While I haven't heard back from all the journals, I've gotten enough responses to know I need to start submitting again. I had one picked up from the latest round of submissions and received five or six "we debated poem X a lot, but we wound up deciding against it" notices, all from journals I would love to be in. Not a clunker in the lot. Hopefully it's a sign that a steady stream of acceptances is near, but I should know better than that. Keep writing, keep (e)mailing, and keep writing more. When news comes, it'll come.
Because of an unfortunate scheduling conflict, I'm missing out on giving a reading, too. If it wasn't for the distance to the site and the foreign language translation exam I have to take that day, I'd be there in a heartbeat. It's going to be a lot of fun, I'm guessing. Hmph.
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I need to be reading more poetry, but I just can't seem to get beyond the teaching grind to get the energy to do so. That, and I don't know what I should be reading right now. I want something that'll blow me away. Desperately.
I'm behind on new music, too. We're not in the position to spend much of late, but even so, I'm not hearing much on my favorite XM channels that's exciting. I hate being in poetry and music ruts. There's a lot out there, but I can't seem to find the right avenue to find them. I'm open to suggestions if you have any.
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Though I'm not a fan of most of what I've been reading for my lit course, it has given me the chance to read Frank O'Hara again. I forgot how much I like his work. Here's one conclusion that stood out to me in prepping for class:
the beauty of America, neither cool jazz nor devoured Egyption heroes, lies in
lives in the darkness I inhabit in the midst of sterile millions
the only truth is face to face, the poem whose words become your mouth
and dying in black and white we fight for what we love, not are
Frank O'Hara, from "Ode: Salute to the French Negro Poets"
Showing posts with label Submissions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Submissions. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Rejection, The Illiterate
Rejections for the marathon submission session I put together at the beginning of the month are already coming in. I appreciate the speed, but these six journals could have strung me along a little longer, let me get my hopes up a little more. Though to be fair, several of the no's were warranted, considering my writing doesn't match the journals' aesthetics. I'm terrible at picking the places I should send to; I'm much better at finding beautiful journals who don't publish anything like what I write and believing I can change all that. A waste of postage, yes, but my naivete is a little bit charming, too. At least I like to think so.
We'll see how the other 26 poetry and 2 nonfiction submissions turn out soon enough. I hope this is the breakthrough time I've been waiting for.
&
I'm not typically comfortable in classes, which limits my motivation to speak, but tonight's class was easier than a lot of others have been of late. I was familiar with a number of the poems we talked about, but I had new takes on several of them and was at ease enough to mention as much.
One poet and poem that struck me (again, though I can't remember where I first read it, but I must have since the book has been in my Amazon Wish List for two years) tonight was William Meredith's "The Illiterate." An amazingly simple (word choice-wise, but by no means technically so) and profound sonnet. So much to say about poetry and poets and what writing can give and take away from us.
"The Illiterate"
Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.
His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
That keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?
- William Meredith, from Effort at Speech: New and Selected Poems
We'll see how the other 26 poetry and 2 nonfiction submissions turn out soon enough. I hope this is the breakthrough time I've been waiting for.
&
I'm not typically comfortable in classes, which limits my motivation to speak, but tonight's class was easier than a lot of others have been of late. I was familiar with a number of the poems we talked about, but I had new takes on several of them and was at ease enough to mention as much.
One poet and poem that struck me (again, though I can't remember where I first read it, but I must have since the book has been in my Amazon Wish List for two years) tonight was William Meredith's "The Illiterate." An amazingly simple (word choice-wise, but by no means technically so) and profound sonnet. So much to say about poetry and poets and what writing can give and take away from us.
"The Illiterate"
Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.
His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
That keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?
- William Meredith, from Effort at Speech: New and Selected Poems
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