"Epic" by Ange Mlinko -- Poetry Magazine (December 2013)

poem found here
 

first lines:
It’s you I’d like to see Greece again with
You I’d like to take to bed of cyclamen
 

more is not better; ergo, the few are not the best

– minor editing Feb. 5, 2015
 
This post has been added to the Hatter's Cabinet site via its Best of the Poetry Daily Critique page
 

Those of you who read this blog probably already know (and for those of you who do not I will be up front about) that I have little respect for Poetry Magazine. Nor, for that matter, for most (if not nearly all) of the major poetry journals. That is because for all their posturing, they mostly fill themselves with generic, banal, and, far too often, plainly bad poetry -- but poetry which fits nicely and neatly into the category of pop. Poetry most of all, for it has become a serial issuing of poppoetry, and it should -- beyond all the others -- know better. Usually I can go through the newest issue on-line and point out with each poem the pop hook that got it past editorship despite the poem's many shortcomings. And, it does not take too critical a look at the magazine's web face to see that the magazine has become mostly a shill for the poppoetry/pop-culture-studies industries. (Just as Rolling Stone is now little more than such for the music/entertainment industries.)

However, the magazine does deserve one moment of pause in its defense.

Looking through the Poetry Magazine site, in the editorial statement by the new-ish (2011) editor, Don Share ("To Our Readers">, I see that the magazine gets upwards of "120,000 poems a year."

How, ever, could that statement be taken as a banner of excellence? How could any magazine that wades through 10,000 poems a month at all be able to succeed as a magazine seeking to print "indispensible reading" (as the 'About' page states)? One might think that such a large submission pool offers the magazine the ability to truly find exceptional writing. The reality of it, however, is that by permitting such an inundation, they decimate that very possibility, and nearly assure that they will be publishing quite the opposite.

How? Primarily in that the sheer numbers involved necessitate one or both of two editorial realities: (1) either they must have a large number of first-line readers, or (2) the individual readers must face a massive number of poems. Neither result is a positive. The issue with the second should be obvious: inundate a person with a thousand submissions and they will become numb to what they are reading. (Watch J.J. Abrams all day and you will start to think the Die Hard movies are really good.) Also, the time constraints create a situation where the readers cannot possibly approach each poem with a honestly critical eye. Considering aesthetic poetry usually takes far more effort than conventional poetry, you see the results. The readers start noticing hooks rather than poetics.

As for the first, a broad distribution of editorial labor means that your first-line readers are going to be your weakest readers: those least able to spot the wheat in the chaff, and, more importantly, those most likely to promote pop poetry: i.e., those most likely to pass a poem up the editorial ladder not because of its creative energies but because of is conventionality. It destroys the magazine's sophistication at the start, in an process that has no means of correcting it: the whole point of the distribution of labor is to lighten the load on the upper echelons, to leave to them the final decisions only. They are not going to go back through the piles to check to see if what was handed them is, indeed, the best to be found. They are simply going to accept it as such.

(This is why I generally have little interest in journals edited by university students: most of the time, the people who are working through the submissions are the people most entrenched in pop poetics. And those people are by definition the least capable of spotting the truly creative, because the truly creative is the least conventional.[FN])

************************* [FN] Which does not mean there is no place in poetry for such magazines. Only, those magazines should recognize that they are not upper tier journals. They should not behave as such, nor expect to be recognized as such. Rather, they should use the freedom offered them by not being an upper tier journal to be creative in the magazine itself. For example, they can get away with things like issues devoted to somewhat limited ideas. For example: "The Spring issue of next year will be wholly devoted to fiction about alien abduction: humorous, serious, poetry, prose, photography -- let's see what you can do with that." The results will be spread about in terms of sophistication; but it has the positive service of opening up -- and energizing -- avenues of creativity and creative exploration not normally available. *************************

So it should be no surprise that Poetry Magazine offers, month after month, little more than pop fare. Their practices -- their willingness to accept a reality of 10,000 submissions a month -- has to have sabotaged the magazine from the very start. How can there honestly be, in such a massive sample, any real possibility for the discovery and presentation of excellence, of "indispensible reading."

 

What to do about it? I can not help but think about the phrase learned in the economic crash and the profit gluttony that has followed: too big to fail means it has to be torn down. And 120,000 poems a year is definitely the label of a bloated sow. Of course, here, I am not saying Poetry Magazine should cease publication, but it should change its policies and procedures so as to make the idea of 120,000 a year a recognized issue, not a sign of success. Which is not to say they should find new means to successfully navigate the flood: the problem is the flood, not the issue of how to wade through it.

