Revised Older Poem: CARNIVAL

Poem originally written circa 2004 about 1999-2001.  Trimmed slightly from the earlier version--still a subjective (and opinionated) take on a bygone era in Southern California poetry.

CARNIVAL

ONE

In a cafe's back room filled with 50 people,

the Host takes the stage.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME POETRY?

he calls out.

The audience applauds.

In the prestigious first half, there’s a mixture of storytelling,

slam poetry and political sloganeering.

Applause is a guarantee if you read a poem with

the phrase “Free Mumia”.

The Host occasionally contributes topical verse

or personal reminiscence.

When the Host is through with a poem,

he tosses it to the stage floor with a flourish.

The audience-mostly poets-

either listen with rapt attention

or scribble spontaneous verse

into their notebooks

in hopes that they can surpass

what they’re hearing

when it’s their turn on-mike.

Then the Host shouts

IT’S FEATURE TIME!

The features are either well-known poets from the city

(occasionally touring bards from out-of-state)

or  the Lucky Few the Host chooses to groom.

Most of those Lucky Few tend to either be female

or share the Host’s political views.

The feature reads for twenty to twenty-five minutes.

Then the Host passes the hat

to ensure the feature gets paid for his/her work.

During intermission, some audience members leave.

A few people buy chapbooks from the feature.

Other poets head out front to pay homage to certain

Important people who host at venues in or outside the city.

TWO

The remainder of the audience returns.

The Co-Host takes over

since the Host has gone home

to work on a poetry project of his own.

Halfway through the second half,

it’s my turn to read a poem.

I read a poem about office life.

It gets laughter and applause.

One time, a poet close to the Host

tells me I’m good and worthy of a feature.

He says he’ll put in a kind word for me.

I never hear anything from the Host.

I say “Hello” when I see him.

And I know he’s heard my work.

Perhaps I’m not reverent enough towards him.

Or maybe I need to quit being funny

and write a poem with the phrase “Free Mumia”.

At 11:30 p.m., the last poet reads.

The night is over.

I give a poet favored by the Host a ride home.

During the ride, the poet nervously hopes

the Host will write a blurb for the poet’s

new chapbook.

And, against my better instincts, I tell the poet

I’m willing to write an e-mail to the Host

on his behalf.

The Host’s Tuesday night reading is the hottest

place to be in the City’s Poetry Community.

And I do want to be a part of it-

even if I’m never asked to read in the first half.

When I found out I didn't belong in a certain room.

Years ago, I went to one of those "how to submit to journals/litmags and get published" get-togethers at Beyond Baroque.

A then-well-known poet named Michelle Ben-Hur, when it was her turn to dispense advice, said something like this:
If you think of poetry as a hobby, then YOU DO NOT BELONG IN THIS ROOM!  (all-caps accurate since her voice got quite loud at that point)

Maybe I should have left the room at that point, since it was becoming clear that I wasn't going to qualify as an academia-friendly poet.   And, therefore, I really didn't belong in the room as defined by Ms. Ben-Hur.

But I wanted to fit in as best as I could--and there was at least one person sitting at the publishing  table who genuinely liked the poems I wrote in that period.

Fast forward to over a decade and a half later, where some of the then-SoCal-based poets/editors have moved to other cities in California--though the bulk of their litmags survive.

Coda: On a recent visit to Beyond Baroque, I discovered that the chapbooks I left there on consignment over the years have disappeared (doubting they were sold like hot cakes)--leaving just two copies of HOLLYWOOD POETRY: 2001-2013, which were apparently spared since they are Real Books instead of DYI.

Obviously, an example of the "survival of the fittest" ethic espoused at that long-ago seminar.

The poetry rejection that felt like stepping on a rusty nail.

So there's this host who, for years, would say things like "I'm in your corner" when I felt I needed to confide in someone.

And, years ago, he was willing to lose a reading at a corporate bookstore and move elsewhere--this to defend someone who dared read Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" (or at least a portion of it) at an open mic.

The host, for years, compiled and sold a quarterly poetry publication where all were welcome to submit--and he would select the best poem/poems from each submission.

Then, the host got an MFA from a small university on the Westside of Los Angeles and things changed.

The quarterly publication was ceased as a newer showcase was phased in.

The new zine sought to include more eminent poets (perhaps a reaction to a L.A. poetry anthology titled WIDE AWAKE that the host wasn't part of) and began to have either prompts or "themes."

Now, there are some hoops to leap through.  Just submitting for someone to choose what he/she thinks is your best work isn't enough.

Let's start culling the herd to impress others.

And the host became the poetry editor of a webzine (with various forms of writing).

On a certain social network, the host/poetry editor invited submissions.

So, I submitted.

[SIDEBAR: the host used to do a pay-for-publication-of-chapbooks where poets at least were published with someone else's imprint instead of their own.  And I paid to have a handful of chapbooks done in this way.]

And today, I received a rejection letter.

Not from the host/poetry editor.

But from the publication's managing editor.

Of course, it could be the host/poetry editor may have chosen several poems and the managing editor may have kept some, cut others and taken on the task of e-mail notifications.

It's always disappointing to get rejections--certainly from people you know.

And it's up to the poet to decide whether or not to keep submitting.

To me, today's rejection meant:
host/poetry editor was just patronizing me for years because what I did benefited him and put some extra money in his pocket.

Now that he brandishes his MFA with pride, he can afford to leave the little people behind in his quest for parity with some of the major figures in Los Angeles poetry.

And I'm a little person who, again, realizes that rejection is a lot better when I've submitted to a publication where I know no one (and vice versa).

Because at least the rejection (or acceptance) is free of taint, bias or career advancement agendas.

The poetry rejection that wounded me.

Everyone who participates in poetry has at least one story about: a. being snubbed by someone you looked up to personally/artistically b. getting told in an active or passive way that your work doesn't fit the standards of a small press/e-zine/literary publication/reading and you should either be "better" or go elsewhere.

There's a "b" incident which occurred fifteen years ago which, in hindsight, was a signal that my value to a certain level of poetry was going to be primarily as a supporter (be it by helping advertise/make donations/buy books or as an audience member) of the work of more eminent poets than myself.

Here's that incident:

I was trying out poems for the first edition of HOLLYWOOD POETRY at a now-long-defunct reading series.

The host spent some of the evening coveting the attention of another host who was then quite a prominent local figure.

And neither of them seemed to care about my poems that evening as I took my turn on the open mic.

(Backstory: The first host was someone I had met about three years before and was an occasional confidant--and had been supportive of me early on.)

Despite the lack of interest, I (as the cliche goes) "sucked it up" and kept at poetry--finding some friends, plus a few adversaries.

So I self-published HOLLYWOOD POETRY and sold a few copies.  And these were still the days when I tended to avoid outspokenness--all was well.

A few years later, I revised the original manuscript and asked the first host about the possibility of publishing it (since this person had a publishing imprint).

The first host's answer: No, I couldn't publish this under [imprint omitted].  Maybe it could be done under a different one.

And I was led to believe my book was only worth being treated as a humorous novelty born to sit forever at the children's table.

Once again, I sucked it up and made the decision to not pursue the issue further.

In the years since, the first host remained kind on what mostly seemed to me as surface level.

But I now knew that reputation was something to be ultra-treasured.

And my little book of observational poems--if the risk of publishing under the primary imprint had been taken--might have caused this person's learned friends to believe "[host's name omitted] doesn't have high enough standards."

This was the first indication (and not the last, alas) I was never going to be Good Enough in the eyes of certain people I thought reciprocated my respect for them.