Light as a Feather, Stiff as a ...

I've been published before-- school publications, illustrations for training manuals and student guidebooks, anonymous articles written for a publicist, speeches written for some government bigwigs, artwork for EPSON Vision and the Commission on Human Rights. There are also significant contributions to the odd Engrish Teachel Manuars for my former Korean bosses (Seriously, I have to bring home a copy the next time I'm at the old office).

I have pointed memories and feelings for each of them, but few among these works give me as much pride and disappointment as that one poem that showed up in the compilation in this picture (left).  If you've read my first L.I.T.E.R.A.L response, you'll understand why I will probably derive much joy from throwing this book at the odd home invader.

Strangely, the compilation is true to its name: much of the poetry that lives on the pages has to do with love-- expressing it, having it rejected, keeping it alive in the face of ridiculous odds. The book's construction itself is the bastard child of love and cynical marketing. It's as if the minds behind the old Poerty.com (the people who put this book out in the early 2000's)[1] were divided into camps who--

• wanted to put out quality work for the many authors who wasted their time submitting entries in the earnest hope of making it , and  
• who wanted to milk us for every penny they could get, while the cash cow was in a mood to givegivegive.  

The paper stock is great, and I can't complain about the spine. I think the cover is hard enough to stop a knife. These, to me, are clear indications that whoever approved the project cared enough about the many people who were being bilked to include these specifications while their cynical counterparts nodded their heads and discussed among themselves the market appeal of making a book that could potentially be an heirloom.      

The time I'd been informed that I'd received some sort of prize and gotten "invited to share" my poetry "aloud" in the old Poetry.com's annual Poetry Convention in DC, I'd also felt humiliated as my application for a US visa got shot down. It's standard practice, of course, and I cannot blame the consul who denied me entry. This is exactly how the embassies make money for their mother countries. Nevertheless, the wound was deep, and I'm not sure it's really healed. I'd grown up on Sesame Street and Marlo and the Magic Movie Machine, and while I had no illusions that America was a paradise, I still suffered from the misapprehension that I could represent myself in a way that would get embassy personnel to respect my honest endeavor enough to let me through for a two week tour.[2]

Okay, this is hopefully the last time I'll talk about this. It's great to get it off my chest, but to dwell on it is ultimately unproductive. Here's to just writing, and (for now, at least) writing for the sake of it.

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[1] The new Poetry.com is, to my knowledge, being run by Lulu.com. I have not tried to retrieve my old submissions from the site, even though a link has been generously provided for all the old poems submitted before the site changed hands. Perhaps I should. I sharpened myself partly by making poetry on the fly using their poetry in motion app, where one uses the scrambled words of one poem to fashion a new one. It's a good exercise and I miss it.

[2] It galls that people actually get past the consuls, overstay, and disappear into the landscape. I'd not wanted to even travel before the opportunity to be recognized as a good poet even presented itself. When the prospect of doing so was presented to me, my inner child took over, and I thought I could finally see the Empire State Building, feel it and, later, the US capitol ground under my feet. To have that inner desire exposed, the opportunity to satisfy it stare me in the face and then yanked away was the ultimate cock tease.  If a God had set it up, it was a cruel joke consistent with his Old Testament dickishness.