Ken Craft

712 posts

Epigraphic Content

poetry

epigraph

Writing a poetry collection is work. Finding an epigraph (or two) to grace those pale pages after the Table of Contents but before the first poem? That can be fun. “So many possibilities!” as mosquitoes in June like to say.

An epigraph can serve as a compass of sorts, a thematic guide to the poems you are about to read. Or it can be a satiric joke, maybe. A tender irony.

Whichever, I always read them. And often wonder over them. Returning to them after reading the collection is instructive, too. Sometimes they take on deeper meaning (like foreshadowing after the sun sets), and sometimes they become more cryptic (or, to be less generous, more random).

I’m still contemplating an epigraph for my forthcoming collection. For my first, I chose the oft-quoted Walden stalwart, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” because I thought it spoke to the theme of indifference, a rich vein on earth I tried to tap into. I’ve always loved that quote. Heck with the book, it could serve as an epitaph on many a gravestone. Thank you, Henry, David, and Thoreau!

For fun, I thought I’d pull random poetry collections off my bookshelf and check out the epigraphs. Here’s what I found:

What do I erroneously assume that I know? (Montaigne)

— To the Left of Time by Thomas Lux

One madman laughs at another,
and they each give enjoyment to one another.
If you watch closely, you will see
that the maddest gets the biggest laugh. (Erasmus)

— failure by Philip Shultz

The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock,
but of wisdom: no clock can measure. (William Blake)
Who would dare tell me that
I am a stranger here?!? (Anna Akhmatova)

— Facts About the Moon by Dorianne Laux

The landscape crossed out with a pen reappears here. (Bei Dao)

— Night Sky With Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuoung

Although Rama was Vishnu,
his human incarnation
made him unaware of his identity
at the moment. (The Ramayana, trans. R.K. Narayan)
Ugh! The stupidity of the beloved! (Grace Paley)

What Narcissism Means to Me by Tony Hoagland

Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun. (Romeo & Juliet, Act III, Scene II)

I thought, everything can be used in a lifetime, can’t it, and went on walking. (Joseph Cornell)

—Night Sky Frequencies by Debra Nystrom

I go up but at the same time I go down.
Present tense I am; but past tense too.
Three is one too many, one is one too few. (Old Riddle)

— Biecentennial by Dan Chiasson

You get the idea. Epigraphs may clear their throats and go all classical on us, Stentorian-like. Or they can throw quick, quiet quips like sophomores passing time in mandatory chapel. Either way, I enjoy them, and unlike prefaces and introductions, never skip them, pretentious or not.

Temptation = a Summer Book Before the Summer

humor poetry poetry books

a&e

I visited the local Barnes and his friend, Noble, this past weekend for the express purpose of visiting the periodicals section to buy copies of the July issue of Gray’s Sporting Journal, which includes my poem, “Hemingway Fishing.” It didn’t go down that way. Not quite.

“While I’m here in the shady Tree of Knowledge,” I figured, “I might as well leaf through a few books. You know, just to browse. Nothing dangerous to my budget or my library-only resolution.”

The next thing you know, a clutch of Gray’s in my hand, I’m in the poetry section–akin to a recovering alcoholic visiting the open bar “just for the ambiance.”

Now I know how Adam & Eve felt. I had no chance. None. Before I knew it, I was starting a little book stash, rationalizing to myself that it was “just” a little pile for summer reading, that I can’t really access my home library when I am away at the summer camp, anyway, that I have a teacher-discount card from both Barnes AND Noble gathering dust in my wallet, so what the Hades.

Before you knew it, I had To the Left of Time (Thomas Lux), Stag’s Leap (Sharon Olds), and Poems (Elizabeth Bishop) poetically piggy-backed on the bookstore floor. Before you knew it, my conscience had been banished, and I didn’t give a fig.

Temptation, thy name is Summer Books Before Summer (officially starts the 21st in the northern hemisphere). To compound my sin? When I got home, I put these books aside for the summer and then, two nights later, when the novel I was reading did its molasses uphill imitation, turned to the Lux and started reading it early. Before summer, that is.

As Charlie Brown would put it: Arghhh!

Fear not, however. I immediately consoled myself. I said, “Hey, it’s over 90 degrees today. Close enough!”

Now you know where the adjective “Adamic” comes from.

