It is I

Lately, and B can attest to this quite clearly, I’ve become exceptionally discontented (or foul if you must) with my writing. Not only is this due to a string of rejections (I’m looking at you, Rattle and In Posse!), but I also don’t feel like I’m making substantial progress in my writing or that I’ve even veered away from experimental territory into needless obscurity and mediocrity. As someone ill-versed in poetics in general, I’m finding it almost impossible to identify where I’m falling short, though, like the Supreme Court and pornography, I know it when I see it.

My poetry’s setting has been niggling at my recently. Many of my successful poems, those I felt prized the most even before they were published (and some that haven’t been published yet), seem to successfully remove themselves from being pinned down to one scene. On the other hand, many of my unsuccessful attempts seem to mire themselves (notice the active voice there?) in these same dreary, gray worlds that are pretty formless and don’t provide much of a canvas for words. B always says it reminds her of foggy Indiana, and I have to agree: post-apocalypse without the inconvenience of apocalypse.

The biggest difference seems to be in making the setting transient, allowing it to shift from object to object, reference to reference rather than forcing them to conform to some setting (except when I’m writing for a consistent setting, which isn’t usually the case). True, I do like all of my poems to make some conceptual arc, but a narrative arc per se isn’t my thing. All of this leads me to believe that many of my Palsy Aria poems, as well as many recent efforts, have failed to avoid this pitfall, have become stagnant because of the dominant setting rather than allowing the connections between images / references to develop organically. I guess, at this stage, it’s worth noting that I’m probably referencing a different type of setting than you’re traditional they were in a verdant field with big trees everywhere type thing.

I’ve also been upset with my poetry’s language. More specifically, their overabundance of connective / transitional material (it works for college papers) and lack of snappy, unconventional movement. B says I’m making the transitions / connections painstaking. (It IS nice to have an honest wife-editor.) It seems like when I strive for a particular tone or voice, I often include too much of the former, making the poem’s presentation pedantic and, overall, unbearable, and I don’t focus on keeping things moving. This is odd, of course, since I previously had an affair with off-kilter grammar, sentence fragments, and other abrupt forms that eliminated such problems, though left some poems lacking in ease of understanding. For whatever reason, I strayed from using these devices, perhaps trying to develop a more narrative tone; however, I’m thinking about purposefully returning to them and attempting to expand within the forms in which I’m most effective, which would provide me with a more useful experience. My inner-most fear (I’ll post my fantasy later) is stagnating, and whenever B says “you’ve done a poem like that before,” I wet myself .

But between school and work, I’ve nary had a chance to seriously consider anything referenced above – I’m hoping to seriously focus on some writing this week to see what comes of it. I did revise a couple poems that had made their rejection rounds, and B said their presentation was much better, though she did prefer the earlier, more out-there forms, but I’m all about content. FWIW, I am mercilessly conquering civilizations on Civ IV when my brain needs a minute to hobble forward.

I haven’t done any reading lately unless you count several HRM articles on pay secrecy and law textbook chapters; I’d like to finish Minima Moralia before I head to Myrtle Beach on spring break, which is about 1 ½ weeks away. I’ll be immensely pleased when my MBA education is over. Maybe I received a superlative education at my undergrad institution – in fact, I think I did – but this whole experience has been underwhelming. But letters are letters, you know?

I’m sure everyone will be envious that I’m attending a webcast on the fixed income market for 2007 here in a few minutes. It’s exciting stuff; I should post a picture of Alan Greenspan or Ben Bernanke to show you how exciting it actually is. Zombie exciting!

That’s about all for now. Hopefully something interesting and worthwhile next post.

-j

....the pain, the pain, the PAIN of being a college professor.

Today is the last day of classes this quarter at school and, as such, I am using today to conference with my students about their final research papers and their portfolios for the quarter.

A tour-de-force, no? This is the culmination of however-many-weeks of my teaching, exhortations, lessons, and activities. This is the time when they stand on the literary stage and make themselves known. This is the moment. This is the best they're going to be this quarter. I await genius.

....only to have one of my students wander in with a portfolio, one segment of which was to be full of freewrites (free writes) labeled: Free Wrights.

If a Romantic-scholar-cum-professor-cum-theorist cries when she is alone in her office and no one is there to hear it, does she really make a sound?

Oh, the happies.

"You may assume that it is impossible to love a nonhuman semiotic ghost. But think twice, and you will also understand that it is our increasing commitment to high-tech media that enables us to find sexuality not only in humans but in nonhuman agents created from software. ....sound queer? But in the wake of Internet revolution, it is not ideology but high technology that has revolutionized the existing concept of sexuality, making it far more exotic."

- Takayuki Tatsumi, on a discussion of William Gibson's Idoru

I get to write a paper on a virtual doll-person. I get to write a paper on Idoru. I get to redefine kitsch, give the theoretical middle finger to Adorno, Greenberg, and McDonald, and then reread American imperialist culture through the lens of a cyberpunk novel. Oh, the intellectual happies.

Also - my school is #1 in the country for illegal music downloads, and while punishing the offenders has nevertheless refused to name names to the RIAA. It's like McCarthyism all over again, and my university is the last lil' socialist holdout. Love it.

And J, you can't be Brangelina's new baby. Your name would have to be Kumquat, or Didgeridoo, and you would have to come from an underprivileged, war-torn country. Which is fine. I'd miss you if you weren't around.

- b -

Me, Me, Me

There’s always the discussion of poetics in blogdom, and I try to follow the discussion since I have no formal (or informal) background in poetry. I probably couldn’t name one or two characteristics of most poetic schools – Avant, Post-Avant, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, New Sincerity, or plain ol’ free verse, much less anything to do with formal poetry (can you say tin ear?) – so trying to define my poetics is like trying to remove my own kidney with Operation’s plastic tweezers. There are probably elements of surrealism and “experimentalism” in most of my writing, and while the subject matter is generally serious, I hope the sarcasm and humor isn’t lost on readers. And I always try to use an organic form with each piece. That’s about as close to an objective description of my poetics as possible. Woefully inadequate, I know. While my knowledge of poetics is severely lacking, I honestly don’t believe my writing fits into any one camp, at least based on my observations. My publication history points to that a little (as unimpressive as it is) since I’ve had luck in publications that seemingly have contrasting, or at least distinctly different, tastes.

Two thumbs down from Tarpaulin Sky on my latest submission. When I first began writing poetry in college (most of the poetry isn’t remotely indicative of what I write now), I submitted to many publications like Tarpaulin Sky numerous times without the slightest idea of its aesthetic leanings. So it was little wonder my hopeless imitations of Linda Pastan (who I still enjoy, btw) and other writers of a similar ilk were failing miserably at getting accepted. One, the writing was poor / beginner-ish at best, and, two, I was oblivious to a journal’s editorial tastes. What this extended tangent means: now that my writing is (marginally) better and more in line with the aesthetics of many journals that I frequently submitted to in the past, I wonder if the editors see my name, laugh, and trip over themselves with the form rejection letter. Paranoia, I know.

And I'm not saying any of this as a big middle finger to the poetic community; some of it borders on embarrassing. I desperately need a poetics primer so I could at least have a solid reason for dismissing the whole conversation. And the old warning not to publish too quickly is all too true.

I haven’t had a free second to read Minima Moralia this week, and this weekend is equally as full: I have an HRM assignment to complete as well as a Legal Environment midterm. In between, I’ll be bombarding myself with Civ IV to unwind or coaxing a poem out of hiding. B will also be busy writing two papers this weekend, so we’ll be a big bundle of happiness.

Oh, Brangelina have decided to adopt me. Excitement abounds. Sorry B.

Much love,

-j