Au Weh.

So many good ideas that I have read in this batch of papers, just poor, poor execution. Such a sad tragedy to read an opportunity wasted.

Manic about Manic D Press

I do not think my poetry is for everyone. I do not think that my poetry belongs in most, and especially not traditional, publishing houses. But I certainly do with every fragment of my soul believe that my poetry + Manic D Press = just right. Save for the fact that the small press does not necessarily inform authors that their works have been trashed.  Perhaps I am too demanding, but I find this a bit rude and inconsiderate:

Please do not call or email regarding your submission. We’ll be in touch if we’re going to publish your work.

Yeah, mail is lost quite rarely, but it does happen.

If I close my eyes, stick my head in the ground ostrich-style, and pretend the above quote never happened, I feel at home among the Manic D Press Books.  I like the authors. I like their works. I like the cover art. The fonts. EVERYTHING seems right and equivalent to how I would like to see my works enter the print world.

Just for kicks, here is my submission letter, lovingly formed and apparently not appreciated:

To Jennifer Joseph and Manic D Press,

I cannot tolerate suck-ups.  So it bothers me slightly that the following letter of submission might be misconstrued as a shiny red apple.   Let me assure you, it is not.  If anything, consider this an olive.  Bold, flavorful, and quite literally an hors d’oeuvre, this letter’s purpose serves to market my poetry for publishing; nevertheless, in doing so, I must first tell you that when reading about and digging around Manic D Press, I have never felt more at home in a literary sense.

In regard to the Manic D Press publication that I chose to address in this letter (Matt Cook’s The Unreasonable Slug), I must reply that, in addition to specific thoughts on the author’s work, my most striking observation is the book itself.  More than half of my hand-written comments were made before I even read a single line of poetry.  I oohed and aahed over the simplicity and sophistic integrity of the overall piece.  From the subtlety of the colors and the aesthetically pleasing cover art to the understated fonts and layout, the overall book rested in my hand an individual work of accomplished art.  All of this (I swear) I noted before even reading your (Joseph’s) quote:

“It’s not just the writing itself but it’s the whole: it’s the cover, it’s the way the book feels in your hand. It’s a whole experience…a book is the proper place for words to live.”

As for Matt Cook and his poetry in general, I appreciate his phrasing, diction, and voice as in the line “probably suffered from poor packaging” on page fifteen.  His poetry offers idiosyncratic and bizarre observations of ordinary topics that would otherwise fall beneath average examination, or would at least be addressed with detached language and phrasing.  Yet he revisits the menial parts of life with comically dry and cynical interest, caring masked by “not” caring.  Rhythmically Cook’s collective work seamlessly flows from one poem to the next, creating harmony among his words.

Nevertheless, I see similarities between his works and mine.  The vague, sometimes misleading, yet intriguing titles.  His free-form style rather than following traditional rhyme schemes and parameters.  His use of repetition as a literary device.

However, despite these similarities, my poetry and prose contrast his observational style by speaking with a more confrontational, poignant voice.  My words are personal and strong.  I often describe my poetic execution as the mating of Nicole Blackman’s voice with the tone of a Kafka-Poe hybrid, perhaps with a few contemporary references in reminiscence of T. S. Elliot.  Like Blackman, I command the audience’s attention by speaking directly to the reader, placing the reader in the position of one of my characters.  Sometimes I assault the reader; in other instances I toy with the audience by offering multiple innuendoes and hinting toward the darker side of words’ connotations.  My poetry is not one-sided.  I write to challenge the audience, to evoke a response so that the written word becomes a dialogue rather than a monologue.   

After trying my poetry for publication within several literary journals and magazines—to no avail—I have realized that I would rather my poetry exist as a whole, its own publication standing on a shelf in its own right.  It has become my dream to work with a small, quirky press dedicated to progress and quality, so that the aesthetics and feel of the overall final product may embrace my poetic content and truly represent me as an author and a person.  A book, I feel, is the proper place for my words to live, and I also believe that Manic D Press is the rightful place for my book to come to life.

Thus, I present to you a sampling of seven poems representative of my proposed book, Sunnyside Up, written under the pseudonym Mersedes Bach, which I have also used to construct my blog, Scant.

Sincerely,

 

And here lies the tentative cover art that will not be born from Manic D Press:

Screwed

The angel on my left says true friends do not treat each other like shit while the daemon on my right thinks that they are the most fun I will ever know.

I am an addict, and you are my greatest poison.

Politics of Gluttony

This is a shout out to
All the propositions
Campaigns, agendas, ads

Yes on Prop 8
No on Prop 8

Prop 2, Prop 4
34, 12,
Two-hundred thirteen thousand, one-hundred fourteen

I see you
Lurking on my TV
Standing on the corners of my streets

Poisoning me with your lies
Your deception

What would happen if we fought with truth on our side? 

Facts rather than propaganda
Those people paid to twist agendas
Into adorable puppies tied neatly with cute bows

Would the world fall apart?
Would our economy built upon corruption, dealing the currency of lies
fall to the ground? 

Alas, we may never know
Not if the power remains in the greedy’s sticky fingers
Not until the fat politician sings…

Wing’d Muse Murder Most Foul

Rain falls
Seas of droplets
Across my blank pages
A crime scene

 Vacant
A baron wasteland
Of forgotten metaphors
Artistic license expunged
A Candyland of imagery
Erased
To make way for my new logically sound mind

 Rationality
Clarity
Boring-plainness-pain-in-the-ass-concreteness
A coercion of writing
Without my bouquets of abstract-gushing words
A murder most foul

 My fountain dried up
Biological clock, ticked
My hand, forced
My muse, murdered
Its wings ripped
Heart pierced
By logical barriers’ arrow

Childplay

Spinning, turning
All topsy-turvy
The merry-goes-round until you puke
Faster, faster!
Don’t look to the ground
Nausea
Look down and you’ll surely fail
Depression looks with avid eyes
Paste on a smile
Sooner or later the top has to slow
Then the top topples over
And crashing down you will go

The Revolving Door

Again, reincarnated
Reborn from the dead
My sick mind’s own samsara
Recycling your soul
My brokenness
Piercing, gutting pain
Peel the flesh away
Reveal the scars
Wounded tissues, never healed

Bitch
A perpetual her
One more
Queue in the endless shells of
The notorious female

My heart
I leave it lying
To be broken at your will