“The Whole Affair Is Absurd. . .; But No”
On the necessity of poetry, art, Stephen Crane’s The Open Boat, Eudora Welty, good news, and mags that are currently open.
What is the point of another Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí poem? Why should I write another story, essay, or even this piece? What goodness does it do in the world? What magic does it work in me? These are some of the questions that have been on my mind lately; they come and they go like the electricity in Iba (the area where I stay). They are ever-present, even in their absence.
Sometimes writing, like Kafka said, feels like the reward for serving the devil. This is not the case for me, but there’s that displeasure I feel for my own art. I have been reading quite a bit, and encountering some works I wonder where mine stands in relevance, how worthy is my story to sit on the page before another person when there are several Patrick McCabe stories, and Flannery O’Connor’s, when there is a bulk of them by Kafka and Chekhov and Eudora Welty?
Poem I—why?—when there is a Nome Emeka poem coming for the world, an abundance of Charles Wright’s—in several books—a bouquet of them by Christian Wiman. Why should I essay when there is a Teju Cole, an Ian Penman, when there are books of essays by Lewis Thomas and Oliver Sacks?
Basically, what does my art matter?
Today I read Stephen Crane’s genius “The Open Boat”, about a real incident that befell Crane and three other men when the ship the Commodore sank. Set on the sea, of course, it is a beautiful story about disaster, and the way that disaster becomes normal—palatable—when we are right at the heart of it; and the utter indifference of nature to human ruin. More than that, it is about survival, and the way that a simpleton such as poetry—which, according to Auden, makes nothing happen, meant on a grand scale: as Basil Bunting also remarked (in 1972), “There’s not a soul who cares twopence what I or any other poet thinks about the war. . . . We are experts on nothing but arrangements and patterns of vowels and consonants. . . .”—picks up a new vitality for the individual.
The Correspondent (Crane’s main character, based on himself: he was on his way to report the Cuban Revolution for the New York Press when the Commodore foundered) in a lonely moment, when the three other people on the lifeboat swirling on the high seas had slept—he was spelling the boat, keeping it afloat and rowing against the violent waves—found himself remembering a poem he read when he was a schoolboy, which at the time meant nothing to him, and which never meant anything to him until this moment. A poem by Caroline Norton, “Bingen on the Rhine”, about a soldier of the Legion who lay dying in Algiers. Now, in this moment of despair, when the Correspondent thought he would drown, Crane wrote, the poem “quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet. . .; it was an actuality—stern, mournful, and fine.”
Poetry is necessary, we realise this necessity when we need someone to sit with us in water. (Some poems have in their way once kept me from hanging, or gulping down insecticide.) Though it breaks my heart. Though I sometimes feel like my work has no effect in this world. But it does. Art does. For one I read, and I respond to what I read by writing, by conversing. Crane would be dead if his words did not move me or anyone else to put these words to paper. We would forget him. Yes, my art may be forgotten, most likely will be—I will also be forgotten, it is only fair, I do not expect more. Why should I fear oblivion when memory, human memory, is as fickle as a match flame?
Art is not supposed to mean permanence—not in any language; it was not made to be perpetual salvation. Christian Wiman, one of those rare-rare poets, whose work and words I have been digging, has called it a glimpse of salvation, true, it is only a brief permanence; and every new work of art you make, said Eudora Welty, should be forgotten by you. The last poem or story you wrote cannot teach you how to write the next one. The insight gotten from that can only be a notion in the making of the new. We are always needing a new conversion, a new lesson, a fresh muse, for every fresh turn of the page.
And though the road is usually worn, always maddeningly painful to walk—rejections are the heart of the art—yet, as Eudora Welty said, “[Y]ou would make the trip anyway—wouldn’t you?—just on hope.”
I feel blessed to have hope, and for the magazines that have been throwing brightly-lit emails at me, though the rain of rejections never ceases (as should be for anyone who is trying to get their simpleton out there). Acceptances have come in recently from the Kenyon Review, the Ohio State University’s the Journal (a poem about the one time I got arrested by the police, for loud), the South Carolina Review, and—Kristi was the first to pay me for a short story, “Christmas Chicken”—a return acceptance from 34 Orchards for “The Flute” (slated for 2023; I have another story coming out in that year, about a boy who turns to a tomato and is eaten by his mother, it has been called a Lisa Tuttle). My SAND copy also arrived (!), as well as a review copy of Paul J. Pastor’s Bower Lodge. Also, I have a poem coming out in the next issue of the Cincinnati Review; come celebrate with me.
Just as much as I love writing, I love teaching—conversing—poetry. It is a humbling privilege to be joining the Adroit Summer Mentorship Program this year as a Poetry Mentor. I still cannot believe it, you see. Very weird indeed. I was a mentee in 2019.
These are the perks of being a writer. Hehehe. As part of the business, I have curated magazines that are currently open. No submission fee, and they either pay or send beautiful print copies. May the road be kind. May the road inside you be kinder, and more marvelous than ever. May everything good come.
Lit Mags to Shoot:
Coastal Shelf: April 1 is the deadline.
RHINO: They’ve reached their cap for the month, but they are open until June 30—submit first thing in April. Go through their guidelines.
Asheville Poetry Review: It would be so cool to place a poem in this journal. They are open until July 16.
Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal: Poets between 14 and 24 (!) They are open year round. Depending on which issue you appear in, you could get a contributor copy.
Broad River Review: April 1 is the deadline.
Black Lawrence Press: In the Tempered Dark: Contemporary Poets Transcending Elegy: An anthology of poems about grief, to be accompanied by micro-essays. Deadline is May 31. I love this press!
Quarterly West: April 31.
Boston Review Annual Poetry/ Short Story Contest: Free submissions for BIPOC writers. Just 1. Cheswayo Mphanza won in the poetry category in 2020. Amazing poet, that man.
The Offending Adam: They are currently open for chapbook submissions. To be published on their website About 20 pages. Subscription revenue will be shared between author and publisher. July 1.
Drunk Monkeys: Cherry Dress Chapbooks: Fresh from the dream. They are accepting chaps for their first run. Shoot your golden shot. Abeg. April 2, or whenever sub caps. (You need me to look at your chap, say hello. But I charge, and I charge well. I have found that saying it the other way is actually not very good for business.)
Frontier: Seeks readers. It will help your art. I assure you. Have you read The Triggering Town, Richard Hugo; or is it The Cambridge Book on Creative Writing? Or even The Poet’s Companion? In one of those books, it is advised you read for mags, or start one. April 1 is the deadline. Read my poem on Frontier.
Others: Adroit Journal is also open. Ditto, West Review. Among others. God bless you.
The title of this piece is taken from Stephen Crane’s “The Open Boat” ◇