Dog Days for Poetry Markets

marketing poetry poetry

dog

According to The Facts on File Encyclopedia or Word and Phrase Origins (3rd Edition), the expression “dog days” comes to us compliments of the Romans (who apparently couldn’t stay in one place and were always roamin’ around). “Dog days” refer to those torrid July and August days up ahead here in the northern hemisphere and are actually related to a star:

“The expression originated in Roman times as canicularis dies, “days of the dog,” and was an astronomical expression referring tot the dog star Sirius, or possibly Procyon. The Romans linked the rising of the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the constellation, Canis Major, with the sultry summer heat, believing that the star added to the extreme heat of the sun.”

For poets, the dog days strike early, following the arc of university schedules. As so many poetry markets come to us thanks to the support of university journals and magazines, poets clicking through markets are now discovering dog days of submittable drought. Many markets, closed in April or May, are shouting “No current calls for submissions” on their web pages, and most won’t open again until September.

Perhaps more than any other writer, poets face seasonal challenges when it comes to getting their work published. The upside? Summer is a great time to make writing part of rest and relaxation, to generate material for the fall. Poetry even takes to the sun (think “beach write” instead of “beach read”). It mixes with dogs, too, as Robert Frost proved dog-years ago:

Canis Major

The great Overdog
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I’m a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.

If anyone has hot leads in the way of summer opportunities for publishing poets, share them in the comments section. Meanwhile, keep writing and keep appreciating man’s best friend, be he at your side or in the skies.

Allen Ginsberg’s Inner China

poetry reading poetry

ginsberg

I’m not a huge fan of Allen Ginsberg or the beat poets in general, but a poem of his I came across yesterday spoke to me, proving once again that it’s bad politics to bless or condemn poets until you’ve read the body of their work (and, in Ginsberg’s case, I have far to go).

Ginsberg, it seemed to past me, was too effusive, wordy, full of his avante garde stream-of-consciousness. Like Thomas Wolfe’s novels, his poems begged for an editor in large, sandwich-board-ad letters. An editor with scissors, thank you. Sharp and well-oiled ones.

In all honesty, it’s only eight lines of the poem that I love. But that’s OK. I’m of the school that deems poetry a “success” and a wonder if only part of it wows me. Sustaining a beautiful poem, start to finish, is no small feat, after all.

Here it is in full. Can you guess the lines that sing to me? I wonder if they’ll sing to you, too?

“Returning to the Country for a Brief Visit” by Allen Ginsberg

Annotations to Amitendranath Tagore’s Sung Poetry

“In later days, remembering this I shall certainly go mad.”

Reading Sung poems, I think of my poems to Neal
dead a few years now, Jack underground
invisible – their faces rise in my mind.
Did I write truthfully of them? In later times
I saw them little, not much difference they’re dead.
They live in books and memory, strong as on earth.

“I do not know who is hoarding all this rare work.”

Old One the dog stretches stiff legged,
soon he’ll be underground. Spring’s first fat bee
buzzes yellow over the new grass and dead leaves.

What’s this little brown insect walking zigzag
across the sunny white page of Su Tung-p’o’s poem?
Fly away, tiny mite, even your life is tender –
I lift the book and blow you into the dazzling void.

“You live apart on rivers and seas…”

You live in apartments by rivers and seas
Spring comes, waters flow murky, the salt wave’s covered with oily dung.
Sun rises, smokestacks cover the roofs with black mist,
winds blow, city skies are clear blue all afternoon
but at night the full moon hesitates behind brick.
How will all these millions of people worship the Great Mother?
When all these millions of people die, will they recognize the Great Father?

If you guessed stanzas 2 and 3 (from “Old One the dog stretches stiff legged…” to “I lift the book and blow you into the dazzling void”), you are correct.

For me, those lines stand out, a poem within a poem, a lovely nod to ahimsa, the Buddhist/Hindu/Jain belief in not harming even the tiniest of life forms. Those lines capture and bottle the gentle lightning of Chinese poetry quite nicely, no? The fact that thinking of his dead friends Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac incites Ginsberg’s muse is fine, if not essential, at least to me.

I thank Allen for the marrow of the poem alone. Its sweet, soft essence. Its gentle truths about life and how much of it is brief, tender, and vulnerable.

Haiku-like Hemingway

poetry

Many people don’t know that Ernest Hemingway enjoyed reading poetry and, before he became famous for his short stories, even attempted a few poems. Reading A Moveable Feast, I can see why. Poetry often hides in the work of good prose writers, and as I tried fashioning found poems from young Hemingway’s spare language, I discovered an almost Eastern simplicity to them:

Haiku-like Hemingway

Paris in winter,
clear and cold and lovely.
Our apartment, though,
warm and cheerful.
We burn boulets—
molded, egg-shaped lumps
of coal dust.

