No Simultaneous Submissions
There are poetry journals operated by editors
whose pens contain no blood
only ink
they specify no simultaneous submissions
endeavour to respond within six months
eight months
a year
maybe longer
they send generic, nameless rejection notes
with salutations like
Dear author
Dear writer
Dear poet
Hello
Hi
or
they do not send rejection notes at all
will be in touch only
if they are interested
it is easy for me to whinge and moan of course
if I really wanted to change things
I could start my own journal
do it the way it should be done
but
I have better things to do with my time
than to trawl through poem after poem
dozens, hundreds, thousands
all, steaming piles of dog puke
like this one
My First Poetry Reading
I did not enjoy it
but got through it
a short poem
read quickly and without conviction
afterwards, I sat at a table
he stood over me
the editor
a big man
waxing lyrical
about the journal
his visionary leadership
his unfinished novel
eventually bemoaning the state of the world
eventually posing the question
rhetorically of course
Do you know the only thing that can save the world?
That can really make a difference?
he wallowed in the theatrical pause
I waited
and waited
for the punchline
it came
as he stared into the middle distance
Poetry
you will find it hard to believe
I can barely believe it myself
but I swear to you
I remained perfectly still and did not
I promise
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
right into his face
My First Submission to a Bigshot Poetry Journal
I pressed SUBMIT
sat back in my chair
wondering just how long
it would be
before they read
my few poems
and responded
I thought to myself
maybe, if they really like them
or really hate them
they’ll reply within the hour
otherwise
if they are seriously considering them
I might hear back
tomorrow
or the next day
after all
how many halfwits
would bother
submitting to poetry journals
six months passed
lots
turns out
that lots of halfwits bother submitting to poetry journals
Another Poet, Another Interview
I read an interview today
a poet
you might know the type
he spoke of himself
almost with reverence
talked very seriously
about his “work”
explained how he was a conduit
as though he was the first
mentioned “the muse”
as though they were sleeping together
talked of “his craft”, “his craft”, “his craft”
of course
he is a priest
and we
the poor unwashed
receive his poems
as communion
on our grateful tongues
he saved the best for last
before drowning
in an ocean
of clichés
patiently explaining
to the interviewer
and the reader
how he takes his life
his experiences
and absorbs them
processes them
distils them
into something else
what a guy
I am writing this poem
on my phone
on the toilet
where I am doing
much the same
The Red Nib – Pens and Swords
Impaled by anger
cold and pure and through me
I am unsettled by my strange detachment from it all
my mind is calm but
my palms are clammy
my shoulders tight
my skin burning
feeling as it if has moved slightly
and no longer fits
he is an editor
not of words
but of people
his casual disdain has edited me
given my blood voice
a quiet, trembling roar
that reaches all of my edges
his callousness so perfect
that it reaches across cities and streams
time and hope
to nest in my stomach and snigger