German sausages, thanks to the wonderful thoughtfulness of my wife, Becky.  For those of you who have ever lived in other countries, there is something wonderful about having the opportunity to once again eat the authentic food you learned to love.  For me, it is German food.  Now don't get me wrong, I like some of the American attempts, say Johnsonville Brats, but there is just something about the texture and flavor of various authentic German meats which Americans just cannot  get right.  It's a universal truth.  When I lived in Germany, Germans were nuts over Wonderbread, Levis, and Saltwater Taffy.  Don't ask me why, that's just the way it is.

Now for years I have been able to get Toblerone chocolate bars.  After all, I had first learned about them when I was still in high school, so they are a semi-regular thing in America.  But sausages are not.  Various cheeses are starting to make their way into our everyday culinary vocabulary, but not German meats.  That's why last night was so wonderful.  Becky bought the small assortment of various sausages, German mustard, and real kraut, and it was all just so amazing.

Thank you, Becky, wonderful wife of mine, for buying me delicious food which takes me back to my days living in Germany.

The Hurdy Gurdy

For the past day or so I have been reading through a new collection of poems by William Kloefkorn and David Lee.  This is their fourth book of poems together and it will be their last, as Bill passed away early last year.  I will be writing an official review of the book some time in the near future, but right now I am stuck on the simple elegance of Bill's poetry.  Each poem I read is a celebration of the basic elements from which we build a life, which he built a life.  I look at the poems after I read them and I am startled at how fast they go, how quickly they creep into me and how subversive they are.  I cannot get past the overall conceit---that even a simple, quiet life can be recorded with such impact.

It's the hurdy gurdy.  When someone explains what a hurdy gurdy is, an instrument played by cranking, there is a deception.  Pull back the workings of the instrument and there are dozens of things going on at once, and none of them are what is expected.  Bill hardly needed an event to write a poem because he made the poem the event.  And still that isn't enough.  Bill did not go into the darkness of the void without a road map.  Every poem, every line, and indeed every word, as so many have said before me, is part of a precise image Bill brought into being.  Poetry is art, and art is imitation, but Bill's poems have an astounding clarity.  Bill is quite simply, the hurdy gurdy man.

Naive

Most of what I am thinking right now is just how naive I have been for the past 20+ years of being a poet.  I just got finished reading an interview of a poet who is just a little younger than I am, brilliant, and so much more in tune with what it takes to be a successful poet.  This right on top of being denied the opportunity to read at a community college because my name isn't on a certain list of "approved" writers by the Nevada Arts Council.  Color me embarrassed.

Here I thought I was beginning to make some headway with my choice to become a poet and enter into the world of poetry and the more noble aspects of professional activity found within the poetry community.  But that's just a pipe dream, and though I have always known about hard work, difficult times, and the uphill battle that is publication, I have just hit the walls of Jericho, and I came all this way not knowing I needed a trumpet.

The interview I read punctuated the fact that I am not part of the anointed.  Now I always knew I would never be a 'name' poet, never win any fellowships, and if I was to ever get any sizable grant, it would be a miracle right out of scripture, but that's not why I have stayed with poetry all of these years, so it never really bothered me.  What got me was this interview dropped some names (but not in any way I would give fault) and I realized I have no writers I can name in the same way.  This poet heaped praise upon these other poets, gave them credit for motivation and work which enabled an entire manuscript.  I have nobody with whom I can work and say such things.

Poetry is most often a solitary thing.  We poets live and struggle in our own hearts and minds, and maybe that's why we crave companionship with other poets---not to co-write, but to co-habit the same terrain that is poetry.  The interview made me look around.  Of course I began to think about my mentor, Dave Lee.  He has had tremendous relationships with poets.  Two such relationships have torn him apart in recent years with the deaths of his dear friends, Kenneth Brewer and William Kloefkorn.  And while I mourn with my friend Dave, it is with him I mourn, because I only knew these men in passing.

My realization is that I lack the kinds of relationships which create a bond and a support network among poets.  Some might say because I am a poet I should be happy in my loneliness, but that isn't so.  This is not the kind of emptiness which feeds artistic drive.  Others might say more correctly, that I have been my own worst enemy.  I have tried to support other poets, read and critique, play cheerleader, and create friendships.  I believe I have been successful up to a point, but have in the end, been unable to make that leap of faith which might draw me close to other poets and form the relationships which would help me to reach even further.  And it has been my fault, too.  I am not an easy person to interact with for very long.  I talk too much and wear out my welcome far too easily.

I perpetually feel as if I came to the dinner party ten minutes late and everyone else has already started their conversations.  They are too busy to backtrack and I am simply too simple-minded to catch on in the middle of a conversation.  It's not the secret handshake I am looking for (that's what I was talking about two days ago) but I look around and I all I can find is a seat at the kid's table.

I have been naive to think I might be allowed to create a working world of poetry in which to live.

On a more serious note: Buy Books

Yesterday, I created a list of fictional books to poke fun at the end of year lists being created, all talking about the best books of poetry from 2011.  Well, it's the new year, and t he talk now is about resolutions.  Instead of coming up with a list of fake resolutions today (meaning I will probably make on in a few days) I am going to offer a resolution to you all.  Now it has to do with books, but I thought I would add a little twist, so hold on.

I submit that each of you should find a press from which you have never purchased a book and buy one or more of their titles directly from them. 

I also submit that you go back to a press who had published a book of yours and buy a title which you might not consider otherwise.   

Yes.  I said it.  I want you to go buy books you have no idea as to whether you will like them or not.  If all you ever buy are the book you know you will like, then you are killing the art of writing.  if you only buy from presses you know, then you are killing the printed word. 

So what if you end up not liking the books you buy. 

So what if you don't like reading essays or short stories.

If that's the case, give the books away.  I can tell you if more writers bought more books, we wouldn't have to worry half as much as we do about how many copies our own books will sell.  I have been pretty fortunate in that most of the books of poetry I buy are ones I enjoy.  However, for that small percentage of books I don't enjoy, I either find someone to send the book to (at my expense) or I keep it around until I find someone to send it to (at my expense). 

People need to get over themselves when it comes to buying books.  The only person that matters when it comes to your personal library is you.  If you were to come to my classroom and look at my book shelf of poetry books, you would notice I have no outwardly discernible method of organization.  If you looked closely, you would see I have a highly organic system of organizing my poetry books which changes at whim at least once or twice a month. Who cares if you have all of the so-called 'name' poets in your shelves?  Seriously.  Who are you going to offend if you happen to have a chapbook or book of poems on your shelf by someone nobody else has ever heard of?  Hey, if you own one of my books you have probably already lowered your standards, and you may as well make some stranger happy by buying their book, too.

I just bought three books from Foothills Publishing.  They arrived yesterday, and they are gorgeous.  Right now I have A Field Guide to Trees  by Bill Lavender on my desk, and the art (exterior and interior) is marvelous.  The poems are lovely, and the design aesthetic breaks new ground as to what I previously thought possible.

Go out and buy some books you would not have normally considered!