“I SAID I WASN’T GONE TELL NOBODY… [by Dante Micheaux]

but I couldn’t keep it to myself”, says the refrain of a gospel song, close to my heart—especially when sung by Mother Eloise Knight of Jerusalem Baptist Church, in Trenton, New Jersey. And I suppose the truth must have out: it bothers me that I have never had a poem published in The New Yorker. It bothers most American poets, even the ones who claim they couldn’t care less about the magazine. It bothers younger poets to an even greater extent. The magazine has a reputation for making journalists and literary artists feel as if they “have made it”, or at least for creating the illusion of success. After reading the August 30^th issue, my personal upset has reached a level of fury! What in the hell was the editorial staff thinking when it let David Musgrave’s “On the Inevitable Decline Into Mediocrity of the Popular Musician Who Attains a Comfortable Middle Age” slide through? Surely, of the thousands of poems that arrive in the mail at 4 Times Square, there was a haiku more deserving of the space. David Musgrave is a fine poet, worthy of all the awards he has received, and all published poets have at least one poem out there cast away as the awkward stepchild. But, come on, Mr. Musgrave, put me out of my misery and say this one got into your submissions pile by mistake. Richard D. Allen’s critique was on the money!

Let’s pretend I’m David Remnick. One of two things is being said to my poetry editor right now. 1) I’m so pleased that readers are paying attention to the drivel I approved  that I couldn’t wait for Condé Nast's livery service, so I hopped a train from Penn Station to Princeton Junction and am taking you out for wings at Chuck’s; or 2) Perhaps you’ve just gotten of track. A trip back to your roots might help, County Armagh and all that. Pass me that ruler over there, please. Place your hands palms down on my desk.

I can only imagine poor Jenna Krajeski rolling her eyes with a sigh, mouthing It’s-not-my-fault to her fellow staffers. If you were not certain of it before, you can be certain now that when it comes to poetry, quality is not high on The New Yorkers’ list of priorities. Thank God, for Hilton Als and the excellent cartoons; I will be renewing my subscription promptly!

Postscript: Knowing how smart Paul Muldoon is and what a trickster he can be, his editorial pitch was probably along the lines of, “Let’s put this in just to piss people off.” Well, it worked.

Comments

[Lunita Laredo]

Couldn't agree more! I mean I had a similar reaction to seeing this month's cover of Vanity Fair. Truly I can't think of any other word to describe Lady Gaga besides awesome, but at this point it feels like decades ago that I was in Spain getting down to "Pokerface," or ignoring my tapas and Irish and Algerian friends as I stood transfixed while the "Bad Romance" video played in the background. Spain's obsession with the '80s aside, and pardon my French, but WTF! Shouldn't we expect more from Vanity Fair? They have all those unbelievably talented writers who can cover whatever is most cutting edge in society broken up by the glossiest Gucci ads this side of Vogue, and we have to wait until September 2010 to get a Gaga cover. COME ON is spot on. Once it's breaking news that Jerry Seinfeld is throwing a temper tantrum about showing your bra in his box in the new Yankee Stadium can you still be considered avant-garde?

PS. Love Paul Muldoon, just love him. Lady Gaga too!