There are two months between me and the start of my Master’s degree in poetry, and one year between me and the Great Post Master’s Degree Lull where I will either be brimming with shiny ideas and applying for PhD’s, or more likely, sitting in my parent’s house, browsing the internet for something to do which will combine earning money and avoiding telephones. I’m hoping for the former and preparing for the latter.
But before then there’s the Master’s. So I have to a) start writing more poetry and b) start trying to get it published, because only poets with pre-existing reputations sell or get invited to do anything, and currently my entire reputation is ‘goes to UEA’. I’m pretty damn proud of that, but on it’s own, it’s like trying to get a job by announcing that your mother/father is in the House of Lords. (Unfortunately not true. Oh, this would be a different blog if it were.)
I tried preparing some poems for submission earlier, but chickened out. I refuse to submit anything older than six months because I feel like I’m nicking someone else’s writing when I do (‘What were you thinking when you wrote this?’ ‘No idea’) and in all honestly, the best stuff I’ve written this academic year were the poems for my dissertation last Autumn, with the exception of a sequence I’m still working on. (Meaning: started and haven’t finished.)
However, as self-punishment for failing to submit to any journals, I have to publish something here. This is a draft from earlier, and like pretty much everything that I put on my blog, I’ll probably take down and repost with a revised version in six months’ time. One of my problems is that the stuff I tend to write – or at least, the better stuff – is intensely personal ,whhich makes it hard to submit to magazines.
I’ll give you some explanation on this, even though it is deeply frowned upon in Serious Poetry Reading Circles. This poem uses elements of Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts, not because I think I’m worthy so much as to kiss his carpet slippers (n.b, pamphlet title? ‘Auden’s Shoes’?) but because some lines from it popped into my head when I started writing and I wanted to see what would happen if I tried bouncing off them. The rough point of the original poem is that no-one notices Icarus falling; as I got towards the end, I realised it was a way of coming to terms with the subject matter of the poem, i.e., my fatness: declaring that it didn’t really matter and getting on with Everything Else. Thanks, Auden, although I think this poem might weird you out a little bit.
In Which I Address The Anonymous Speaker Who Feels The Need To Make An Anonymous Comment Concerning Themselves About Someone Else’s Weight
About being fat, they where never wrong,
the Old Masters: how its rolls and bumps
would touch awkwardly when you walk, or
rub gently in the soft confines of a good skirt;
how strangers would flick their eyes over you twice,
or not at all, and either look
would be a little disaster – how even just walking
up the stairs, as other people do,
would play the lungs like organs. Or how
in the mornings, the tired naked stumble
would end in arrest at the mirror: those thighs,
you think, that stomach. On the scales
the little obnoxious numbers declare
it’s two stone more, even tried after
new batteries have been dug out and the dusty back
cracked open and swapped. No good, still fat.
And so there’s this poem. Pissing on Auden,
whose elderly cousin once wished me well
at church. Uneven stanzas like curves.
So: I’ll drop this poem into the water,
with Icarus’s skinny legs: I’m fat, no disaster,
this ship has somewhere else to be and is definitely sailing on.