My angst is a bit external. Circumstances beyond my control, but in my purview. Specifically, it is the way my poetry is 'professionally' perceived. I am a member of a statewide poetry society and they sponsor both member only and open contests. When I first became a member of this society I was excited to enter a contest for a mere five dollar investment. I looked forward to the judges comments as a way to better my work. I grew wary when comments seemed generic - they used to be read aloud - and so many poets seemed to have glaringly similar critique.
It made me wonder who are these judges? Anonymous academics? Friends of friends of friends? People looking to get rich by reading poetry at two bucks a pop? Due to the nature of blind judging, I would not learn, nor did I want to know, the identity of these folks. I wanted to know more about their credentials, their writerly life, their interest in being an invisible part of our contest process.
I even recommended a potential evaluator to one of our contest chairs. This would lead me to the belief that becoming a member of our little club was actually more difficult than being chosen as a monthly decision maker of the best works submitted. I can't recant the details here. I want to remain a member in good standing and don't want to out the offender of my sensibilities.
Fast forward to this past Saturday. I had a poetically filled day. Beginning with my 'club's' monthly meeting and segueing to a joint venture between a local art club and poets. I had taken a self-imposed hiatus from entering contests. I am very good at silent, unseen protests and this seemed like a good opportunity to practice a character defect. I'll show them! They'll never get an Abe Lincoln from me again. Of course only I knew this so it was a relatively ineffective opposition.
I had submitted a poem, a good one in my own never to be humble opinion, and had high hopes of procuring the prize money. Instead my poem was returned to me with three terse judges comments. The middle comment said my poem was more like prose than a poem. OK. This pissed me off. A sestina is a relatively difficult poetic form with repeating end words. Six stanzas of six lines each ending with an envoi, or send-off. Perhaps by the nature of the format, sestinas read a bit like prose, but dammit! I think a person judging poetry should be familiar with the various forms. I handed the poem to a member who helps to find judges. I asked her to ask the judge if he/she knew what a sestina was, and a few other questions I had based on the other comments. I refused to bring the poem home with me, because I did not want to give the copy with outside comments any energy. Let it go.
Then it was time to attend the joint ekphrastic venture of poets who wrote to artwork. I had time to spare, so I arrived early to take a look at mine and other entrants poetry. My first poem was in the beginning of the show and straight away I could see the poem had been centered down the middle of the page. A deviance of how I formatted and submitted the work. On to my other two submissions: one was just how I intended - perfect. But my poem River looked completely askew. In this poem I had played with formatting and punctuation. I was pleased with the look and expected it would be printed in the manner presented. Instead, it too was centered and boy! Did it look odd.
I found an official looking artist, and she told me to find another woman. But instead of searching for the person who took artistic license to alter my poems, I proceeded to the information desk at the front of the library. The librarian assisted me in procuring a guest login and I paid for two B&W copies in advance. I accessed my google account and printed my poems in the way I had intended. adding the information that the art club had included - the artists name and name of the piece. Was that a typo of the artist's work title? Yes! I made the correction to be as accurate as possible.
Now instead of finding the liaison to launch a complaint, I simply presented her with newly minted copies of my poetry in the way I intended the visual fields to be presented. While not exactly impolite, she was miffed. I had to endure the explanation of space allowed, and does it matter, and one of my new copies won't fit in the sleeve... Not my problem. I just smiled and said let's make this work. I got fresh scotch tape from a different librarian. I stood and watched as she switched out her altered copies for my accurate depictions. I smiled and thanked her. Was it obvious how annoyed I was? Probably.
My fellow poets started filing in. I was having that internal, eternal debate. The angel in me wanted to keep quiet about the debacle. The devil wanted me to bitch and moan. No need to wonder what to do. Others were not happy with the reformatting of their artwork - word art, if you will. I announced that I too was upset about the alteration of my poetry - but I reprinted, re-presented and took care of my own business. As a former event planner, this get it done and get it done right attitude is embedded in my DNA.
So - why don't I get any respect? Judges don't recognize my poems as poetry. Artists alter my work to fit an arbitrary format. Is this a me issue or a them issue? It is situations like this that rock my poetic serenity. Am I on the right track? Is poetry my dialect, as I like to tell people who ask about my way of speaking. Should I be even remotely concerned about what other people think of me and/or my poetry?
Last night I participated in a Sober Sessions Open Mic at Free Spiritual Community. I read two poems that were warmly received not just by attendees but by the fellow poets, who were awesome. Maybe part of being an artist, and I do consider my poetry art, is finding the right audience. I don't need to have my feathers fluffed, but I like to be respected. I welcome constructive feedback that says more about my work than the person giving it.
I'm done with the contest aspect of the poetry society. I'm a lover of using visual art as a prompt for my work, so even though the process was a bit bumpy, I'd work with this club again. I'd just be more forthright in my expectations. As an event planner I lived and died by two things; the clock and the contract. I will utilize these skills to effectively communicate the expectation and implementation of how my work is to be presented. Problem identified, solved, and moving on!
For Now?
Time to Write,
Jane