Outside, accustomed
to bare trees against the sky,
I walk on fresh-washed gravel paths
through Luxembourg Gardens.
The clear, sharp wind.

Winter winds blow across
surfaces of the ponds
and the fountains
blow in the bright light.

The fireplace draws well,
warm and pleasant to work.
I bring mandarines,
roasted chestnuts
in paper packets, peel
and eat the small
tangerine-like oranges,
throwing skins
and spitting seeds
in the fire.

I am hungry
with the walking and the cold
and the working.
Hunger is good discipline.

Take the Free Book (and the Long Odds)!

Goodreads poetry The Indifferent World

TIW

I’ve written about Goodreads’ Book Giveaways before. To say the least, I have ambivalent feelings. On the one hand, they’re good publicity for the little guy (read: humble author) who’s lost in a big jungle (read: the published world). On the other hand, the odds of winning (meaning you) are longer than a certain island off the Connecticut coast, and the odds of garnering a review (meaning me) are wider than a certain mouth in the White House.

In any event, for the third go-round, The Indifferent World, is now available as a Goodreads Giveaway until June 9th. Yes, you could win a signed first (and no-doubt last) edition for free, and yes, you could get hit by lightning (unsigned, I’m guessing), but that’s why Hope waited til last to slip out of Pandora’s box. It’s also why you might just enter your name.

I’m rooting for you, trust me. The fact that you’re reading this post tells me you’re a fan of poetry’s, or at the very least, a fan of writing’s. That means you’ll probably actually read the book if you win. It also means you’ll be kind enough to write a review.

If I could fix the damn giveaway, I would. This is the Age of Authoritarians, after all, so one can dream about silver linings that work in one’s favor, no? The past three GR Giveaway books I’ve mailed into the world, suitcases packed with destination stickers, have disappeared into a void. Nothing but nothing in response! Just Simon & Garfunkel’s dreaded “Sound of Silence” (cue melancholy disc jockey).

Those books, I fear, were snapped up by the Freebie Junkies, the professional Goodreads Giveaway people who have 398,875,193 books on their “To-Read” shelves and 0 books on their “Reviews” shelf.

But, no. This time–perhaps the last time–I have faith. And, as the New York Times has failed to publish this version of the “Tell Us 5 Things About Your Book” series, I’ll slip it in here in case free things intrigue you:

When did you first get the idea to write this book?

The idea lies in the first of the book’s four sections, titled “Woods & Lake.” This suite of poems was inspired by my years on a Maine lake where time seems to have stopped because not much has changed there since the Eisenhower Administration. Were he alive, even Thoreau would be at home there. (Thoreau gets a cameo in one of the poems, by the way).

What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing it?

By God, I can write poetry! Originally, the plan was to write short stories with a long-term plan for working up to novels. In fact, I actually completed a young adult novel in the 90s. The feedback from one New York editor was something to the effect of “wonderful descriptions… it’s the plot that needs attention!” Like my lake surroundings, my prose often took leisurely turns toward lyricism and imagery. Poetry in prose’s clothing, in other words! Coupling that realization with a full-tilt teaching schedule, my shift to the more compact (and challenging) genre was complete.

In what way is the book you wrote different from the book you set out to write?

Some writers start with a master plan, an endgame in sight before the first word is writ. This would not be that book. The Indifferent World evolved as I wrote and rewrote it. Eventually I noticed common themes and grouped the poems accordingly. The four parts are entitled Woods & Lake, Homebodies, Mysteries, and The Indifferent World.

Who is a creative person (not a writer) who has influenced you and your work?

The Estonian composer Arvo Pärt. Most of the book was written to his music. It fit the mood I was trying to create. I wanted the poems to be simple yet thoughtful, something readers could relate to. Like Pärt’s music.

Persuade someone to read “The Indifferent World” in less than 50 words.

The poetry is approachable. It’s also not afraid to break “rules” because, frankly, I was not up on the “rules” when I was writing it. I did not avoid certain words, like (gasp!) “darkness.” I did not avoid certain topics, like dog poems. Instead, I wrote what inspired me, figuring that would inspire readers, too.

