Rejection

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Sigh.

A call went out in January to "mature emerging poets", asking for submissions for consideration for a new anthology, to be edited by kevin mcpherson eckhoff & Heidi Garnett (sic). A more apropos description of myself would be hard to find; though "poet" might be a stretch, I'm certainly mature, and if not emerging, well then, thinking about emerging, and would if the bed I'm in wasn't so damned cozy. So I submitted thirteen of my best more-recent poems, figuring (now that was dumb!) I had it in the bag, if anyone did. A notice from said kevin (sic, and I ought to have known that anyone who spelled their name without caps...well, anyhow) inferred that they would have made some decisions by the end of February, and when I didn't receive an instant notice of "you've got to be fucking kidding!", I remained optimistic that this might be my big breakthrough. I got my rejection notice this past Wednesday.

I realized the other day that I've been in a slow period, for poetry, for really about a year now. That's scary. For several years, I lived and breathed poetry - read it, wrote it, talked about it incessantly, critiqued, studied, practiced, obsessed on it. Then I seemed to stiffen up, somehow. I got bored with the online poetry I was commenting on; the friends I had made online, with a few exceptions, either drifted off or became less important to me; the comments I received on my own work lost their impact. The workshops and courses I attended all informed me of the same things: that there are many, many people out there attempting to write poetry, and that, among them, I'm not doing too badly. In my own heart, however, I know there's something missing. I just don't know what it is, or how to find it.

I passed a car on the way home from school late last night, after attending my students' coffee house evening (a mix of joy and horror, but that's another story), whose licence plate read "Duende". Of all things. I looked at the driver, and he was a 60-something coud-be Latin, but he wasn't Lorca. I wanted to do a one-eighty and follow him, however, once it was too late to yell out the window at him, and ask, "Why duende? What do you know of duende?" Because duende, I think, is everything in poetry. And maybe when I truly understand duende, I will be able to truly write poetry. Maybe.

Lute (an online poet-friend) linked me to a Canadian poetry site last night, and I found a few poems as I hunted around. Most were avant garde and incomprehensible to me. Others looked like just so much junk to me. I thought, "If I were to submit such poems to the Gazebo, they would be ripped to shreds and I would be told to go read 1000 poems before I considered submitting again." I'm talking personal, cliche-ridden, cheap, Hallmark poetry.

Lisa (another online poet-friend) linked me to another Canadian poetry site today, with a Canadian poet reading, saying the work reminded her somewhat of mine (lovely thought, thank you), and, while I enjoyed the poetry, it was . . . well, something I might have written. So what's up?

The first time I submitted poems, it was to a contest here in Vancouver, printed in triplicate, accompanied by $5 per poem entry fee. Nothing. The second time, to the same contest, an honourable mention. The third time, to an online contest - on a whim, the same day I wrote the poem - I won the thing, got a cheque in the mail for $100. The fourth time, the Vancouver contest again, I took 1st prize, another $100.

A strange thing happened to me after those heady first submissions, and all that winning. I got scared. Until then, I had pretended to poetry, made it a hobby. I loved it, loved the places it touched in me, like a spiritual awakening. Suddenly I was out in the world with it, exposing myself, confessing, yes, I am a poet. Suddenly I felt a responsibility. If I'm a poet, I have to write poetry, it has to be good, worthy of a prize-winner.

I stopped entering contests.

A year or so later, I sent out several packages to major Canadian literary magazines and received my rejections in due course.

I stopped submitting.

I did send three poems to the Gwendolyn Brooks society's 2007 publication in Florida, at the urging of a friend, and had two of them accepted. (I'm in consolation mode, here, folks, reminding myself of some successes.) I found it a bit embarrassing, after all that, to see the things in print.

My rejection notice this time wished me (and kindred rejectees) "continued bravery". Oh man, does that hit the mark! This striving towards some kind of art, and this putting it out there to be judged as such, takes courage, indeed!



When I first started writing, this round, in 2003, I was using my computer exclusively. I started to switch over to handwritten notebooks and eventually only wrote by hand. My best times were out in the back yard in the summer, feet up, a large glass of iced tea, a pile of books of poetry and prompts, and a notebook. I set up my private writing room with a table covered in cloth from Provence. I'd sit by candlelight every night, read a poem, write a poem, read a poem, write a poem. Lately, my table has been covered with crap. Even when I clean up, I can't seem to clear space. And I need space to write.

This past week, I was challenged to write a poem every day, as contribution to National (International, really) Poetry Month. Each night, around 11:00, I'd open up an empty document on my computer and start to type. After six or eight lines, a series of false starts, something would begin to emerge. Twice I ended up with drafts that I think show potential. Even a little duende.

So maybe it's time to write on the computer again. I remember in Taos, the subject came up, and most participants (very good writers, well-published, many English teachers in colleges) said they wrote by hand. I remember saying I found it qualitatively different to write by hand than on the computer. And at that time, I rejected the computer as a means to poetry. A couple of years later, I'd begun to run dry. This past week, the computer, and the obligation to write, has opened up the door. Think I'll keep it up. Maybe not every day.

I had a notion today to deny myself poetry, to refrain from even thinking about writing it for a period of time. I liken the idea to that of sex therapists who advise non-orgasmic women to refrain from sex or sexual touching for a period of time. Let the juices build up, so to speak. I have an image of poems collecting under my skin, crowding the fatty spaces, ready to burst out when I finally let them. I don't know. It's probably just another game to play, like all the other games I play to call forth poems. The best game in a long while has been simply to write some kind of draft every day, not to worry about its quality.

I picked up a little book today called, "The Art of Time in Memoir," the latest in "The Art Of" series I've been collecting. I realized that much of my poetry, if not all, is memoir, and that maybe memoir is what I ought to be writing, without the pretense of poetry. I shall read this book, or - more likely - the first third of this book, and decide if that is really what I'm about.



For today, I am about neither memoir nor poetry, but rather self-indulgence. If anyone has borne the irk of reading this far, please forgive me. I promise not to do it again any time soon.




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