Tag Archives: poetry

Poetry, Procrastination and Pampas Grass

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I am now on a 62 day activity streak. I know this because WP tells me so. To get this one I have had to log in and procrastinate for two months. It doesn’t rank up there with the Nobel Peace Prize, Oxford Professor of Poetry, or a Blue Peter Badge.

The Oxford professorship is still in my mind from a conversation I had with Julia recently. I can’t remember how I started on the train of thought but she asked me what I was thinking about, as she sometimes does. The honest answer, much of the time is “absolutely nothing”, but I try to make something up. If she can be bothered to ask, I really ought to make the attempt to be interesting.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A couple of days ago I was honestly able to answer “I was just thinking that I’m glad I never applied to be Oxford professor of Poetry. It’s too political.”

You also need to be good at poetry, but I never let that sort of thing intrude into my thoughts.

To Julia’s credit, she didn’t miss a beat, just asked me more about it. From there we got onto the subject of Simon Armitage’s haircut. It’s not so bad at the moment but a few years ago it looked like a cross between a mop and a desperate cry for help in the midst of a mid-life crisis. I’m clearly not one to talk as both my hairstyles are questionable (billiard ball or “rough sleeper” being the two options), but it was very noticeable. Even Julia noticed it, and she is usually quite accepting of hirsute horror shows.

Thinking about it, I should probably have made something up along the lines of “How lucky I am to be married to you dear.” but I missed my chance and only just realised.

Here’s a link to Simon Armitage’s poem Chainsaw versus the Pampas Grass.  The commentary accompanying the poem says the poem is about overkill. That commentary is clearly written by someone who has never had to manage pampas grass in a garden. The last one I removed needed a hedge trimmer and an axe. The hole it left looked like the garden had been the victim of shellfire.

 

 

That Whisper in my Ear

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Yesterday I received my copy of Contemporary Haibun 21. I may have mentioned a few months ago that I wanted to buy a poetry book from the USA but didn’t want to pay $30 for postage on top of the $30 cost of the book.

My Orange Parker Pen

However, I checked an old email account and found an email with the offer of a $10 discount on the book, because I am in it. Vanity got the better of me, and despite the combined costs being enough to buy two takeaway meals for the two of us, I gritted my teeth and paid the price.

It is “an annual anthology of English-language haibun (and haiga) gleaned from the best practitioners from around the world”. (Haiga are pictures paired up with a haiku for those of you who are lost in the sea of foreign words that begin with hai).

It’s not a bad thing to be in, but when I look, I can’t help thinking about the people who are in it three times where I am only in it once. Are they three times better than me?  How much better do I need to become? Three of them are editors who have been very active in rejecting me over the years. They are also editors of the anthology, so it makes it miraculous that I actually made the cut. One of them seems far too enthusiastic in rejecting me when I submit to the journal where he is a newly appointed editor. He’s new to this job, but I wonder if his zeal will be reflected in the selections next year. If it is, I may be able to save a lot of money.

Two pens – one made by my wife

On the other hand, if they left out the last 50 pages, which are reprints of articles I have already read, it might have been cheaper to print and post.

Tricky.

How much do I crave publication? How much is it worth? Is it worth worrying about when a significant number of the editors are generally not keen on my work? Why does something I should be happy about become a matter for deep thought and depression? If I were Roman general I would have someone next to me whispering in my ear to bring me down to earth, but I don’t, and I can do it all by myself.

Philip Larkin and Moral Judgement

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He looks a bit like Eric Morecambe in some of his photos – which is probably not a good comparison.

I wrote this after watching a YouTube clip of Philip Larkin riding a bicycle. I can’t exactly remember what he was doing but association with An Arundel Tomb has always made me think he was visiting churches, even though I’m not convinced that a church features in the clip. It started out as a longer piece and I pruned it and polished it every time it came back, which was often. I think it was sent out at least four times. On the last occasion I didn’t, as i recall, do anything, as i couldn’t think of anything else to do so I just sent it straight out again and, a day later, it was accepted.

This is an example of how editors all have different views and requirements.

Meanwhile, although I have used it on the blog before, I use it here to illustrate the making of moral judgements. Larkin, you see, was a racist according to his letters. That illustrates several points, such as whether we should judge poetry through a filter of our own morality. Just because he was a racist does that make him a bad poet? And if we do decided to judge a writer by his morals rather than his writing, is it fair to judge one as a racist because he preserved his correspondence, yet to make no judgement on another writer who may have failed to preserve his correspondence?