One possibility -- and I'm just going to throw out a couple of obvious ideas here -- is to have the magazine cycle through periods of editorial focus, to announce, "for the next five (or whatever) years, we will be heavily concentrating on X. Don't submit what does not apply." There are two benefits. First, it narrows the submission pool, obviously. But, second, since Poetry is so well established, it creates an atmosphere of mass exploration of poetics and poetry. Three or five (or whatever) years of absolute focus -- including web presence -- on a topic of poetics/aesthetics? Imagine the dialogue that could be created.

For that to escape pop poetry culture, however, such focusing would have to be on subjects of aesthetics and poetics. Topicality is pointless (as magazines such as something devoted to poetry about cats can demonstrate). Issues devoted to topicality (without a previously established focus on poetics/aesthetics) only generates a larger pool, because the focus is on content, not on poetics/aesthetics. And pretty much anyone can write and submit a poem about cats. Political/cultural topicality does not solve the issue: just because your theme carries political resonance does not mean the poetry is not banal: themes like "transgender poetry" or "poetry of the inner city" gets the same results -- sophistication wise -- as "poetry about cats." (The quicker the culture of poetry will admit to that truth, the better off the culture of poetry will be.)

Another obvious solution is dividing up the magazine into different titles of different focuses: Poetry/Lyricism, Poetry/Narrative, Poetry/Form, Poetry/Translation as examples. (Of course, rejecting submission to one because it also fits in another would be counter productive.) The magazine could easily divide its web presence into such, and have the primary (print) masthead be the best of the best. What it offers is not only that the submission pool is divided up, but that the reading process is performed by people whose own poetic interests are focused on that narrowed field: hopefully that results in better eyes looking over the submissions. (A reader with a aesthetic stake in narrative poetry will make for a better reader than someone who just like poetry.)

In truth, I believe the greatest weakness of most poetry/lit journals are that they are too expansive in their coverage: in being so they have watered down their own editorial talents. If you narrow coverage, you narrow the selection pool and make first-line-reader decisions much easier. But also, you present to the writers a statement of purpose: we want to see excellence in this. Can you successfully pull it off?

Now, of course, as with every awards show, for such a challenge to work there has to be the possibility of wholesale rejection. And here we get to the third suggestion, one which really underlies every other possible option with magazines that claim to be -- or, even better, strive to be -- indispensible reading: Don't print it if it's not brilliant.

As quoted on the "About" page, the purpose of the "open door" policy of Poetry Magazine is as such:

May the great poet we are looking for never find it shut, or half-shut, against his ample genius!

I think the key word there is "genius": the purpose of the open door is so as not to miss excellence because of "where, by whom, or under what theory of art it is written." The point of the open door seems to me to say to the poets, "If you are willing to make the time and effort to write a brilliance like 'Prufrock' [one of Poetry's points of pride, and something would probably have no chance of being published today], then we will publish you."

But, if a magazine publishes conventional poetry, that intent and search for the "great poetry of genius" will get lost in the resulting flood. Publish only Prufrocks and Prufrocks will come your way. Publish velvet Elvises, and that is what you will get. And in far, far greater numbers.

Can you imagine an issue of a major magazine that had two poems in it?; that stated overtly, "out of 5,000 submissions, these are the only ones that were really worth publishing, that was not simply more of the same." Can you imagine if they wrote not the names of the people who they have published, but the names of the famous poets they rejected? And then prided themselves even more on the poets that came back with "oh, yeah? how about this!" and smacked one out of the park? Can you imagine a magazine that said (as so many do), "to be published in our pages means something," and then actually backed up the words with editorial actions?

Pipe dream, obviously. This is the U.S. of Mediocrity, where our major cultural awards are wholly subservient to the entertainment industry's bottom line. Where inaugural poems are at a level that invites drinking games. Where, if you are to believe the blurbs on the back, every third book of poetry published offers an experience of profound spirituality on the level of Faust or cultural insight on the level of Democracy in America.

When a poetry magazine fills its pages with what it has on hand, despite quality, it is doing a disservice to literature. That is because people read magazines as though they are printing the best of the best. People read Poetry Magazine thinking that they are reading the best poetry has to offer, which is not only not the case, it cannot be the case. The inevitable end result is a watering down of both the idea of excellence and the expectations for excellence, and an anchoring of the culture of poetry within mediocrity and pop. It leads us to accepting banality as excellence, conventionality as creativity.

