A somewhat bitter poet speaks (aka what Gurus don’t say)
I wrote and submitted my first set of poems at 20 to the Cat’s Meow at CND;
They were as good at notes submitted from hell to the underground, onto the pages of the Paris Review.
“sorry, we want poems with images, not ones that make statements”
I tried again next quarter.
Every cliche that caught fire.
I had 4 poems punlished.
I entered a poem into a hometown contest.
Twice.
Second time, I won,
despite the “uncommercial” nature of my work.
I was emboldened to submit to other publications.
The reject letters and snark from editors piled as
unpaid bills on the dining room table,
a result of jobs from which I was getting fired.
I was too busy being “uncommercial” and making statements.
I started going to meetings of 7 poets at William Talcott’s flat in the Sunset.
I would stop at Ed and Richard’s on Fulton for soup and art.
Everyone there changed my style. Or refined it.
The wood was starting to look like glass.
I had one disasterous reading at the Burlingame Public Library to promote a book I produced using dot matrix tech and a Commedore 64;
the Librarian took pity and bought a couple of copies for 3 bucks.
several of the other poets started allowing me into their publications;
the poem about my abortion was a particular hit.
The wood was turning into glass.
Then we split up.
William died. Jim moved to WA, Jules to London. I followed my husband as a lost puppy all over the western US and then to Munich.
Ed runs the group now. Whole new crew. No history. All hungry as I was, I have no wisdom to give them.
One day I will contribute, but I live too far away.
So I settle for the web;
Rejections now fly into my inbox as ether, “likes” precious as pablum;
my work disappearing using certain hashtags on Tumblr, where I do a sitewide search for my poems after I hit “submit”
and come up empty.
The thoughts I hold now wander to new dimensions,
one day where kindred spirits also find themselves
too busy being “uncommercial” and making statements.