That’s a tricky thing about making moral judgements, they aren’t always accurate – a bit like the poem, which picks and choses which facts to use. I didn’t use moral judgements in selecting the facts, just what fitted nicely into the flow.

Hidden Worlds

He wears a grey gaberdine and rides a bicycle from church to church. In his head he composes poems about sex and tombs. On YouTube he flickers in black and white, like a newsreel from the 1950s. Smiles are clearly still on ration.

Larkin used more bad language than you normally expect from a librarian. This becomes understandable when you find that he started his day with half a bottle of sherry.

monochrome photo
my parents younger than me
1963

Failed Haiku Feb 2021

 

Poetry and Morality?

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Don’t get excited, despite the title it isn’t a newly discovered Jane Austen novel where an opium addicted poet moves in next door to the three attractive daughters living in a Hampshire Rectory.

I decided to include a poem a few days ago when I was discussing moral judgements to be made by poets. When I discovered how many days I have missed posting recently, I decided it was definitely time, as republishing poetry is quick and easy.. I don’t think I’ve posted this one before. If I have, my apologies.

One major change has taken place since this poem was written – 18 carat gold was £38 per gram in 2023 when this was written. It’s now £72. At peak it was about £96. That’s the effect of wars, disturbed markets and political panic.

My contribution to the discussion was to say that I didn’t think it was my job to make decisions based on my perception of morality. I was then asked whether or not I made a moral judgement every time I wrote a poem.

I’m fairly sure that I don’t. This one is just a description of one line on the official documentation relating to the valuation of my father’s estate, with a couple of bits of trivia relating to death. Maybe I should. But to be honest, I have enough trouble wrestling words into a poem, without debating the rights and wrongs of it. I’m just shallow. I could, of course, write a second poem based on this one and the new price of gold, but I’m not sure the world needs another poem about war and capitalism.

That of course, was just one of the questions surrounding poetry and morals. Two others are about the morality of supporting right-wing magazines by submitting (it’s always the right-wing that gets questioned, isn’t it?), and I asked about the morality of reading poems by poets with questionable moral stances.

I will leave it there, as it has the potential to develop in a way that is neither useful or interesting. I’m off to read some poetry. Now, should I try the racist Larkin, the incestuous Byron or the fascist Pound? Even Dylan Thomas was overly fond of the bottle and committed a number of crimes against neckwear. Morals can be so confusing.

Does anyone have a view?

On Dunwich beach

 

Weighed in the Balance

The Egyptians believed that Anubis would weigh the heart of the deceased against a feather to see if they were worthy of the afterlife. Later, scientists calculated that the human soul weighed 21 grams.

This morning, preparing the paperwork for my late father’s estate, my heart skipped a beat as I saw the details of his life reduced to a weight – 8 grams of 18 carat gold at £38 a gram. That is the price set on his wedding ring, the value that the tax man places on 63 years of marriage.

his life
persists in memory
—dust floats in the sun

First published in Blithe Spirit August 2023.

Ringlet

Tales of a Small Rabbit

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I’ve not quite made up my mind about my new blogging routine, but I am going to keep to the one a day (on average) plan until the end of the month. I’m thinking I may drop back to a couple of times a week after that. Half of me says that there is no need to change, as 250 words a day shouldn’t be a challenge. The other half of me says that practising longer pieces will be good for me and I should give it a go.

Whatever happens, I do know that I had a rejection yesterday. Rattle magazine runs a monthly ekphrastic poetry competition, amongst other things. It’s a good way of getting my submission numbers up, and giving myself a new challenge. So far, it’s also been a useful lesson in rejection, with me achieving a perfect record of three rejections in three attempts. I don’t mind these rejections, because they reject the poems because they aren’t good enough. Yes, I’m still banging on about editors who reject decent poems because they don’t match up to some wrong-headed vision of what a poem should be.

I will not go further along that line as it’s difficult to explain without becoming tedious. I’m thinking about this more and more because it’s coming up to the time when I will have to select a poem for a best of issue tanka, and I’m still not sure how to do it. I think I’ll just select the one I like the most and be honest about it. I’ll leave scholarly comment to other people.

Meanwhile, I just had two acceptances to balance up the rejection, and we had the woodpecker back on the feeders this morning. We have also got a small rabbit in the back garden. We aren’t sure how it got in, but are hoping it will be able to get out the same way as I wouldn’t want to see it trapped. It seems to have burrowed into the compost bin in search of vegetable scraps, but am not sure there is enough food in the garden to support even a small rabbit. The photo isn’t good, but it was done on a phone and enlarged without mercy.