Even beyond that, it creates a culture of poetry that offers bad poetry as examples of good poetics, conventionality as examples of creativity: it creates a school of creative writing whose exemplars need not hide their incompetency, because publishers of those exemplars are more than willing to ignore those incompetencies. Which tells the up and coming writers that they too can ignore incompetencies. Moreso, teaches new writers that brilliance is far easier attained than you might before have thought.

And I cannot help thinking about the Bridge of Death, and Sir Robin's enthusiatically shouted "That's Easy!"

Which leads us to today's poem, which is, if you go to the Poetry Magazine site for the newest (December) issue, the first poem on the table of contents page (here).

So, we've opened our magazine. It is the first page; it is the first poem. This time, however, let's read it differently. Let's read it without an assumption of excellence (of which there can be no real expectation). This time, read it against the grain, against the assertions of pop culture that "it is on the radio, so it must be good." Read it instead assuming, say, that the first line is an aural trainwreck. Read it instead assuming that the first stanza is laughably bad. Read it instead assuming that the poem as a whole is riddled with bad poetics and tone-deaf wording. Read it assuming that the poem's play is not clever poetics but cheap gimmickry. Read it looking for the poppoetry hooks that got it through the editorial process. Read it assuming that it is not a good poem, but something that is preying upon the fact that you are not sophisticated enough to see just how bad it is. Read it assuming that the magazine does not want a sophisticated readership, it wants a top-40 readership. Read it assuming that the poem wants you to write poems no better than it is, just as bad as it is, because then it will not need fear the comparison.

Read the poem with this expectation: prove to me you are as good as you claim, for I know most of the time that that is a lie.

Read the poem out of the natural conclusion of "120,000 poems a year": there is no way this could possibility an exceptional poem; there is every reason to believe that it is poppoetry, that it is probably mediocre at best, and that it probably got through the editorial process for reasons that have nothing to do with brilliant aesthetics or creative poetics.

When you read, demand that the poems show you they are worth reading. Where they do, you have found something to learn from. Where they do not, you very well may be wasting your time.

One of the interesting things I have noticed in reading the Poetry Daily and Verse Daily sites, in writing these posts, is that, when taken on the whole, poems that come from books tend to be better than poems that come from journals; even the prestigious ones. (Now, this an observance, not scientifically acquired data. But, one with which I am comfortable at the moment.) This does not suprise me: 120,000 poems a year makes for a poor magazine. That is the underlying truth of it. How could it possibly be otherwise?

So when pick up a Poetry Magazine, you should read its contents with this idea in mind:

 
My endeavor is to write better poetry than this.
 

That is all Poetry Magazine has to offer a poet who is striving for something beyond pop.

 

---

I want to add a note on the idea of "tiers" brought up in the footnote above. I believe one of the problems with poetry publishing in the U.S. is that they are all far too ecumenical, and yet so many of them still want to claim status as being a publisher of important poetry. A great number of Poetry Magazine's submissions would disappear if they simply took the stance of "We are an top-most tier journal. We only publish the best of the best." It would be a very interesting event if journals were to divide themselves into tiers, and expected from their submissions work of the level of their tier. There would be in the submissions itself a great deal of self-ordering. A poet that knows they are only of whatever degree of sophistication would not expect to be published in journals of higher tiers.

It would not be such a bad thing for the poets either; for they would know where to go to find journals that offered them something fruitful in their development; a journal that offered (perhaps in online presence) a place for dialogue at their level of exploration. Also, on the part of journals, it would prompt the end what to me is self-limited publication strategy: to go national. There needs to be more local journals: that is, that journals only reach out to their areas. Then writers of the region have journals that are interesting in their development. Does, say, Southern Review really have a stake in developing the liteary culture of its region if its eyes are all over the globe? Wouldn't it be better for both the journal and the region if they brought their eyes in?

I believe this to be a lesson learned in bookstores, both local and chain. The more a store interacts with its customer base, responds to the customer base, is developing the readership in its customer base, the more successful the store tends to be. Why does this not apply to literary journals?

"Phlogiston Footage" by Nicky Beer -- Verse Daily, 5/1/2013

from Pleiades
poem found here

 

First lines:
The lights dim. We creak in our seats.
A diver shadows the bottom of the Aegean Sea

 

prose hiding behind line breaks

— reformatted 9/30/15

Twice in a row, now, I have been offered a poem that fits perfectly into a subject I have been wanting to address. Though, here, it is more an experiment I want to try.

