April 16: Secret Visitor, Publication, Rejection

In spring 1909, Elwyn drew upon his experiences with the secret visitor in his bedroom and wrote a poem, "To a Mouse."  The budding author, not yet ten years old, bravely sent the poem to Woman's Home Companion.  To his astonishment and delight, they accepted it for publication--and even awarded him a prize for it.

E. B. White published his first poem in a national magazine when he was nine-years-old.  Nine.  He won his first writing prize when he was nine-years-old.  Nine.  That's pretty impressive.  I could be snarky and say that the standards for acceptance must have been fairly low.  I could be even snarkier and say that it was only Woman's Home Companion, which sounds like the equivalent of Good Housekeeping.  But I'm not going to stoop to such levels.  The thing that sticks out in this whole discussion is that little Elwyn became a nationally published author when he was only four years out of kindergarten.

I didn't publish my first poem in a well-known journal until I was in graduate school.  That would put me about, oh, almost 17 or 18 years behind E. B. White.  Not that I'm competing.  I'm not.  Really.  I can't wait to find out when White published his first book.  He was probably all of twelve or thirteen.  A late bloomer.

I used to be really lucky.  For a while, every poem I sent out received an acceptance.  It was kind of crazy.  I submitted my first book of poems to one publisher.  One.  And it was accepted.  Like I said, crazy.  Of course, that streak ended quite a while ago.  In the past few years, I haven't been very successful in the acceptance department.  One or two poems, here and there.

That comes with the territory if you're a poet.  I had a student once ask me for the most important advice I'd give to any aspiring writer.  My answer:  "Get used to rejection.  A lot of it."  Poetry is an ego-bruising endeavor.

Thank God I've developed such a thick skin.

Now, if you'll excuse Saint Marty, he's going to curl into a fetal position and suck his thumb for a while.

Get used to feeling like this...

April 16: Sharon Olds Pulitzer, No Snark Here

Usually, when the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry is announced every year, I get very snarky and make nasty and disparaging comments.  It has nothing to do with the quality of the poet being lauded and everything to do with my inherent jealousy.  Here is a list of some of my favorite snarks:

"Well, of course he won.  He's practically dead."

"I think she slept with all the Pulitzer judges."

"Does he really need a Pulitzer?  He already teaches for Harvard."

"Her?  Are you kidding me?  Why don't they rename it the I-can't-write-shit Prize?"

"Oh, him.  He deserves it.  He needs to complete the Triple Crown--Pulitzer, National Book Award, and Nobel Prize.  Go, Seabiscuit."

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Well, this year, you will find no snark here.  The winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for 2013 is Sharon Olds, for her collection Stag's Leap.  Sharon Olds has been my muse since I started writing poetry.  I took a workshop taught by Sharon Olds.  I've got four books autographed my Sharon Olds.  Sharon Olds is long overdue for a Pulitzer Prize, and that injustice was corrected yesterday.

The only snarky thing Saint Marty will say is that it's about time the Pulitzer Prize judges got their heads out of their asses.

For she's a jolly good poet....

September 13: Entered Timidly, Hung His Head, Poetry Reading

Scrooge entered timidly, and hung his head before this Spirit.  He was not the dogged Scrooge he had been; and though the Spirit's eyes were clear and kind, he did not like to meet them.

Scrooge is mighty humbled by the time he encounters the Ghost of Christmas Present, as evidenced by his entrance into the Ghost's presence.  The magic of Christmas is already working on Scrooge's person.  He is on his way to redemption.

There are many occasions where I enter a room timidly, head hung.  When I go to church, I try to adopt this attitude.  When I am in a social situation with a group of strangers, I tend to be a little shy, if you can believe that.  When I meet someone I admire (a writer or celebrity of some kind), I will be very respectful.

Tonight, I'm going to a poetry reading by poet Traci Brimhall sponsored by the university.  I don't know Traci Brimhall.  I didn't even know her name until last week, when I received the e-mail announcement about her reading.  Since then, I've read some of her poems and a list of accomplishments.  I've prepared myself for what I'm going to encounter tonight.

Traci Brimhall is not a person I would be timid with.  She has had some very great success with her first collection of poems, which won a prestigious prize.  She publishes all over the place and is what I would call an up-and-comer.  That means she is the current flavor of the week in the poetry world.  She's doing well for herself.

Most people who have read my blog for any length of time know that I tend to be a little envious of people who attain as much success as Brimhall has.  I can be quite rude about it at times, making snarky and cutting comments about people who have won anything from a local short story contest to the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Yes, my jealousy knows no bounds.  It's not a character trait I'm proud of.  In fact, I think it is one of the most unattractive parts of my personality.  However, I'm able to mask it with wit and charm.  Usually.

Traci Brimhall has nothing to fear from me.  I will not sit in the back of the audience, heckling her.  That's not my style.  I think she is a fine poet whose work is quite remarkable.  That doesn't mean I won't go home at the end of the evening and make fun of her in private.  Not because she deserves my ridicule.  Because I am jealous of her.  Plain and simple.  As I said, it's not an attractive aspect of my personality.

The one good thing that usually comes out of my attendance of a poetry reading is that I go home and say to myself, "I can write better than that."  And I write.  Whether I admit it or not, Traci Brimhall will inspire me to write some poems.  I know that.

If you're going to the Traci Brimhall reading tonight in Marquette, Michigan, look for Saint Marty.  He'll be the one sitting by the refreshments, sneaking brownies and muttering to himself.

I'm sure this picture is airbrushed