Chickenman Descends into the Universe #1, Pastel, by John Cummings
Letter from the Editor
Inevitably, poets make friends with other people. Sometimes those friends happen to be other poets, and sometimes those other poets also happen to be editors, or have connections with publishing outlets. Poets want to get the word out on themselves and their work, or the work of others with whom their work resonates. There’s nothing nefarious about this–it’s simply the nature of the beast. Communities and schools originate without usually a lot of pre-planning or forethought–it’s usually just a group of friends or acquaintances. Poets and artists apprentice and grow by feeding on one another’s creativity and innovation and incorporate it into their own work–this too is how discoveries get made and art works–it’s like yeast working through the dough, getting baked and then (hopefully) some delicious bread results after some time in the oven.
I think I have some explaining to do and the above lays some groundwork for it. There are four poems in this issue that have to do with a question: what scares you the most? Two of them are dedicated to me, a poet and editor, a third utilizes the title to add to the grouping, and a fourth was a late addition and responds more broadly with the topic of fear. All four of them are riffing off a poem of mine from my book, Roadworthy. I’m publishing these poems not only because these folks are poets and friends and they are honoring me, but because I think their poems are of good quality, pertinent, worthy to be shared. There’s no conspiracy here, or much favoritism–maybe some, but also these are good poems! And basically as an editor I get to publish whatever I want–that’s a part of the reward for all the time and the work I put in–who is going to argue with me and my choices :). Will I listen? Also, I’d like to point out that as an editor, I tend to have more friends who are poets than most, and I’m always on the lookout for more new work.
In poetry, one beautiful thing is that commonly the living can have conversations with the dead–conversation and community broadens. Historical time and culture are restricted only by a reader’s personal time and access to read available writing (and translation, when necessary) in a free society–isn’t that wonderful?!
Fears as a topic interests us, it turns out, and many others have written poems about them, not always dissimilar to the way that I did, for example a poet I happen to admire who is no longer with us, Jim Harrison. Here’s an excerpt of what scared him:
But I had some fears:
the salesman of eyes,
his case was full of fishy baubles,
against black velvet, jeweled gore,
the great cocked hoof of a Belgian mare,
a nest of milk snakes by the water trough,
electric fences,
my uncle’s hounds,
the pump arm of an oil well,
the chop and whir of a combine in the sun.
—Jim Harrison, from Sketch for a Job-Application Blank
Everybody has their own take on this topic. Paul Nelson, my fourth friend and latecomer to the group, contributes to the topic by suggesting he isn’t afraid. It’s interesting to me that out of the blue he was reading Roadworthy and decided serendipitously during this reading period to send me an email about how much he liked my fear poem, so I suggested he add to the conversation and write about his fears–incidentally I was already publishing three of his poems for this issue. In this poem he wrote that was responding to mine, he alludes to my next book, Bad Is Bent Good, coming out in March (about a landfill) by including landfills as a part of the subject. It honors me and makes me laugh, something that happens in communities of friends, right?
One last word on all these fear poems is that my fear poem was a last minute addition to my book, Roadworthy, because another poem included in this issue inspired it: Craig Goodworth’s poem, Valparaiso, Indiana. You wouldn’t know it now but his poem (a conversation held between two friends–no, I’m not one of them) used to have a line that at some point was revised out of it:
What about your shit pants fear? What about that?
The reason I wrote my poem in the first place was because I’d read Goodworth’s poem and didn’t think the answer offered in his poem was adequate–my reply/poem was exhaustive–his far too sparse? His response to my criticism was to edit the question out and he no longer knows what happened to that version that had included it. A little earlier in the year, my friend Keith Hansen did an audio read of my poem and sent it to a number of his friends getting a positive responses, ultimately inciting Nathan Lewis to write his own Tolkien-inflected version. Nathan, offering the third riff, also happened to be a pastor of mine years ago. Keith is also a friend of Craig’s and his shared audio version is what caused Craig to sit down and write his own riff off my riff of his old poem which started everything. Need I add that all of this was a great encouragement to me in a time when I seriously could use it? Poets tend to need a lot of encouragement (and community) I think. (Sometimes it helps to fill out a journal’s pages too).
I suspect a good many of you might be confused about all this entanglement. Or shaking your heads at my self-indulgence in first publishing this work dedicated to me, or in response to a work of mine? To quote Keith again, this is how the sausage gets made. This is how it works, all crazy and hyperlinked, and messy, so that no one knows or cares any longer who is stealing or riffing off of whom? Yup, so be it.
Welcome to the Issue #33!