Paying the Muse: When Good Intentions Result
in Bad Poetry
Admit it: you probably write poetry. We all do, whether
in love letters and diaries or on public restroom walls. Innately we seem
to possess a genuine yearning to create, to express, to be heard.
Just pick up a guide such as The Poet’s Market or
The Writer’s Market and you’ll see probably more outlets for
publishing poetry today than ever before. But there are also probably a
greater number of would-be poets than ever. Colleges and universities all
over the country crank out creative writing students who in turn compete
to fill already competitive literary journals such as The Paris Review
and The Black Warrior Review, or even local productions such as Cold
Drill and 3 Syllables.
To what extent will the literary market go to meet
people’s need to see themselves published?
That’s what Boise State University English professor Tom Trusky wanted his students to ask. Trusky had been watching the “vanity
presses”—those presses that will publish almost any material provided
the author ponies up the cash—with a skeptical eye. His interest then
naturally turned to the many literary contests sweeping the country, which
charge anywhere from $10 up to $100 or more in “reading fees,”
something akin to handling charges in “shipping and handling.” Many of
these fees are legit; they cover the expenses inherent in running a
contest, from publishing an issue of winners to paying a respected author
to act as judge.
Of course, it’s easy to see how this system may also be
abused for profit.
Take, for example, the case of the National Library of
Poetry, possibly one of the most recognizable of the nationwide poetry
contest sponsors, since they take out large advertisements in daily
newspapers all across the country, including The Idaho Statesman.
“New Poetry Contest/$48,000.00 in Prizes” trumpets
the headline of a quarter-page ad in the September 25 issue of the Statesman.
“All poets who enter will receive a response concerning their artistry,
usually within seven weeks,” the ad promises.
Four years ago, Trusky estimated how much it would cost
to conduct such a national campaign and figured somebody was making money
from the supposedly meager business of poetry. So he decided to take up
the NLP on their offer and had his English 205 class purposefully write
“sentimental, cliché, trite, bad poetry” and send it in.
All the poems were not only accepted, they were praised
for their artistic merits. So the next year, Trusky says, “I thought I’d
push the envelope a little further and write offensive poetry.” The
poems were not grammatically incorrect, misspelled, or mispunctuated, but
they were purposefully and patently politically insensitive and morally
repugnant. Some students wrote odes to child abuse, others to bestiality.
There were poems praising racism, drug abuse, and homophobia—incendiary
language and thought, all packaged into twenty lines or fewer, the line
limit of NLP’s contest.
The result? Even after three years of these Bad Poetry
assignments, “They have never refused one of my students’ poems,” Trusky says. “Never, ever.” Additionally, each student received a form
letter praising their offensive sensibilities and certifying them as
contest semi-finalists. The only difference was in the salutation, “Dear
(insert your name here),” and reference to individual poem titles.
“In view of your talent,” states letter after
letter, “we also wish to publish your poem [emphasis theirs] in
our forthcoming anthology.” The missives all end with this postscript:
“You should be genuinely proud of your accomplishment. We receive
thousands of poems each year, and we choose only a very few for
publication.”
Actually, according to one of NLP’s promotional flyers,
more than three thousand poetical works jam each issue, approximately six
poems to a page—a veritable Poetry Barn. And according to their ad, they
have published more than one hundred thousand poets since 1982.
Likely not everyone purchased an anthology at $49.95
with a “nominal” ($20) fee for an optional biographical listing, but
also available are CDs of the poets’ work being read and plaques with
their names individually inscribed—“Well, it’s all pretty
horrifying,” Trusky says.
Since the NLP doesn’t charge for its contest, a good
chunk of its income is clearly derived from sales of the products listed
above. Though the contest rules state many who don’t win a contest prize
“also wish to guarantee publication by purchasing copies of the edition
in which their poem will appear,” there is no overt pressure to buy
anything. The company simply appeals to the pride of every
“semi-finalist” by offering a pre-publication discount of $20 from the
“publisher’s list price” of $69.95 for each anthology.
“They’re swine,” says current Trusky student Jen
Bresnahan. “That they’ll take absolutely anything for the money just
goes to show the state of the world today.”
This year Trusky didn’t require his class to test the NLP’s credibility but instead had them assemble an exhibition, “Bad
Poetry,” on display in BSU’s Liberal Arts Building through October 15.
Student Chris Broadnax explains that the display was
designed as a dichotomy: Teddy bears and dolls—“frilly things” as he
calls them, representing what people typically think of as poetic—are set
against props representing images pulled directly from the offensive
poetry. In one display case, a doll is smeared with red and blue to make
it appear beaten and bloody.
These images are intermixed with actual quotes from NLP
letters: “We strive for the highest quality publications,” “It is
our pleasure to publish fine poems such as yours in our anthologies,”
“We feel you have a special talent and look forward to publication of
your poem.”
Trusky worries that such form critiques send the wrong
message to young, impressionable poets who may believe writing in that
style is the way to merit attention. Still, many people feel proud of
simply being published in today’s increasingly competitive market.
“It’s easy to understand the chicanery of some of
these offerings,” says Paul Shaffer, executive director of the Log
Cabin, a non-profit literary center based in Boise. “If they have a
value, it is that they encourage writers…. Almost everywhere else a
writer turns they face discouragement, but to the extent that this
encourages writers to write and [submit their work], this is good.”
However, Shaffer is careful to explain that poets need
to look at each individual contest and publishing firm to decide whether
it provides legitimate publishing opportunities. “I’m not trying to
create the impression the Log Cabin would lend any kind of credence to
these kinds of offerings,” he says. “They are feeding on a very
sincere and unfortunately vulnerable urge by writers to be published.”
Boise Weekly left several messages for NLP
management that were left unreturned, but a customer service
representative happily answered all questions, though by doing little more
than reading from the company’s promotional brochure.
Every month the NLP runs a contest with seventy-two
winners in all: one first prize of $1,000, ten second prizes of $50, and
fifty-nine third prizes of unspecified “gifts” with a retail value of
$28—good by small-market standards but hardly a vaultful considering the
contest’s national scope. The representative went on to explain that they
sometimes receive twenty thousand responses or more per month and that
only 10 percent of those even make it to the editors’ desks for
publication consideration.
One of Trusky’s students sent in a little ditty with
this first line: “We got to round up all the Arabs….” It makes one
wonder exactly what, if anything, NLP editors deem unfit for inclusion in
one of their anthologies.
Originally published in the Boise Weekly
Copyright © 1997, 2006 by Jeff Fearnside