Before we begin, though, I want to congratulate Verse Daily for yet another botch job in transposing a poem to html. I am curious what the poem really looks like in Pleiades, for I have no confidence in Verse Daily's page writing ability, and as such question if the inserted, voiced sections are supposed to be full justified. (Notice the third one is not in italics, as I am sure it is supposed to be.) Now, if it was not full-justified in the original, then my question moves to Ms. Beer: why not? To be honest, whichever the case, I also do not understand why there are words in those sections that are hyphenated.

That said, my experiment: Since this poem is in sentences, and the line breaks seem arbitrary, let's print the poem out in paragraph form just to see what happens. (I add to the text what seems to me to be two natural paragraph breaks.)

The lights dim. We creak in our seats. A diver shadows the bottom of the Aegean Sea like a ponderous yellow-footed heron trailing a champagne wake. Mycenaean amphorae thrust their necks from the ashen sand, all rounding their lips to the same vowel shape as he plunges his glove down their gullets. We see his fist opening rubber petals to the camera, revealing another fist slowly loosening itself to a walnut-sized octopus. Nacreous and opaline, pied, rubicund, its eyes are damn near half of it, a livid doodle in his black hand. Now comes the calm intervention of the voiceover—baritone, gently professorial, just a touch embarrassed by the excess of its knowledge: One of the more unusual denizens of the coastal-Mediterranean waters is the phlogiston, commonly known to marine biologists as Octopus phlogistonus. While certainly no rival to the Giant Pacific Octopus in size, nor anywhere nearly as dangerous as the venomous Blue-Ringed Octopus, the phlogiston nevertheless possesses a certain attribute which for the longest time could only be described as magical. The camera tilts down into one of those ancient clay mouths. We gaze into shadow for a beat longer than seems necessary. Then: A flaw in the underwater celluloid. A flirt of acid on the film. A morsel of dust smuggled into the spool. A prank of chartreuse stipples the black, casts a fragment of ghoul-light on tentacles scrolled backwards. Wait a moment. Watch again. The animal takes small bites of the darkness, releasing crumbs of green light into the water, dozens of sparks leaping and guttering from its underside with mayfly brevity. Apocryphal evidence indicates one American soldier fortunate enough to catch sight of the phlogiston while stationed in Naples during World War II dubbed the creature The Little Zippo— There's no crashing grandeur here—it's the private self-sufficiency of the animal's gesture that charms us like a lonely whistle overhead in an empty street. And yet, drifting in its earthenware cul-de-sac, this diminutive marine Prometheus could not be more dull to itself: ... was discovered to be thousands of bioluminescent microorganisms inhabiting the keratin of the phlogiston's beak. The octopus scrapes the top and bottom halves of his beak together to rid himself of the surplus buildup. This agitates the parasites, which emit a faint greenish glow as they're released into the water. The "magic act" the octopus performs is, in fact, nothing more than a bit of absent-minded grooming. Which of our own human wonders may be little more than chemical whiff, an odd kink in the genetic helix? The thought's enough to make us shut our eyes, pull our ignorance a little closer, embrace it like a mildewed doll— dented forehead, chipped-paint stare and all. But we're still drawn to these tenebrous theaters, lulled by the tidewhir of the projector, detaching our terrestrial ballast as our lungs relax to airless anemones. Perhaps the light ruptures the darkness so that we may better know the darkness in the palm of our own hand. Now they're looping a scene in night vision chartreuse, the sparks first swarming the tentacles like spermatozoa, then rushing the lens, spawning with the clouds of dust in the camera's beam, silently trickling into our laps. Look how our hands become strange speckled cephalopods when we try to brush them away, the knuckles arched with primal alarm, poised to flee, to live out their own mysteries beyond our sight. The motor shudders. We whiff cordite. A single celluloid tentacle whips into the air, puddles to a glossy slither. What remains unknown—.   Note: The phlogiston is an invented animal.

So there you go. Simple experiment with a simple question: Was anything added to the text by breaking it up into poetry? The accompanying question: Was anything lost?

I leave that for you to ponder. I offer it as evidence to my continuing argument that much of what is considered poetry these days is really prose left-justified and with narrow columns. Since it is pointless to disguise my opinion, I obviously think nothing is added to the value of this particular piece; in fact, I think it flat works better as prose.

Except . . . . .

Once I started reading it in paragraph form, a whole lot of issues started to pop up. So what I have decided to do is to approach the piece as though I were commenting on a student's creative writing assignment.

