POKING AT POETRY

 

 

 

 

Every now and then I poke at a filing drawer, a bundle, a stack, hoping it will magically shapeshift into an organized archive-worthy file. Doesn’t happen. At the moment I’m in nondescript early manuscripts. I’m talking 1990s. There’s the poem faded from memory, fade of dot matrix printing, the greater and more literal fade of correspondence on fax paper (I worked around librarians just long enough to know better), the correspondence that I hope has faded from the memories of the recipients.

 

People were so kind. ‘It seems cruel to write, returning your poetry manuscript …’ says one. ‘The poems to which I responded happily … … I feel ashamed of not doing you any good ...’ says another. ‘… it is not much help to say that the poems are fresh, alive and most unusual. However: quote me!’ Kind and generous. Sensitive.

 

Me? I’m grateful. Grateful these poetry editors took the time at all to read these premature and immature attempts. To let me down so gently that … I would then have the cheek and naivety to send them another! Poor bastards. I could be mightily embarrassed. But they helped me keep going and I have done alright. I’ve also had immeasurable pleasure. Not only from writing itself but from related activities and friendships.

  

I once had the opportunity to thank a poetry editor in person. I saw Judith Rodriguez sitting quietly by herself in a café during a literary festival. I wonder if it was in Melbourne? I had the great juggle in my head: is she needing space; is another bloody poet pestering her the last thing she needs; there might be a chance for a conversation with a great; I could at least say thank you. I said thank you. She didn’t seem to mind. I buzzed off quickly … it was a bit like a swatted blowfly impersonation.

 

Okay, back to poking old poetry …