The Bookity Book & Tall Grass Salon

Maryn, my goodness. Months of that.

Okay. A prose poem today. Why is this not "just" flash fiction? Also, content warning, this is a gut puncher of a piece of writing.

Jakarta, January, by Sarah Kay

That . . . was a great one. I think I mentioned before I am always appreciative of someone who can point out something so commonplace I never thought to remark on it, yet makes it central to the description. Such as the initial denial of "how stupid do you need to be for it to happen twice," and the mistrust of a clear blue sky. We go over Pittsburgh every time I fly from DC to Detroit, and I look for Shanksville, or the inevitable thoughts when seeing the Pentagon when I fly back. The parallel to the blast in Jakarta described is very well done.

To me, what makes it poetry is the parallelism, the circular connections to earlier prose, but also the lack of punctuation. A fuzzy line, as none of these by themselves or even in combination make it prose (consider the short story Mr Salary, linked to in the Short Story Challenge thread) that has these elements in some degree but falls firmly in prose.

Glad you both like it as much as I do. That final image is killer. Chris, I agree the lack of (most) punctuation is part of the distinction, and I would also say the use of italicized phrases throughout as a sort of textual punctuation, maybe.

Ultimately I come down on the non-side of "I don't really care what it's called" but I am more likely to read it if it is called a poem. Hmmm.

Today I submitted three poems to a journal. At that point I realized I had really better start and keep a running list of stuff I have submitted and where. So I made that list. It's a lot! Yesterday I wrote four poems. Today, only started one (it may be finished, has to sit a bit) but I have a number of things I am actually eager to send out into the world and see how they do out there.

I am only willing to pay reading fees for contests that are offering good cash prizes (and I will not pay more than $20 a pop). Even so, I can't afford to submit to all the ones going on of course, but I have another two (in addition to the five I've already entered) that I really want to give a try -- have to wait for the next money but fortunately that will still give me time before their deadlines.

I have lots of aspirations for when we move, not least of which is to find or start a poetry group for crit and poem chat. I'd love to find a place, a venue, to do readings. I also want to get a printer and so be able to print hard copies of everything. This is becoming necessary because there are some thematic groupings I want to keep together and that will be much easier in hard copies. Also, it will help me learn how to actually organize a poetry manuscript. I did one in a rush to submit to a chapbook contest, in January, but realized as I was doing it that I really would have liked to have the hard copies and be able to really work with the order of the pieces. I did that as best I could but I know I could do so much more with the arc of a manuscript.

I have located two (or is it three?) journals who not only do not charge reading fees but they actually pay poets who contribute. I will definitely be submitting to those.

On Twitter, I've been followed by a few poets whom I consider to be very accomplished and who have strong reputations -- I always feel a little thrill when that happens and also feel an urge to sort of live up to it by overcoming my previous resistances to submitting and actually getting something going. And also by becoming a better poet. Though at the same time I am finding it not very hard to shuck off any feelings of insecurity or like I don't belong among them... I just notice it and tell myself it's bullshit and it goes away. Heh.

When I Am a Hummingbird by Alan Michael Parker

(could be said to be another dog poem)

Maryn, thank you, yes, I completely agree not for everyone! and I really appreciate your saying what you don't like as much as I appreciate your saying what you do like.

A meme that I saw on Twitter has a pic of a woman with her head bowed and face in hands, it reads : Bad Poetry (in big letters.) But the person who posted it said (paraphrasing) There is no such thing as bad poetry. There are three kinds of poetry: poetry you like and poetry you don't like. The only bad poetry is by a poet who thinks they are better than those they are asking to read it. (that last is hard to phrase with grace; I think the original is about as rough as my version, LOL!)

but anyway, I like that approach very much.

and yet.... I confess I do think there is such a thing as bad poetry. I got a little chapbook on sale (via a GoodReads promotion) that I eagerly looked forward to and when I started reading it I ended up (*gasp*) throwing it in the trash. It was a series of sentimental cliches arranged with line breaks. GoodReads was asking people to review it and I thought to myself, You do NOT want me to review this book, no nope no.

PS What I liked about today's poem was how the poet centered it in the middle of his own conflicted and strong emotional reactions: loving the dogs, having to forgive Nature because, well, Nature, and then with some amount of power expressing how much he would desire to make different what had come about, because of the Nature he loves -- all this is very rich. And despite some of the gruesomeness and his strong feelings, it is all quite gentle.

Oooooh! Controversy about a poem! I love this part; I'm about to learn some stuff through the discussion.

The sense I got from the poem was the narrator witnesses something horrific, wants to escape it into the carefree life of a hummingbird, only to have nature/real life/grubbiness intrude into that life. In that sense, the brutality of the dogs killing the opossum and the return to the carcass later emphacize the point.

Now, whether or not I particularly want to have a gritty imagery presented to me is another point. Was it too much in this poem? I think so. Less would have been more, especially balanced against the rather flighty (pun intended) middle section of the joys of being a hummingbird. So I guess a sense of balance is one thing I look for in a poem or story.

As for what's good, some people look for "enjoyable," while others look only for "technically proficient" or "well executed." The first group argues that enjoyability is all that matters, while the others will argue that if something isn't done well it can't be enjoyable. "How can you like Twilight? It's cookie cutter crap." Well, millions did and still do.