It’s been a good time for wildlife – all the fledglings, the woodpeckers, a rabbit, a sparrow and the return of the goldfinches.

 

The Devil’s Darning Needle

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I had another acceptance yesterday morning, and am feeling slightly fraudulent. The three acceptances I have had recently come to 80, 15 and 6 words respectively.  I can just about make out a case for thinking of 80 words as a submission, but when you get down to the shorter poems I begin to wonder. Be honest – what sort of poem is six words long?

Damselfly at Wilford

I know that’s the format, but it sometimes seems like haiku are just a con trick. A good one is like a flash of lightning, but most of them aren’t that good.  Even worse, if you read a translation of an old classic, they are often dull and pointless. Of course, most of mine are rejected, so that puts me firmly in my place – I can’t even write an acceptable example of a short, and often tedious, form.

I’m not sure whether this makes me an original thinker or a philistine. Or possibly a heretic.

Meanwhile, we have had woodpeckers in the garden again. We also had a sparrow, which is unusual for us. It’s a little brown bird, which used to be common but is now very patchy in its distribution. This is the first one we have had in the garden at this house.

While I was waiting for a car to take me to the garage to pick my repaired car up (that noise you may have heard earlier was my heart breaking as I opened up my wallet to pay for the new clutch) I noticed three damsel flies flitting around the front garden. I’m sure they were Common Blue Damselflies. One female, two males. Or one female and one male twice. It could be either. The males are blue. A lot of damselflies are blue. It’s very confusing.

Damsel Fly – Wilford

I like the name devil’s darning needle. I don’t use it because damselfly is shorter and I’m lazy. I’m also concerned that using the name devil will endanger my status as an atheist. I don’t generally discuss religion because, like politics, nobody is going to change their on the subject, but when I see some of the things that are happening around the world, and see religion being used as an  excuse, I would like to distance myself from them.

It may be that when I die, I will find I am wrong and will have trouble explaining myself, but I feel it is unlikely. However, if there is an afterlife and all that goes with it, people who have been murdering babies in the name of religion will, I hope, have an equally hard time.

Dragonfly

Following Up and Bits & Pieces

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I was recently asked for a description of various forms of Japanese poetry. I think you should find all you need here.  There are links in that one, which is about tanka and tanka prose, which will take you to haiku and haibun. One of the tanka links no longer works. If I remove it I them have to change the text, so am leaving it as I am short of time and am not a perfectionist.

The real way to write poetry of any type, as I have said before, is to pick up a pen and start writing. Eventually it will need typing but you’re a blogger, so you can already do that. Then email some off to editors.

If they are accepted, you are a genius. Well done, come back and tell me how you did it. Then tell everyone you learnt it all from me.

If your initial poems are rejected, join the club. Write some better ones and send them off. Each rejection hardens you up to cope with rejection, so failure is useful.

This year I have made 44 submissions and have had 18 acceptances, 17 rejections and have 9 answers pending. It’s not such a good rate as last year, but I’m writing to more places rather than just the ones that suit me. The point is to do something new rather than rack up an impressive ratio of accepted poetry.

Orange Parker Pen

I am, as i have said, looking at changing things round a bit. It may not see me improving or becoming more successful but it will get me out of a rut and make me use my brain differently.

Meanwhile, Sunday brought two emails, one accepting a haibun and one accepting a haiku. The ones that weren’t used (six haiku and two haibun) can go into the submissions for the coming month.

I need one lot of 10-15 and one lot of four for the 15th of the month. I now have enough. It’s a help and takes some of the pressure off.

Having said that, I just went to look at what I need to do. Even with this progress I still have quite a lot of work ahead of me. OK, I have three weeks to do it in,  but I am at a funeral in Norwich later today and on Thursday I will be messing about delivering the car for repair.

My Orange Parker Pen. I just wrote a poem about it, as all my hints to parker have come to nothing. It was rejected. So I sent it to somebody else.

 

For Want of a Keyboard . . .

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Yet another post that was started one day then ignored until the next . . .

I sent a poetry submission off last night. This morning, just nine hours later, I had a swift rejection. One of the problems was that I’d said, in the covering letter, that I had used AI. What I meant to say was that I had not used AI. Editors like you to say that these days. I can’t really blame this on my age or tiredness as I wasn’t tired and am the same age, to within a few days, to when I sent off several properly worded submissions. Unfortunately, as my fingers dance over the clapped out keys of my keyboard, they seem to miss things out. Sometimes a letter, sometimes a pair of letters, sometimes an entire short word. When it’s a complete word I often wonder if it’s my brain or the typing, or the keyboard which should take the blame. I’ve decided to invest £12 in  a new keyboard and find out.

