I was thinking today of what I could do with this blog. One idea I had was to turn this it into a kind of poetry journal, reviewing contemporary New Zealand verse. Such journals already exist of course, but in some alternate reality that I never visit. This goes to show how far under the radar these journals are.
Once upon a time, in this country, we did have a high-profile weekly magazine that used its clout to support local poets and, even occasionally, short story writers. I speak of The Listener of course, It seems that magazine now devotes its pages, every second week it seems, to the burning literary issue of whether the time is right for its readers to take out a second mortgage on their house.
In moving to the right and diminishing its commitment to the arts, I believe The Listener has seriously misjudged its readership. The weekly poem was, for many people I am sure, the first page to which they would turn. I even had a poem published there once, a number of years ago now, which goes to show that The Listener was willing to back even unknown writers. I may just incorporate that poem into a later posting.
Several months ago, I submitted another couple of poems to the same magazine. In the interests of complete avowal, I shall describe the process. Having a note directing me to a certain address in an anonymous part of the city, I arrived to find a door and, by the side of the door, a door-keeper. “Does this door provide access to The Listener?” I asked. “Indeed it does,” he replied. “May I pass through?” I enquired. “Not yet.” So, suitably humbled, I took a seat and began waiting.
To pass the time. I enquired what The Listener offices were like.
He replied, “That I cannot tell ye. For behind this door lies another door and another doorkeeper, and behind that door another, and so on, each more terrible then the last, until one finally reaches the reception. Even the third doorkeeper is, however, too terrible for me to gaze upon.”
“Is there anyway I can, like, speed up the process?” I enquired (inquisitively).
“None,” he responded (responsively). “You may if you wish pawn all your possessions to bribe me; I shall take them but only to show that you have left nothing undone.”
Eventually I reached the point where I was considering imploring the nits in his beard to grant me access. (In aspect the doorkeeper resembled one of those hirsute, restless, tenured souls that haunt the faculty rooms of university campuses.) Eventually though I just got bored and left him to it…
At least, this is what happened in one universe. In another, closer universe, I forgot to enclose a self-addressed envelope and so never received the rejection letter.
I notice that I have become totally side-tracked from my initial subject matter. I was going to name-drop some contemporary poets and discuss aesthetics. Ah, well, it’ll give me something to talk about tomorrow.
***
I notice that I failed to publish my previous post. I shall publish it now – you should remember however (if it makes a difference) that A Dialogue with Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit was written first. I also apologize for being unable to include a picture of the duck-rabbit – images of it can be found easily on the Internet.