It’s Sunday, but there are no Sabbaths for the monkey mind.
“Monkey mind” being the enemy of Buddha-like meditation and the friend of poet-like brainstorming-without-a-banana.
I kind of like the “free” subscriptions you get when you enter a poetry publication’s annual contest. It kind of makes up for the expense of missing first place by kind of making you deceive yourself about the meaning of “free.”
In poetry, you cut to the bone, taking a scalpel to expressions like “kind of,” for starters.
While drafting poetry, I have found that many bad long poems are hiding good short poems. Ones in the second trimester or so.
I proved this to myself by rewriting a long poem Dickinson-style. All I needed was a few random dashes and capital letters (found in Aisle Emily, bottom shelf, at Ocean State Job Lot).
The cover of the October issue of Poetry reminds me of the Beatles‘ White Album.
Speaking of, I wonder how Jorie Graham feels about being the centerfold.
There’s a new sheriff in town (starring Kevin Young) at The New Yorker. Too bad they had to close submissions on July 3rd. The good news? The market reopens on Nov. 1st, and just because your poems were sent home before doesn’t mean they will again
Which reminds me: Poetry is subjective. A lot rides on particular editors’ eyes. If it gets that far.
Which is not to say there’s no such thing as “bad poetry” (I often send it to its room without supper).
Still trying to get over my prejudice against form poems by reading Ellen Bryant Voigt’s The Art of Syntax.
Wasn’t it Ben Franklin who warned about two sure things in life: death and syntaxes?
As usual, the list of National Book Awards for Poetry includes books and authors a.) I haven’t read and b.) I haven’t even heard of. Guess I need to listen better.
Does anyone still write poems with pencil and paper? I do. But it’s ideas for poems only. Once I start writing, it’s on the trusty word processor.
When a poetry manuscript is accepted for publication, the toughest part is starting the next poetry manuscript. Especially with so many laurels lying around, waiting to be rested upon.
Poets need more patience than doctors. Can you say “wait time”? As a submitter of your work, you’d better be good at it. The competition is fierce and the numbers are legion.
My first love in poetry is predictably Frost.
I do not think “Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening” is corny. So sue me.
If you call yourself a reader but don’t read poetry, are you really a reader?
If a tree falls in the wilderness, does it make a sound?