My method here is first to mark the place in the text to which my comment is addressed; then to make the comment, as I would write it on a page. (Some language will have to be used to replace what would be done with non-verbal marks, like circling a word.)

• ["A diver shadows"] Do you realize that you are saying the diver's shadow is like a heron's shadow? So "yellow" makes no sense. Also, would anyone naturally call a tall, thin, almost fragile-looking bird like a heron "ponderous"?
• ["amphorae"] I don't think this personification of the amphorae works. It's a lot of energy going to the container, when really the energy should be saved for what's in it (whose introduction, in fact, doesn't even get half has much).
• ["loosening itself to a walnut-sized octopus"] Correct preposition? does a hand loosen to?
• ["Nacreous . . . ."] Sentence is a complete mess.
• ["commonly known"] You don't use the phrase "commonly known" to introduce its scientific classification; you say "it is ippidus bippidus, commonly known as the 'get the hell out of my nose' bug"
• ["Giant Pacific"] Why are you capitalizing the names of these two octopi, and not "Phlogiston"?
• ["could only be described as magical"] It was magical then, but now it's mundane? Why then the movie? (or this poem?) Or are you saying that up until the 18th century everyone literally ascribed the phenomenon to magic? Bad phrasing.
• ["The camera . . . ."] This entire paragraph is a mess. Adjectives and such are all over the place and out of control. It reads like your thesaurus puked on your paragraph. (The whole text reads that way.) Also, it starts with "a flirt" and ends with "dozens" without any building up -- so I ask, which one? A little, or a lot?
• ["apocryphal evidence"] A story can be apocryphal, but not evidence. If there is evidence, it's no longer apocryphal
• ["chartreuse" and "rubicund"] Great words, but chartreuse is not a color one generally hears associated with an animal. They sound forced. Q: does "rubicund" generally work in a context that is material, rather than biological?
• ["lonely whistle overhead in an empty street"] Which one? Overhead or in?
• ["could not be more dull to itself"] What does that mean? Are you saying the octopus is existentially bored with its own being?
• ["surplus buildup"] And yet "dozens" of visible specks are put out by an octopus the size of a walnut in what is apparently a very brief period of time? Your text makes it sound like the bacteria grows so quickly that if the octopus stopped for five minutes it would be wholly enveloped by the stuff
• ["chemical whiff"] I want to make this work, but in context can't
• ["embrace it like a mildewed doll"] I can't come up with a single thought that, once thought, would make me want to embrace it like a mildewed doll -- you are totally out of control ideationally
• ["But we're still"] Somebody shoot that sentence before it breeds!
• ["we try to brush them away"] Brush away what? Our hands? How do you brush away your hands? What do you use? Did they fall off, and they're creeping you out, and so you're brushing them away with your feet?
• ["primal alarm"] At the beginning of the paragraph we were talking about "little more than chemical whiff"; Where did primal alarm-type energies come from? Your sudden escalation is wholly unjustified, and completely out of left field.
• ["What remains unknown"] You got me. Not sure what this is about.
• ["Note:"] Never explain your jokes.

I think we can agree, what we really have here is some really, really bad prose, disguised as even worse poetry. Give this text any critical attention and you are going to come to that conclusion. Let me ask as I have before: would the above have ever made it past a prose editor? Why then did it a poetry editor? (I am, actually, embarrassed for Pleiades. Not the editors, the journal.) It is not like the work was written to the line breaks and without them it fell apart: the line breaks were arbitrary. And don't give me the "well it's poetry" justification. Just like being called the designated hitter does not magically mean a person can actually play the game, so also does being called "poetry" not magically cure a text of bad writing.

Or, at least, it shouldn't.

 

•
I actually may start doing this more often. The first questions of any "prose with line breaks" poem: Is there anything gained with the line breaks (or is it really just prose? and, What is concealed by the linebreaks?

"Dear So & So" by Beth Marzoni -- Verse Daily, 4/9/2013

from Hayden's Ferry Review
poem found here
 

verse daily sloppiness

— reformatted Mar. 14, 2015
 

Note after the fact: I see today (4/10) the error was fixed.

This is really for the Verse Daily people:

Line 15: a collared shirt on the off-chance Pd be saved. I'd shave.

In case nobody else has yet told you, it is embarrassing how many typos turn up on your pages.

No, it's not exactly like you are replete with them. But you are making one page a day. You can't bother enough to get one page a day -- one poem a day -- correct?

Not only embarrassing, insulting to the authors. Pay attention, already. You're a sponsored site. You should be getting it right.

