writes poems and stories.
This poem is just shameful. And to think, when I started I thought this was a fantastic idea. Then I realized it’s kind of gross. Here it is:
There is an army
waging war on my nose.
They lay landmines and flee,
littering black machines,
entrenched in oil. My
defences are weakening,
the strength of soap, doubted.
But my secret weapon,
the pressure of nail, forces
evacuations & retreats
to the POW camps of
tissue and garbage can.
My latest Bad Poem got published at Every Day Poets a couple weeks ago. It’s called Deja Vu, and while I liked it at the time, I’ve now recognized it as the piece of crap it is. Frankly, I don’t understand why anyone would have agreed to publish it.
It makes me wonder two things: first, what do you do when something you hate is ‘out there’? and second, how reputable is that publication?
I wrote the poem after reading some disutopian novel or other (probably ANTHEM or WE, but I can’t remember which), incorporating the image of mannequins burning in the street, which was dancing around my head for quite a while. But reading it over again, it’s a complete jumble. The ideas I was trying to express (the effects of anarchy on commercialism and journalism) are barely touched upon and don’t come through the poem at all. It’s a mess.
But now that it’s been published, I guess I can only grin, bare it, and NOT promote it. I mean, it’s got 2.2/5 stars from the 15 people who voted…it barely ever gets that low on the site.
I also now question the legitimacy of Every Day Poets. It was founded by the same people who do Every Day Fiction (a publication I enjoy), but with different editors.
I have a problem with the editors. Only one of the three has any kind of credible credentials so I can only assume they have no idea what they’re doing.
This isn’t springing up out of nowhere, either. I’ve been disappointed with their selections for months now. Sure there’s a gem every once and a while (like this haiku), but more often it’s one contrived disappointment after another (like this piece of trash and this catastrophe by someone who actually goes by “A Quantum Mechanic,” – someone else who gets published there frequently goes by “Wordsculptor” – seriously). The site is a joke. Is this the best they can do?
My point: Just because you’ve written a poem doesn’t mean it deserves to be published.
As far as my own writing is concerned, I’m going to edit edit edit before I send anything out and I will never submit to Every Day Poets again. I’ve already unsubscribed.
Or maybe I should send them every piece of crap I write, just to see if they’ll take it.
Just finished Tobias Wolff’s Old School and I am extremely disappointed. I’m a huge fan of some of his other work, especially the short stories and his memoir This Boy’s Life but something about this (his first?) novel makes me want to drown myself. It was nothing but predictable, nostalgic self-indulgence. GROSS. And the worst part, I think, is that you could tell the “narrator” (really, the author, who speaks about the very same anomaly within Hemingway’s work) knew exactly what he was doing – the effect was intentional. What’s worse than being trapped in some old guy’s story, which you never asked to hear?
AMENDMENT: I actually found one thing in this book I enjoyed: one of the student’s views on poetry. It’s on page 40 of the hardcover edition and I completely agree:
“Rhyme is bullshit. Rhyme says that everything works out in the end. All harmony and order. When I see rhyme in a poem, I know I’m being lied to. Go ahead, laugh! It’s true – rhyme’s a completely bankrupt device. It’s just wishful thinking. Nostalgia.”
So I finally caught up with the rest of the literary world and read Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. I think it took me so long because of its promise to “make you believe in God.” But I did get over that – mostly, I think, because of the lure of getting stuck in a lifeboat with a tiger. I’ve always liked tigers.
My fears weren’t justified, however, because despite this being one of the better books I think I’ve ever read, it did not make me believe in God (at least, any more than the extremely limited belief I already have). But it did reaffirm to me why God is important for other people to believe in. While the belief that things are predestined and watched by some all-powerful being does nothing for me, it is certainly necessary for certain people to go through their lives (with or without getting lost at sea).
This book did, however, make me believe in zoos.
My only complaint is that I don’t think Martel should have included the last few chapters, when Pi is resting in a Mexican hospital. The whole interview process seems like it is only included to cement the whole God-belief theme, which was doing nothing for me. Instead I wish this had been a simple narrative with no fiction/nonfiction, belief/non-belief comparison at the conclusion. Just give me the story, don’t hand me the interpretation. As if the reader didn’t wonder already if the story was plausible. But part of the joy of fiction is throwing reality away. That’s the fun part. At least, that’s the part I’m reading for.
Dear Brandon Scott Gorrell,
I just finished your book of poems that you call “During My Nervous Breakdown I Want to Have Biographers Present” except I don’t think you use capital letters. So I hope you’ll forgive me for using capital letters. I’m a big fan.
Anyway, this was the first book of poems I’ve ever read straight through, in one sitting. To quote Matthew Rohrer, “I like these poems.” In fact, I like them so much that I’m writing about them on my blog and I’m going to tell other people about them. That’s a pretty good review, I think.
Your book looks like this:
but I guess you already knew that. I’m very interested in how books are designed and I’m very interested in how you didn’t use page numbers in your book. And how all the fonts were the same, except the titles were bigger. But they were all sanserif and usually that bugs me (because I’m a HUGE serif-fan) but I think it works in your book because one of your themes is alienation and your font choice alienated me from the words.
But that’s not to say I didn’t understand what you were talking about. Because I most certainly did. In fact, I find myself worrying that I’m going to be in your exact predicament in two or three years. I already check my e-mail more than I should and worry about things like how people look at me and if my writing has any value. For the record, I’m convinced it doesn’t.
But I like that I found a little bit of myself in your poems. That made me feel nice even though the things I recognized about myself in your poems weren’t necessarily nice things. I think everyone feels lonely, though. So I guess that means we’re not alone. That’s kind of a cliche statement. But I like that your book wasn’t cliche. At least I didn’t think so. In college they tell me that writing cliche things is about as bad as it gets. But everything’s already been written so I don’t know how to do it. I’m kind of glad you’re struggling with that, too.
Is that mean? I hope not, because I don’t think you deserve that.
Also, I found some of your imagery disturbing. Especially the parts about heads eating things and robots getting stabbed. But I guess heads are always eating things…just not themselves.
My favorite poem was the one about the spider in amber. I really like thinking about a purple aura absorbing the solar system. I also like how you shoved that image in my face with the following line. It made me think about things I don’t like thinking about. So I guess I fell for your trick. Thanks.
I’m going to tell people who’ll care about your book. I hope that’s ok. I hope they buy it because it is good and certainly worth buying. I also hope it’s ok that I spent this long thinking about you (and writing about you). What will people think?
Have a good night.
I have no idea what this bad poem is a result of, only that it is dated Jan. 16 in my notebook. Apparently something made me upset then. What makes me upset now? THAT I ONCE WROTE THIS GARBAGE.
Tonight I feel like water,
the water that wishes
it could roll down my cheek.
It would tumble with the ease
of gravity, until it fell and
splattered against the pillow.
It would leave a stain. And
I’d be able to see the trail
on my cheek, in the mirror.