Unfortunately, he then followed up by telling me the poetry was “safe” and gave the feeling that I was “ticking boxes”. Whether this view was informed by his unfortunate belief that I had used AI, or it really is so bland, I don’t really know.

I suggested that I could maybe make the poetry more “raw” as requested by making the old man in the cafe swear a bit more, mention his PTSD in verse two and add a fith verse that shows him vaulting across table to disembowel an annoying child with a plastic butter knife.

Julia said she wasn’t quite sure it was the right thing to suggest as it might be seen as sarcasm rather than a serious attempt to regain my artistic integrity.

That’s what she meant anyway.  What she actually said was “No. Don’t.”

So I wrote, explained the typos and told him I would take his comments on board.

I won’t, as they are all decent poems, but it doesn’t pay to upset editors.

Photos are from yesterday when a nestful of blue tit fledglings descended on the feeders. Current RSPB advice is that we shouldn’t feed birds in summer as it spreads disease. However, we wash the feeders regularly and are feeding several families of fledglings – blue tits, great tits and starlings. It’s difficult to know what to do for the best.

Of course, the pictures never come out as well as they could do, as the birds are all greyish instead of blue, white and yellow and I never manage to get more than three in one shot.

Some Meandering Thoughts on Poetry

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The 27th already! What appeared to be “plenty of time” last week has slimmed itself down considerably. I will be Ok, but an extra week would be handy. The three rejected haibun are, I have decided, going out again with a couple of words tweaked. I’m happy they were good enough for an acceptance last time out. It is just, as I have found before, that some editors don’t like my style. If I was a bad writer, everybody would return my work. If I were a patchy writer of variable quality, all editors would reject me at some point. Generally that doesn’t happen. Some editors accept me. others reject. Once in a while something will be rejected unexpectedly, but that can usually be put down to (a) it being a bit too obscure or (b) rushed and not good enough.

In an ideal world I would, I suppose, be able to write to a quality that it was impossible to reject, or would be skilful enough to appeal to all readers. So far that hasn’t happened, though I continue to practice writing with the aim of global domination.

Allysum with ladybird

However, I have just looked through the index of a recent magazine. and looked for the names of the three editors who have recently rejected me. They aren’t in. It could be that they didn’t submit anything, or it could be that they were unsuccessful. It’s difficult to tell, but I do know that one of them has written on the subject of how many times they have submitted some poetry before it was accepted. That article was why I always give poems a second and third chance.

It’s a bit like writing long pieces of text – much of the work and skill is in the rewriting. With poetry, much of the time is used in post mortems of returned submissions. To be a good writer of haibun, it’s not enough to write well (which is hard enough) but you have the suit an editor, follow fashion (without being hackneyed) and do a number of other things I haven’t grasped yet. I know that sounds strange, but it’s all part of the constant learning process – the known unknowns and the unknown unknowns of poetry

Photo by Stas Knop on Pexels.com

The Best Words in the Best Order

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‘I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is prose; words in their best order; – poetry; the best words in the best order.’

S. T. Coleridge

Yesterday I read the words of an editor on the front page of their website. It seems that running a magazine is hard work and takes a lot of time. I had never imagined otherwise. I base this on the fact that I spent yesterday pushing words round paper. By the time I had finished I had taken three unpublishable poems and turned them into one possibly publishable poem and two that were better than when I started on them.

 

Poetry takes time. Lots of time.

I read some background, cogitated, deleted a few words, added a few words, deleted them, went back to the first version, and, in a flash of inspiration, deleted the first verse and the last verse and carried on messing with words.

Then I moved on to the next one . . .

The tricky thing I find, is that it’s surprisingly easy to alter something and make the poem worse.

Sometimes, when I’m in full flow, I can write a whole poem and it doesn’t need altering. I wrote one like that once and it was highly commended in a competition. I need to practice more and try to get back to that.

One of my free verse poems, when edited, turned into a haibun. Not quite sure how it happened, but it just seemed to fall into shape as I edited. It might be similar to what sports coaches call “muscle memory” – I’ve written so many haibun that I can’t write anything else. That’s unfortunate, because, as a previous editor pointed out recently, I can’t write haibun. 🙂

I’ve used pictures of Julia’s woodturning, because it’s very much like poetry. You start off with hope and a battery of skills and, if you are lucky, you end up finding something that is better than you hoped.