"Ars Poetica" by Natania Rosenfeld -- Poetry Daily, 2/19/13

from The Gettysburg Review (Spring 2013)
poem found here
 

first lines:
"Peace," says the soprano,
retired to the sea, "is the tide
 

free verse and the poetic ear (and grammar)

— reformatted, some editing 12/10/2013
— This post has been added to the "Best of the PDC" page on my Hatter's Cabinet site.
 

Note after the fact: I wrote this still early on in finding my sea legs. I rather don't like the tone because it is ambiguous as to whether I am speaking of the poet or the poem -- and I generally want to speak of the latter more than the former. Most definitely, the end of the stanza is terrible. But the cause behind the problem I wanted to leave open, and merely posit ideas to ponder. There is benefit to exploring the question of whether a poet is writing above or below their ability: a question I believe one should always be asking oneself. (Also made a couple of text corrections.) -- April 16, 2013
 

I'll begin in grammar . . . for in that the commas in lines 4 and 5 break so far from basic grammar, and because the syntax and the grammar, both before and after, are conventional, those commas are wrong. Incorrect.

Now, normally, I try to avoid using words in the domain of incorrect  -- terms that are of the modality of yes/no -- when talking about literature. I try to stay in the realm of sophistication and validity -- terms that reside in discourse and function only as and towards discourse, rather than truth. But there are time when, flatly, something is incorrect. Here, because

1. it involves grammar, which is not wholly manipulatable, being part of the medium of the work (specifically, here, the English language);
2. the work establishes itself within fairly conventional grammar; which is also to say, the work does not make effort to establish variations in conventional grammar;
3. the break from conventional grammar is severe.

As a sophisticated reader, there are two consequences. First, the reading is greatly disrupted. The lines are as clumsy as a drunk, bow-legged ox on platform shoes. Second, more importantly, I am left with the impression that either (1) the poet doesn't know how to use a semi-colon; or (2) the poet doesn't have a developed enough ear to hear the problem for themselves; or (3) the poet has an attitude toward their art that permits such laxity and apathy that they don't feel the need or obligation to learn their medium, or the need or obligation to give the degree of attention to their art to eliminate such problems. Whichever the reason, it makes the poem something not worth reading (or, greatly less worth reading), and diminishes the interest in the poem's maker. (Which is not a good thing.)

Of course, I could try to say it more simply by saying the writer of such a work is not terribly sophisticated (which is not the same as saying that the work does not show great sophistication, which is true); except that saying such eliminates an important distinction: there is a difference between a person whose work is unsophisticated but still at the level of the poet (or, hopefully, at the level of the poet striving to be better then where they are) and a person who is not bothering, who uses reasons and rationales (or a fundamental apathy) to permit a lackadaisical method and style. Which is why people like me condemn the permissibility in creative writing instruction of free verse: a poet has to develop their ear and ability through formal verse. I will give two general (and associated) reasons:

• First, it is harder to hear elegance, fluidity, control, in free verse than it is in formal verse (or, in reverse, it is easier to develop your poetic ear through formal verse).
• Second, it is far easier to develop bad habits -- and rationales for inattentiveness -- through free verse. (I should say, I have known many instances of such rationales being propagated through workshops and formal classes.)
• (If you need a more formal reason, then I point you again to Gombrich and his Art and Illusion, to the idea that an artist develops through education through schema, and learns in sophistication to break from schema.)

To sum (and we have been for a while wholly in the general): there is no excuse to not know your medium-language; there is no excuse for getting grammar wrong (which is to say, there is no excuse to not being proficient in grammar, and well-equipped in syntax); and, once again, such errors come off to sophisticated readers wholly to the disfavor of the poet. Always.

Which brings me once again to the question of publication: the editor in this case failed their journal, pure and simple. There is sophistication also in editorship, and, unlike the poem, which speaks only of itself, in terms of editorship such lack of attention speaks to the whole of the publication.

 
•

An aside: I toy every once in a while with this question: "is it possible to tell from reading a poem whether the poet is of a lesser sophistication and trying something difficult to them, or whether the poet is simply not trying very hard." Given a large enough sample I think the usual case is yes. On a smaller sample, however, I flip flop. Sometimes it is obvious, as when errors are obviously mistakes (seen in comparison to the rest of the poem), or when the the nature of the attempted work speaks of exploration beyond the poet's current ability. Sometimes it is not so obvious. I am not sure what you can take home with this other than awareness of the question, which I think is more important than you might at first realize. And there you go.