Big Bang Poetry

Reinventing the Life of a Poet in the Modern World

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Mark Doty

MdWhen I was at Sarah Lawrence in the mid-90s, Mark Doty came to teach for one semester. All the second-year graduate students fought tooth and nail to get in his class. First-years had to sell off their first born to get a shot. At the time, I was probably heard to ask, "Who is Mark Doty?"

That's because before Sarah Lawrence, the only living published poets I knew where Howard Schwartz and Steve Schreiner (my teachers from the University of Missouri), Tom Lux and Alice Fulton  (because Steve Schreiner introduced me to them) and Philip Levine (and I don't know how I heard about him).

When Philip Levine finally came to read at Sarah Lawrence, he walked right by me, I felt like I had just experienced a celebrity sighting. What a silly thought: a celebrity poet.

Anyway, after moving to LA and diligently attending each Los Angeles Times Festival of Books every spring, (literally, the Cochella of books….if you want to see a million people in one place buying books, this is the biggest book festival in the universe), I got to know Mark Doty who was there year after year reading in the poetry nook. I grew to be quite a fan of his very funny, comforting and touching reading-style. On the Festival of Books panels, (real head-food, those free panels), his comments were also embracing and brilliant. I loved him! I could then see why the poetry students at Sarah Lawrence drew blood over the chance to get into his class. I wish I had been more savvy and aggressive back then too.

And then I read Dog Years. What can I say about Dog Years. It is indescribable. If you have a dog and love literary memoirs…walk, don't run to this book.

I have his book of poems Atlantis, much of which is about his lover's death from AIDS. I think what I love about Doty's poems are the way his brain gravitates toward particularity. From "Grosse Fuge" talking about his dying lover:

Mostly he looks away, mouth open,
as if studying something slightly above
and to the right of the world.

or the end of the poem "Breakwater," his ability to be obliquely specific:

now that we have come to rest,
as mysteriously as ever,
as nearly perfect a shape
as ever we'll discern.

or from "Atlantis," his heartbreaking and arresting similes:

and I swear sometimes
when I put my head to his chest
I can hear the virus humming
like a refrigerator.

If I could be the Dead-head-esque groupie of a poet, I would drive from town to town to be the obsessed fan of Mark Doty. But I have no time for this because I am committed to tracking the never-ending farewell tours of Cher.

Further reading:

Reading Poetry to Conchas Lake

IMG_7186We recently went camping to Lake Conchas Dam in eastern New Mexico.This is an area I've wanted to visit because it's near the Goodnight Loving Trail (although the dam wasn't there then) and also because it's near an area called David Hill under the town Mosquero New Mexico. The lake was also mentioned in this month's New Mexico Magazine as having the most shoreline-per-camper of all the lakes in New Mexico…which, in this empty state, is really sayin' something.

IMG_7183So I was able to add two new photos to Reading Poetry to Animals and Things that Don't Care: I was snubbed by both lake twigs and my own shadow.

It's rough out there.

 

Don’t Be a Martyr

MartyrPoets on the cross 

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with someone online about the state of poetry and they made this comment to me (and this is not the first person to make this comment to me) that it was all a bit like shouting out into the void.

I wasn't sure if this person meant the process of blogging, the act of trying to turn the poetry industry around or the very act of writing and sharing poetry itself.

Or just living for that matter.

I was speaking to my husband, a former labor rep, about it. He said there is always a group of people out there who would rather lament the state of things than to work to change the situation. I see this in many poets I know. I think they almost prefer their status as outsiders.

I was innocently reading the book How Not to Write a Novel by Mittelmark and Newman (actually a very good book, albeit very snarky) and came across this stinging sentiment: "Some people can do backflips, walk on their hands, or juggle flaming swords. Some people can even recite poetry in public without losing their dignity."

Ouch. Are we the unpopular, ridiculed kids of literature?

Sadly we are. Unless we stand up for poetry against the bullies out there. Unless we start networking like poet politicians to make friends with other intellectual disciplines.

Or you can choose what you have. And I feel many out there secretly get off on poetry's anemic cult status.

As they say, if you are looking for the right person in your life, become the right person in your life. Which is a paraphrase of Mahatma Gandhi who said "Become the change you want to see in the world."

Or as Deepak Chopra said, "In your own personal transformation is the transformation of the world."

For further reading: think outside the lament

Monday Poetry News Roundup

Poetry headlines in the news

 

Publishing News

Contests

Poetry association and guild contests are booming for some reason.