What? Over-Submitting?

poetry writing

sub

Most writers are fond of proclaiming their devotion to the craft (ahem) of writing and by saying this explains their lack of discipline in marketing their work. Fair enough. These are two different skills, no doubt from two different hemispheres of the brain: Samarkand has a goal of submitting work to ten markets today, while Asunción wants to write art for art’s sake (how noble… and lonely)!

Over the course of my development as a writer, I’ve worked hard to develop the Uzbekistan side of the tracks. I have a special Word document of markets divided into two categories: Submissions by Poetry Journals and Submissions by Poem Title.

Using the “Table” function, I created rows for “Date Sent,” “Title(s),” “Accepted or Rejected,” and “Expected Publication Date.” It’s been a lifesaver.

Why? Because you can become an over-submitter. Yes, the web site called Submittable can be a life-saver, but not all submissions go through that growing monopoly and the growing $3 “not-a-reading-fee” fees participating journals often engage in there. Many journals have their own submission managers, some still use trusty attachments to e-mails, and then, stubbornly in the corner, we have the hold-outs who still insist on good-old postal submissions with self-addressed stamped envelopes (SASES). I mark these special cases with an asterisk in the “Date Sent” column.

The tricky part comes when your poems get accepted. The more simultaneous submissions you have, the bigger pain it becomes to notify all parties. As Ben Franklin (or was it Mark Twain?) once said: “Simultaneous submissions giveth, and simultaneous submissions taketh away.”

The Submittable markets are easiest to alert because you can simply add a note on that site to inform the editors they have one less masterpiece to choose from. Beyond that, you’re often looking up e-mails of editors and/or special instructions on the web pages of all of the other journals submitted to.

One adjustment I might make, then, is adding “Contact Info” to any market that does not use Submittable. This way my Word document will help me to expedite obligations to other editors considering the “sold” poem.

Should there be set limits on how many markets any one poem is courting at any given moment? That’s a personal call. Right now my most marketed poem is waiting in the editorial offices of ten different journals. It’s a sign of my own confidence in the poem, my own incredulity that it hasn’t been snapped up yet.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s my baby. We all play favorites, and as any parent can tell you, when you play favorites, you necessarily overlook flaws.

Whatever the method, you need to have one. You need balance between your artist persona and your business persona. As to the question of over-marketing work? That depends on your ledger-keeping prowess. If you can manage 25 markets-per-poem, more power to you.

Just remember, if the same poem is rejected by dozens of markets over time, haul it into the body shop for some work, maybe. Or face reality. Acknowledge samsara and set it free….

Revisionary

marketing poetry poetry revising poetry word choice writing

johnson

Yesterday the topic of revision came up. I resisted the urge to revise that post and instead decided to add a few random addenda here.

Ridiculous? Maybe. But often I go back and forth, day by day, on the question of definite vs. indefinite article. “The” becomes “a” becomes “the” becomes “a.”
Better yet, I sometimes wonder why I even need articles at all. I delete them altogether. Only to see them rise again, gaudy as Lazarus.
Revision time is often consumed with questions regarding stanzas. One day a poem looks good as a single block. The next, it struts its stuff in couplets. Then, like punch lines in jokes, it’s tercets. The lovely quatrain, maybe?
Of course, stanzas don’t always cooperate. Some of them are stubborn, refusing to obey orders and “fall in.” Then the revisionist faces the decision on whether to allow a single line at the end or not. Too show-offy? Cheap? Unjustified?
Or maybe we just shorten or lengthen lines to make them fit a stanza pattern?
Adjectives. Adverbs. Guilty until proven innocent, yes, but oh, how the bleeding-heart reviser wants to find them innocent. I steel myself. Fewer and fewer pass the gate.
Word-search function. It’s a great way to hound-dog words that keep popping up in poems like relatives fond of dropping in for dinner or borrowing money.
Aloud. Ultimately, all revisions must come before the Supreme Court: my ears.
Unusual or unexpected word pairings. Strange but compelling bedfellows. They’re auditioning all the time in the revision process. When they work, they can steal the show.
Simile or metaphor? It’s like oil and vinegar for the salad: never 50/50. Metaphors should be predominant, as the word “like” can attract too much attention, especially in close proximity.
“No one is indispensable,” we’re often told at work. The same is true of words. How many can safely go? Cutting to the bone is not just the province of butchers and surgeons.
Little kids play dress-up by trying on Mom and Dad’s clothes and shoes. Poets do the same by walking into the closet where imagery is kept. Often, the four neglected senses (sound, smell, touch, taste) can take a good poem and make it that much better.
All poetic devices are like salt: they add flavor, but too much of any one ruins the dish.
What? Your poem has been accepted by a journal? Here come the stages: Elation, followed by, “Could I have marketed this work to a better-known magazine, now that it’s been snapped up by this one?” followed by the arrival of the journal in the mail and a fear of even looking at it because a.) It might suddenly look different — like a changeling has been inserted as a practical joke — and elicit a feeling of embarrassment, b.) there might be maddening errors by the printer, or c.) it might just trigger an urge to… REVISE. Just a little more, is all. Pretty please?
Finally, you know you’re a revisionary on a par with Catherine of Avila when you read John Keats, Robert Frost, and Elizabeth Bishop and feel an urge to revise their poems. It occurs to you, for the first time, that there might be a thin line between revision prowess and obsessive compulsive disorder.
Poetry proposition: In no other genre does revision play a greater role.
And finally, my favorite “click” on a blogging platform, a Word document, or an online comment: EDIT. Hallowed be its name.

