NaPoWriMo #3 is up. Thanks to Jilly for the title.
Tomorrow, a Calamity hay(na)ku. With zombies!
This means Ron Silliman hates me now, doesn't it?
Sigh. So young, and so quietudinal.
Lyn Lifshin, Virgil Suarez, and Simon Perchik have published poetry in every single poetry journal in the universe.
I heard much about digital cameras, imaginary books, books that hopefully will not always be imaginary, the problematic objectification of humanity inherent in introductions, poems good for reading on paper vs. those that are good for having read unto you, cigarette rolling machines, and learning to accept the impossibility of remembering everybody's name.
On the subway ride home, I learned that heavyset women from the Bronx do not like scrawny British hipster boys. At all. And they are very vocal in their objections.
I got to hear Shafer read for the first time; his reading went over quite well, was very funny, but somehow he appeared to be possessed by a demonic accent-bearing force! It was all quite alarming, but he reverted to his normal speaking voice afterwards. I've been trying to find his poem about five-dollar lip-reading lessons, which he intimated was online, but sadly keep getting stuck at websites belonging to various universities, which keep insisting to me that "Shafer Hall is part of a four-dorm quadrangle," which has not been my experience at all.
Well, I expect I will see many of the people I met last night at the Four-Faced-Liar tomorrow. John Cotter will be reading; I spoke to him and his girlfriend, Jaime Corbacho, quite a lot over the evening. Jaime read at the Frequency series a couple of weeks ago, so they are fast becoming a poetical double threat.
Little list o' people I met to help me remember that I met these people: John, Jaime, Lee Klein, Brendan Lorber, Cecily Parks, Charlie Orr, Bridget with no last name, the possible Aaron Raymond, and many more.
Dan Nester had an airbrushed Wizzy D hat. Madness.
I think I shall.
Hmm. Best get going. Just killing time before I leave for the LIT party. DJ Wizzy D. Ha!
On the upside, I've been removing "cheat" lines from a sestina (like making one of the end words "the,") without too much difficulty.
A rejection letter arrived today as well, and from a journal at my alma-mater, no less. A rejection letter is somewhat welcome, actually; at least it means one of my submissions made it to its intended destination. With regard to most of the rest, a well of silence is all I've gotten so far.
I think I'm going to keep a private rating system of rejection letters. Of the three I've received so far, one's a B+, one's a B-, and the other is a big fat F. You can reject my poems, but you don't have to be flippant about it.
But now at least I can focus on writing my first NaPoWriMo poem. Huzzah.
Use it however you will.
So I was thinking that instead of whiling away their time coming up with the name their band would have if they had a band to name, poets must spend time daydreaming about the name of the poetry journal they would edit and publish were they to have a journal. The line between dream and reality here is much thinner than with band-name and band, due to online journals, but I guess you actually have to convince people to submit to your journal. Of course, in order to convince people to submit, you could just make up fake blurbs from well-known poets, put out a press release, and dare them to sue.
I would love to see what a federal court would make of that misappropriation claim.
Anyway, out of my legal fantasies and in to my poetical ones. I have decided that my journal, should I have a journal, will be called "Blah." I'm still trying to articulate the reasons why...
--Humorous indulgence in the fact that the majority of people find poetry boring
--Likewise winking opposition to the fact that poets find it intensely interesting
--Nod to the fact that poetry is just so much "words," commanding little or no interest in a society dominated by objects that can entertain and amuse you instantly, and with little thought on your part.
--Similar nod to the drudgework engaged in getting your work out; if poety is anti-capitalist, is it pro-feudal? Must you apprentice yourself to the guild?
--Nod yet again to the fact that I have no particular political agenda to advance with my poetry (yet); this probably makes me "blah" in the minds of some other poets
--Ability to have Edward Gorey-esque cover art featuring bored Victorians langourously reading large tomes in opulent armchairs.
I think I'm going to spend my NaPoWriMo project finishing up the Calamity Series. I figure that if I have to write one every day, it will probably push me beyond the rhythm (or rut) I'd come to with the poems.
--Ghostface Killah vs. Random Spam Text...via The Lime Tree.
--Smithsonian Magazine muses on Emma Lazarus' The New Colossus...via Grapez.
Many of the poetry blogs I read are engaged in lengthy theoretical dialogues that leave my head spinning with questions that go to the very assumptions that underpin the conversations. Like, "what is the avant-garde, anyway? Is it like obscenity--you know it when you see it?" Can anyone suggest some texts that might help me through this? I'm not starting totally froms scratch here, but I'll admit that I've eschewed theory about poems in favor of reading poems.
The Frequencies--Noah Eli Gordon
The Strand is a place of goodness. But I'm going down to C-Ville in a few weeks; will check out what's new at Heartwood and Daedalus. Mmm...used books...
I've got a cover design, which I'll probably post tonight. But before I start printing out chapbooks, I'm going to try my luck at sending a few of the poems off to magazines. Whee!