Moment of Craft Fridays: Doing it Like Hart Crane

HartWell, turns out the book from 1937, Hart Crane, The Life of an American Poet by Philip Horton, was a regular page-turner. I read it in four days and loved how Horton gave Crane's life-events an evenly-spread psychological context, something I'm missing from the more recent poet biographies (Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford, for example). Which reminds me, Edna was only given a throw-off mention in Crane's biography (on one page as "that girl poet") when in fact she was in her prime contemporaneous with Crane in New York City, although she swam in different circles.

Otherwise the biography was pretty open about Crane's life, including his  sexuality (although the author treated it, albeit sympathetically, as a mental disorder). Much theory was made over Crane's dramatic childhood and his relationship to his work. Horton provided a very strong defense of the more difficult aspects of Crane's poetry, aligning him more with T. S. Eliot in spirit and technique, as opposed to the other famous writers of the Lost Generation, his contributions including:

  • his revival of Elizabethan blank verse
  • his use of unusual words
  • his incorporation of complex machinery and mechanical activities of his time, the industrial age, (the spiritual values of airplanes, subways and skyscrapers), and understanding these developments as both oppressive and corrupting versus freeing and enlightening.

Interestingly, Hart Crane wrote a poem to Emily Dickinson and among his more popular poems were excerpts from his opus "The Bridge" (compared by Horton to T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland" as a great epic about America) and his Voyages poems. In Hart Crane's life, he only published two books White Buildings (1926) and The Bridge (1930) before he committed suicide in 1932 by jumping off a steamship sailing from Mexico to New York. His body was never found.

Craft talk in the book

Quote from his letters:

"I can say that the problem of form becomes harder and harder for me every day. I am not at all satisfied with anything I have thus far done, mere shadowings, and too slight to satisfy me. I have never, so far, been able to present a vital, living, tangible–a positive emotion to my satisfaction. For as soon as I attempt such an act I either grow obvious or ordinary, and abandon the thing at the second line. Oh! it is hard. One must be drenched in words, literally soaked with them to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment."

"Let us invent an idiom for the proper transportation of jazz into words! Something clean, sparkling, elusive!"

"One works and works over it to finish and organize it perfectly–but fundamentally that doesn't affect one's way of saying it."

Horton discussing the poem "Faustus and Helen:"

"Technically, it showed important extensions of craftsmanship: the long rhythmical lines approximating the pentameter without, however, committing themselves to any distinct pattern; the enrichment of language and music fused by syntax and assonance into an idiom unmistakably his own–these things brought him a sense of power and confidence….a milestone for him, making the step from minor to major intention. It's subject matter indicated an expansion of consciousness, a shift of interest from the particular to the universal. He had achieved at least  a partial realization of his long-standing desire to write of the 'eternal verities'…to ally his work firmly with tradition and still to express fully the spirit of his own times."

Horton talking about Crane's circle of literary friends:

"For almost a year the four met [Hart Crane, Gorham Munson, Jean Toomer and Waldo Frank] frequently, tacitly recognizing a kind of spiritual brotherhood that bound them together in a unit distinct from other factions of the artistic world. Their catch words were 'the new slope of consciousness,' the superior logic of metaphor,' 'noumenal knowledge,' the interior rapports' of unanimisme, the doctrine of Jules Romains."

Horton talking about Crane's use of words:

"His attitude towards language was much like that of a painter to his pigments. He gloried in words aside from their meaning as things in themselves, prizing their weight, density, color, and sound; and gloated over the subtle multiplicity of their associations."

"Crane appears to have built up his poems in blocks of language which were cemented into coherent aesthetic form by the ductile stuff of complex associations, metaphors, sound, color, and so forth. This would account for the juggling about of lines from one context to another with what seems to have been a kind of creative opportunism. Actually he was doing no more than the painter or sculptor who strives for what has been called 'significant form.' His enthusiastic study of modern painting was having its own influence…he considered [his poems] not as vehicles of thought so much as bodies of the impalpable substance of language to be molded into aesthetically self-sufficient and complete units….Crane intended these poems not as descriptions of experience that could be read about, but as immediate experiences that the reader could have…The reader was not necessarily expected to derive any more rational meaning from these poems that from those state of consciousness, experienced by everyone at the same time, which forever elude the conclusive grasp of reasonable understanding and expression."