Finding Yourself (in Another’s Writing)

poetry reading poetry

coast

One of the many small pleasures in writing is discovering just how much we all think alike. In my upcoming book, a poem I wrote (scheduled to appear in an upcoming issue of Roanoke Review) focuses on a discussion between my wife and me about what to do with our cremains (that’s “cremated remains” to laymen). The poem is humorous because, once all is said and done (well-done, as it’s a very high temperature), death is humorous. In its dark way, I mean.

Off and on, I’ve been poking through Rae Armantrout’s new collection, Partly. In it, she has a poem that treats on the same topic–a married couple planning for the big (and I do mean “big”) after. It did my heart good to flatter myself (because nobody else will) with the aside, “Great minds think alike!”

Here’s Armantrout’s poem, “Around,” for your reading pleasure:

Time is pleased
to draw itself

out,

permit itself
pendulous loops,

to allow them
meaning,

this meaning

as it goes

along.

Chuck and I are pleased
to have found a spot
where my ashes can be scattered.
It looks like a construction site
now
but it’s adjacent
to a breathtaking, rocky coast.
Chuck sees places
where he might snorkel.
We’re being shown through
by a sort of realtor.
We’re interested but can’t get her
to fix the price.

“The future
is all around us.”

It’s a place,

anyplace
where we don’t exist.

Funny, no? And poignant in its way, for if there’s one thing we cannot abide, it’s “not existing.” The last time I tried that, I can’t tell you how bored I was.

Our Yawning Need for Boredom

poetry

yawn

What is it with people’s fear of being alone (as in, not only by yourself but without any technological binkies like a cellphone)? A famous study by a team of psychologists stated that “two-thirds of men and a quarter of women would rather self-administer electric shocks than sit alone with their thoughts for 15 minutes,” which leads one to the question: What on earth could their thoughts look like that they’d prefer self-torture?

In the June Atlantic, Jude Stewart takes a quick look at many of studies surrounding “boredom” and being alone in her article “Make Time for Boredom: The Surprising Benefits of Stultification.” To a writer, the short piece is both surprising and not-so-surprising.

First the not-so-surprising: Stewart’s conclusion is that boredom is an accomplice to creativity. “By encouraging contemplation and daydreaming, it can spur creativity,” she writes.

(Editor’s Note: Whoa. News flash! You’re more creative when you’re alone!?)

Here’s the surprising part: boredom, defined as “the aversive experience of wanting, but being unable, to engage in satisfying activity” is linked to such behavior issues as “mindless snacking, binge-drinking, risky sex, and problem gambling” (all the equivalent of self-administered electric shocks, I guess). What the article misses is the human element. Boredom cannot exist unless people who don’t know what to do with themselves let it exist.

Here’s where artists come into the picture like cavalry riding over the hill. Artists embrace what others might call “boredom” because the conditions necessary for “boredom” to take root are the same as those necessary to create art, whether it’s a poem, a novel, a musical composition, a painting, or a sculpture.

To put it a better way: Bored people are lonely. Creative people are alone. But both are breathing the same air.

Truth be told, I can think of nothing better than an approaching weekend where I have nothing planned — no social engagements, no domestic tasks, no nothing. Why? Because it means I can both feed the well (by reading) and draw from it (by writing).

If that be one man’s (or many’s) idea of boredom, bring it on. Some of my best work has been thanks to the beautiful gifts of boring silence and boring nothingness.