I have acquired a new stacking thing for papers on my desk. One of those racks with three layers. I thought it would be really useful to me. I intend to keep the letters I’m about to reply to (but don’t) on the top, then the work in progress in the middle, and the bits and pieces I don’t want to lose but am not actually using on the bottom. So the thing was purchased yesterday, assembled and put on The Desk. Papers of various kinds were neatly put on it, just where I could put my hand on them. As well as two or three mazines that came last week. Excellent.
Until this morning. Where is Smiths Knoll, number 44? I can ‘see’ it clear as day. But I can’t see it. And I was going to burble on a bit about how much I enjoyed it, because I did. I read it on Friday morning, quietly, all by myself while trying to collect my thoughts. It opens with a magnificently furious sonnet by John Whitworth – a marvellous tour de force of a poem. And then the next piece (which I can’t recall) is brilliant too — yes a Judy Brown, I think, which ends ‘Baby, I was boiled once. We all were.’
The truth is (how hard it is to confess) that I don’t always read poetry magazines carefully. Occasionally I don’t read them at all (Smiths Knoll is nearly always an exception), even though I pick them up and admire their covers. I hear the background blurb from the TV campaign saying — what is it? Let more poetry into your life, and a little voice in my head screams – No, no, not more, not more. This is a shameful confession of course. I love poetry. I just don’t love all poetry.
The new review scheme for Sphinx has started to roll into action. This means pamphlets are going out to three reviewers, instead of one. I do have some trepidation about it. On the positive side, it will allow three perspectives on a publication, which theoretically can present a balance of responses.
On the downside, if the publication is not very strong and all three reviewers say so, it will feel very crushing for the poet. I know what that feels like, to my cost. You think you won’t get emotional about it, but you do. It’s like listening to someone criticising your children: you’re the only person who’s allowed to do that with impunity.
It occurs to me that what is important in poetry, as in any other enterprise, is doing your best. Not Being The Best. At the same time reviewers have to do their best to express a reaction to that work: it’s an approximation, an honest endeavour. The Magma blog has had a fascinating discussion thread running on the topic of reviewing. Worth a look.
The HappenStance shop has a new free download. It’s a brief set of poems by Bobbie Coelho about her experience of Parkinson’s Disease. It doesn’t pretend to be a highly literary publication. It won’t be going out for review: that’s not what it’s for. However, it is a true and heart-felt reflection of her experience. We hope that people who read it with interest and pleasure, might donate to the Parkinson’s Disease Society. Poetry can belong to everybody.