For Horton, this is why Crane can be classified as a mystical poet, for his search of the elusive consciousness.

Speaking of mystic poets and that which "forever elude the conclusive grasp of reasonable understanding and expression," I went to my local Santa Fe performance space last night to see the documentary Rumi, Returning. It was an awful mess. A room full of baby boomers grunting over Rumi poetry, so many of them the theater ran out of chairs and one elderly lady tried to sit on my lap (not kidding). The film was convoluted, pompous and looked like something shot in the 1980s, complete with bad sound, camera jumps and travel footage of Turkey overused in all the wrong places.

Lucille Clifton

CliftonLast week was a week when I was in need of a poem to bolster my faith in my own self. In the midst of a very depressing day, for some reason I grabbed Lucille Clifton's poems, The Book of Light. This is the only book of Clifton I own, purchased and autographed when she visited Sarah Lawrence College in 1995. The only thing I remember of the reading was when she said Marvin Gaye was sexy for black people like Elvis was sexy for white people. I did not agree with that, as I find Marvin WAY sexier than Elvis, probably because Elvis was fat and sweaty in my time. Marvin was just sweaty. The first song I ever heard of Elvis was "Suspicious Minds" on an easy-listening radio station (not sexy). The first song I ever heard of Marvin Gaye was "Sexual Healing" on MTV (much sexier).

I saw Lucille Clifton again at the Dodge Poetry Festival around that same time walking around with a group of fans surrounding her.

In any case, I haven't checked-in with Clifton for quite a while. But I'm currently searching for a job and, for the first time last week, I came upon a very negative and disparaging situation. These things happen; but it made me feel pretty bad at the time. When I grabbed my Clifton book, I found it dog-eared at the poem "song at midnight." Here is the excerpt that I loved and think is relatable ….even if you are a man of any ethnicity:

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i have no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

Read a retrospective of Lucille Clifton from The New Yorker.

Poetry Publishing Realities: Why I Decided to Self-Publish

Best-Evil-Wallpapers-4Yes, sometimes publishers, both big and small, seem like evil goblins. Especially if you're an unpublished poet. But I see even my well-published poet friends struggling to find continuing outlets for their new books. An this is a teaching moment: it doesn't get any better after your first book.

In fact, for the last six months I've been reading up on the publishing realities for both poets and novelists. And it ain't pretty. There are too many writers out here and just about zero readers, especially for poetry.

And this isn't the fault of a struggling small-press. Everyone is complicit in the problem.

The Reality for Small Presses

According to an editorial by Jeffrey Lependorf in Small Press Distribution, "the human race publishes a book every thirty seconds" and "most poetry titles are printed in runs of 250 to 1,000." Even a "healthy title" publishes under 2,000 books and that will be "the one and only print run for that book." So the best you can hope to sell from a small press book is 200 to 2,000 books. To put that in perspective, Billy Collins, our poetry superstar, has reportedly sold 200,000 books and some consider a novel to be a bestseller if it hits 10,000 copies sold. Most books of poetry published by small presses will come and go without selling many copies.

No Publishers Willing to Take Risks

Even novelists are struggling. Big publishers aren't taking risks with new authors right now. According to novelist David Carnoy, "vaunted old publishers like Houghton Mifflin have literally put the freeze on new acquisitions. In short, it's ugly out there." And big publishers are not taking new poets period. Poetry does not sell unless you are a name. It's wasted money for them when even their fiction and non-fiction titles aren't moving.

Poets for the last 10-15 years have been entering endless contests to get a book deal. Small presses don't have the funds to print their runs, so they've set up contests where all entrants provide $25 each to cover the cost of printing the winner's book. This has become virtually community publishing where the community raises the money for one poet's print run. This is not a bad thing, per se (it's good for your karma, I guess), but the system has become a dismal odds game for most writers, a game that will probably never result in anything substantial.

Because if you do find yourself, happy day, a winner of a small press contest, you'll be paid only $1000 to $3000 and have a very small run of books published. Eventually, you'll go out of print. You'll also get…

No Help Marketing

Even big publishers have stopped putting any marketing heft behind any but the already-bestselling authors. New authors at big publishers are having to self-market to get the word out about their new books, sometimes even hiring publicists. I just took a fiction class with a teacher who has a first book of fiction coming out this year. She had no website up and I asked her what her marketing plans were. She said she was leaving that all up to her small-press publisher and moving on with writing her next book. From what I've been reading, that's like plunging your head in the sand. It's denying the stark realities of publishing today.