For me, it's easier for me to identify when it doesn't work, as with identifying the unbalance of the imagery in the poem. As for well executed, the whole aside of "And whom did I just ask. . ." was meant to be a cute insertion that threw me off. (I also had to double check who/whom. I like Grammarly's trick: if the answer is "he" or "she," use "who," if the answer is "him" or "her," use "whom." "And whom did I ask? I asked him." It's one of those things I can never remember from one time to the next.)

I'm toying with a list of what I use to determine if something is "good," but the concrete list escapes me at the moment.

Y'all. I was just poking through the back pages of this thread, looking for my one recent publishing credit cause I knew I posted it here when I had that poem accepted. Found it. April 5 2016, 'In This Skull' to The Starving Artist.

But when I clicked that link, I found their domain name for sale and they exist no more.

I'm only thinking about this because now that I am in a flurry of submitting again, I thought I might as well be able to refer to that and to the one I published sometime in the 1970s (to another defunct mag, Cedar Rock.)

Anyway, since both are non-existent I guess I can forget it. Though I am a little sad to see the Starving Artist disappeared so fast.

And.

I miss kuwi and gettingby and Max! and lacygnette and lilith and Matty and ferret and.....

I'm sure QLH has a thread or two about claiming pub credits for defunct mags. I'm at a loss as to what the consensus would be, though.

Kyla, there was a bit of upheaval here while you were gone, particularly in the P&CE forum (or what it's called now--I'm not protesting, I just can't remember the initials). In addition to the normal comings and goings of folks, a number of regular members, politically minded and otherwise, left. Those who've come back don't post as much as they used to. We're still attracting new and amazing members, and some of the long-standing regulars and newbies have had a chance to really shine. In short, AW continues to grow and evolve. I do miss the old gang, though.

Good morning.

Well, my life went through upheaval too, so I guess I must be in the right place. And thanks, Chris, for the tip about QLH, I will mount a search later on (though in a way I would almost rather let the dead alone, than invoke their names....)

anyway. Today's poem is 1000 by Safia Elhillo

about which I have too much to feel and not to say yet this morning.

Wow, that was a powerful one. I feel like the more I say about it, the more I would show my ignorance.

Never stopped me before, though. What makes this poem "good" for me is the revealing of a world that was always there that I never pictured. It's one of those things that's obvious when pointed out, but it takes someone pointing out to see.

I always look askance at my male friends who have a "thing" for younger-looking women, especially when it crosses into fetishism and baby-doll obsession. It just always seems creepy.

The poem also brings to mind an exercise someone here on AW said a teacher friend of theirs uses. First, he asks all the males in the room to describe what they do on a daily basis to avoid sexual assault. The men giggle, made lame prison jokes, and that's about it. Then the teacher asks the girls. They say: always have your phone ready; keep your radar on for any movement in dark parking lots; make sure a friend can always reach you at a party; have a fake name and phone number ready; practice lying about where you live, the car you drive, where you go to school, etc.; the list goes on.

Chris, yes, wow, that is quite a telling exercise. Good to know of it.

Maryn, my sense about the spacing is that it is meant to give the feeling of a catch in the breath, and of the hesitation inherent in saying what is difficult to give voice to, and perhaps even held back sobs.... it has that effect on me at any rate.

I ended up writing a poem myself, about some of what this poem brought up for me. It's in the poetry crit room if you care to read it. No hiccup-y spacing. Called "Remembering Nadia".

My poem likely needs some cleaning up but I will do that over the next day or two. Most of it will stand as is.

Not a poem, but a lovely essay by Tove Jansson on writing, not writing, being blocked from writing, and other things that can happen....

On Writer's Block

Interesting essay. I was starting to get bored right at the point she said "At this point I got really tired." I wonder if she had planned that, and played me like a fiddle. But in the end, she got her story: the clochard.

It reminds me of a writing exercise I used to do when I first started writing short stories: go to a public place, then select a person and write a story about them. Nothing more than just a bio, maybe a scene from their life. Or pick an object and write about how it got there, or what the people talked about when the put it there. Anything. And it was just how Jansson described it; sometimes the words just wrote themselves, and sometimes nothing at all came, no matter what trick I tried to use.

I like your exercise, Chris, it reminds me very much of what I am doing with these postcards.

(I still have not looked up "clochard" but will -- what is?)

I promise to look for a poem today! (The one from Poets.org this morning did not please me for us.) Meanwhile, here is

Meta Bookshelving which I would love to visit -- a project that seeks to make us aware of how we unconsciously take in various paradigms through books.... No doubt this will be criticized and poked fun at as being an example of PC gone rogue, but whatever. I like it.

Okay, wow.

from A Part Song, by Denise Riley

You have to scroll down for the poem. It is longish. It is worth your attention, I promise.

A clochard is a beggar. I'm not sure if the word has officially made it into English, or if the author was using a French word as if it were English.

I'll have to do the poem later. My wife has the TV on, and one reason I never watch TV is I can't concentrate on anything else when one is on. It's not because I love TV, it's actually why I hate TV.

Thanks, Chris, I figured beggar or crazed person or something like....

And yes, this poem will need concentration! I'm sorry about the TV but glad your wife is with you.

I cannot abide TV, though when I was staying in Georgia for those three weeks taking refuge from hurricane Florence, Miss Clara whose house I was in watched TV most of the day. I ended up sitting with her and watching old episodes of the Andy Griffith show and getting into it. In self defense. Fortunately the bedroom I was given had an empty room between it and the TV room and so with doors closed, I had quiet.

Two Poems by Lucy Whitehead

(a bonus today. )