Anyway, I was walking the other evening. I tend to do that a lot. Kellie wasn’t walking with me on this rare occasion, and the sky looked extremely angry--not at me for walking without Kellie, I don’t think. Never fear, some lightning did flash in the far, far off distance, but I never even felt a sprinkle, and, after I took its picture, the angry cloud moved on.
The very next day, an online poetry magazine responded to my submission of five poems with the following message:
Thank you for sending poems for our consideration. We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, and while we have decided not to include these in the upcoming issue, we thank you for your interest in [ ] and send our best wishes.
Now, no one was there to see my face, and I certainly do not keep mirrors to look at myself except for when I shave in the mornings, but I can guarantee you that my face flashed as the angry sky had flashed the night before. You see, gentle reader, before I had submitted my poems to the publication, I had read the last three or, maybe, four issues of that particular magazine and had a good idea of the kinds of poetry that they typically publish, and I thought that I had captured the essence of their average entry pretty durned well. I am very fine at mimicking.
Immediately, in my fit of anger, I assumed that I knew what the problem was. I am a middle-aged white man from the United States. Most authors that they publish represent diverse races, ethnicities, and nationalities. I am an English teacher, but I do not teach creative writing nor have I ever attended a poetry workshop of any sort. Most authors they publish teach creative writing and have attended or teach at poetry workshops of various sorts. I tend to write what most people consider traditional verse. Though I hardly ever write epic couplets, ballad quatrains, or sonnets, I do typically write in rhythmic patterns with end rhyme. Most authors they publish write in the latest fad of free verse with odd or no punctuation and, sometimes in prose. Finally, I hardly ever write about myself—and you know the rest of that without my spelling it out.
That was my immediate reaction, and I cannot help it, though it makes me sound like an old-fashioned, prejudiced bigot, and I am anything but that. I wonder though--I cannot help but wonder--how much of who the author IS goes into a publisher’s decision whether to publish a poem or not? If who a poet is matters at all to the decision makers, then my seemingly inappropriate anger is righteous. A poem’s merit is in the effect that it can have upon readers short term and long term, intellectually, emotionally, and psychologically. It should never matter who or what the author is. I think that some people who have great influence over the world of contemporary poetry have forgotten this. Please help them remember by searching out and BUYING poetry that you enjoy. Money can make publishers recall their poetic values. Hmm…
Here is a different kind of poem about a storm. Enjoy!
You moaned as thunder gathered in the air;
The muddled world outside rumbled and shook
You straightened out beside my elbow’s crook
But never even knew the storm was there.
You never felt my fingers brush your cheek
Nor saw the lightning fracture blackest night,
Nor did you know my poor heart skipped with fright
When, in the squall, a voice like Death did speak.
“See how she lies a corpse within a tomb,
And, but for trifling fantasies, at peace?
Her bliss will come when all her dreamings cease.”
And then a chilly shade seeped in the room.
The dreadful haze weighed less than a minute
But left a deep impression on the place.
Your body clearly fills an empty space,
But where will you be with no dreams in it?
The sun cleared out a blindingly blue sky.
You yawned and stretched, crisscrossing all the bed,
Then turned to ask what thoughts traversed my head.
Not knowing if you dream, I had to lie.
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