Even getting a review is more challenging: according to Betsy Lerner, the publishing house editor who wrote The Forest for the Trees, "there are fewer venues and outlets for novelists" … The New York Times, Time and Newsweek are all scaling down their book reviews.

Published poets are telling me the same thing about marketing: they're getting no support from their presses, aside from the title being posted on the publisher's web site. Poets have an even steeper hill to climb to get out in front of all the novelists and self-help books. Marketing is something you must know how to do on your own…especially if you hope to sell a book to a stranger.

No Space in Bookstores

So even if you are a novelist and have a publisher, you have little hope of marketing support. On top of that, you have only a few months to make a splash at the bookstores. According to J. Steve Miller in his guide Sell More Books, bookstores only stock 25,000 titles; therefore, less than 1% of all books published by traditional publishers make it into bookstores. And if a new title in a bookstore doesn't sell right away, the unsold books get returned and never restocked.

Besides, the fact is big bookstores are all failing and closing. Mom-and-pop bookstores are still out there, but they have even less space for your little books of poems.

What This Means

So if all goes well for you in the world of poetry publishing, you'll win a small press contest. But then what? This will not get you many books printed, let alone an unlimited print run; this will not get you any marketing support or expertise; this will not get you any reviews; this will not get you into a bookstore. Ever. You will have the prestige of seeing your book on your shelf but you will not sell many books and you won't make any money on the books that do sell.

Is Self-Publishing for You

That doesn't necessarily mean self-publishing is for you. If you are not interested in actively marketing your book or taking on the stress of learning all the details of producing your own book, you are better off sticking with contests or lamenting the state of things like a true martyr and waiting for the world to start spinning the other way.

Of course, I would love to have an existing publisher take care of producing a book on my behalf. This would definitely give me more street cred; however, I think my Do-it-Yourself mentality might come in handy here in the new technology age. After all, I taught myself HTML back in 1997 and have been producing web zines for many years. In 2000, I taught myself how to create my own Cher zines with self-publishing software.

Print-on-Demand paperbacks and eBooks have given us the tools to create our own books and sell them on big online booksellers, where most people are buying their books now anyway. Print on Demand means your book will be available forever and you will receive a higher percentage of the sales. And with self-published books, you can work on marketing your book for your entire life.

But you'll have to work for it. Especially to rise above the din of badly-produced POD books already out there. But if you have a good work ethic and take the time to learn how to do it, you might do better than traditional publishing. Self-publishing success stories are out there, even for poets. Even before POD, Walt Whitman famously self published. William Faulkner also self-published poems and plays.

It's not hopeless. Hell, I've sold more than 500 Cher zines. Here's how I see it: I can start with a book of poetry to learn how to do it, see how it goes. If I fail miserably, I'll have learned all about formatting a book, designing its elements, coordinating its production and the most important lessons on how to market a book.

In the next few weeks, I'll start talking about how how I got started and how I'm getting it done. It's been thrilling and sometimes aggravating but definitely well worth trying.

 

The graphic above is from Evil Wallpapers at http://evilwallpapers.blogspot.com/2011/09/best-evil-wallpapers_10.html

Monday Poetry News Roundup

Poetry headlines in the news

Publishing News

Calls for Submissions

Contests

Other Stuff

Review of Favorites, the Anthology of the Aurorean Journal

FavoritesFractions are killing poetry: fractions of the time the world has available to devote to reading it: books, anthologies and journals. Journals above all seem to bear the most of a slim readership. But they do the Lord’s work, big and small, famous and obscure, as a magnet for culling new poetry out from the wilderness. The great thing about a journal anthology is that we are able to read the best of the crop from all the sweat and labor of a journal’s works. It’s condensed goodness.

The Aurorean journal has published over 50 issues in the past 15 years and featured over a thousand poets. Editors Cynthia Brackett-Vincent and Devin McGuire have now compiled their Greatest Hits, an anthology called Favorites which is divided into sections that show exactly what subjects this journal specializes in: seasons, meditations and New England. Brackett-Vincent’s introduction provides and interesting tale of how she came to found and produce this poetry journal and the transformations the project has made over the years.

