When I closed the online submissions manager for the 2012 Washington Prize from The Word Works, having just trolled through hundreds of entries to make sure no one left incriminating acknowledgments pages or bios embedded, having emailed a few poets who forgot to submit their reading fee, having double-checked with readers to make sure they were ready to tackle a new bundle of aspiring books… I sat and wondered how we do it.
At the AWP conference this year, the strange plight of poetry in America was driven home again. More attendees than ever. More tables groaning with hot-off-the-presses writing than ever. Poets stopping by our booth to discuss their work, to browse and buy ours, to ask about our contest. Poetry readings so numerous the head spun, so audience-dense the heart beat with hope…
And yet. Almost all poets and most publishers of poetry work for free, funding our passion with other day-jobs. Tiny numbers of Americans read what we produce. Presses and journals go out of business every day. The media assures us the book itself is dying.
But poets keep writing, and poetry publishers keep looking for new work, keep trying to connect the writers to an audience.
Denise Duhamel quipped in a Rattle interview once that poetry is the last true art form because we can’t sell out. The reason for that? Nobody’s buying. So we can pursue our art in a pure environment, uncorrupted by filthy lucre, by the temptation to bend our art to the market.
At the “Write This” festival this spring in Troy, NY, one publisher pointed out that in some ways this is a wonderful time. If you love poetry, just start a press. Just start a journal. Just start a reading series.
We all nodded wisely: set your own standards. Contact the poets you love. Choose your medium. If you don’t have a rich aunt and can’t snag any of the rapidly shrinking grant money, what about POD? chapbooks? an online ‘zine? broadsides? a reading series? a coffeehouse night? an open mike? Nominate yourself, step in, and give away all the time and energy you want, in the name of the greatest art form known to our species. The angels will love you for it. The poets will love you for it.
Your neighbors may find you bewildering and your family may roll their eyes at the postage, the toner cartridges, the late nights, the disappeared weekends… But you know what you’re doing, and you’re doing it out of love.
This is my shout-out to the many volunteers who keep poetry alive and yes, even thriving. The writers, the readers, the editors, the judges, the promoters, the teachers, the students. At the moment, I’m especially grateful to all those who work so hard on the Washington Prize, a process I’ve been shepherding for a few years now. Twenty people give their time–days and days–to read and reread manuscripts, critique them, to slowly over the months narrow the pool until just one book emerges as “Da Winnah.” It takes a village to publish a book of poems, and I’m forever in debt to the denizens of this particular hamlet.
Wherever you live, there are similar people at work. Say thanks from me, would you?