The Seasons section is full of “frost-warped” leaves and frozen ponds and starts strong with a poem by Lillis Palmer called “Planting Bulbs” where we find ourselves “breathing the humus-sweet cold air” as she describes bulbs who have a secret faith. I also loved Michael Macklin’s “The furrows” about the dead under our plows and Judith Tate’s “Yard Work.” I enjoyed Susan Wilde’s “when the television goes off in winter” and Virgil Suárez’s “El Hermitaño, My Friend Ryan Who Believes He Roamed Like Locust in a Previous Life” where the locusts can be heard in the fields like “strewn punctuation.” Monica Flegg’s “A Winter Farewell” was my favorite of this section, where emptiness feels like:

…a loss
a snowflake sized one
buried deep in this blizzard of a lesson.

The Meditations section struck me as primarily one of death poems. I liked Cynthia Brackett-Vincent’s “Kodi Ball,” especially as I believe there truly can never be enough dog poems in this world and Cathy Edgett’s “Healing:”

I drank grief like tea in Tibet,
Holding the cup with both hands

Meditations boast poems with dedications to a menagerie of inspirations, including poet Allen Ginsberg, Massachusetts Senator Paul Tsongas and Lake Superior and includes a variety of tributes to mothers (some departed), including the mother-ode I loved the best by Dellana Diovisalvo, “I Say Mother.” The section also includes one of the most tastefully poignant eulogies to the victims of 9/11 who felt compelled to jump from the burning towers, Clemens Schoenebeck’s “For the Angels, Unwinged.”

Since New England is commonly associated with the four seasons, the first and final sections have plenty of overlapping images of stone fences, frosted windows, sun-bleached shells, an interesting number of references to lichen, pitched roofs, harvests and one mention of Mount Washington I liked very much, Michael Keshigian’s “Upon The Roof” where:

above green challenging the edge
I spin quickly
to view the world in a glance

I lived in Stow, Massachusetts for 5 months in the spring and summer of 1995 working at the Massachusetts Firefighting Academy, then returning often for visits after I started attending Sarah Lawrence College from 1995 to 1999; and this anthology reminded me of New England’s solid pastoral beauty, the salty Atlantic seashores, the bitter winter wind and the upstaging panoramas of leaves. The Aurorean tends to publish very compact poems, (many are thin and long, none are longer than a page), setting a serene descriptive scene or a moment’s reflections on a landscape, a general array of gentle points and soft landings. The book is full of quiet pools of thought or contemplations where you can, as Anne Dewees writes, “feel the earth breathe.”

I turned to my archaeologist husband to explicate the final brilliant poem of the book, one called “Faith” by Robert M. Chute. It was about Henry David Thoreau and arrowheads and faith. I loved it so much I copied it out of the book for taping up on my office wall.

To buy this anthology
To visit the Aurorean

Moment of Craft Fridays: Think Like a Dickinson

EmileI just finished reading The Editing of Emily Dickinson, A Reconsideration by R. W. Franklin and Emily Dickinson, The Mind of the Poet by Albert J. Gelpi. Franklin's book turned out to be interesting in detailing the problems in publishing a complete edition of Emily Dickinson poems: she created so many different variations of many of her poems, scraps left unfinished and alternate word choices expressed on many of her original papers. Defining a final "author's intent" proved impossible.

Gelpi's book attempted to place Dickinson's mindset and evolving philosophies in the context of her struggles with Puritanism and the major thought-leaders of the day, New England's writers Emerson and Thoreau. But Gelpi also had interesting things to say about how a poet-creator self-defines and he included a laundry list of craft-techniques he felt made Dickinson unique.

Gelpi believed a poet could identify as one of three kinds of a creator:

  • a passive see-er
  • an assertive genius
  • a skilled craftsman

Gelpi's list of Dickinsonian craft, I feel, is useful to any poet who reads Dickinson or wants to add a flair of Emily to their work:

  • Use unique, fresh language
  • Use New England colloquialisms (or your local alternative)
  • Drop the S from the third-person singular of the present tense
  • Emphasize nouns by striking the articles
  • Use singular nouns where plurals are expected
  • Make parts of speech perform unorthodox functions
  • Coin words
  • Write in hymn stanzas (quatrains of short lines with 3-4 beats)
  • Use dots and dashes as breathing points
  • Use slant rhymes
  • Use mostly monosyllable words

Gelphi also surmised that Dickinson liked to exist in a constantly yearning state, never to have her desires fulfilled because, as Gelphi said, "Fulfillment is static; desire is a process."

Interesting food for thought.

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