Care And Feeding Of The Rejected Poet

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I am a poetry toddler. Although I’ve been writing poetry since the first grade, have had a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing emphasizing poetry and nonfiction for nearly a decade, and been involved in the local poetry “community” for many, many years – I am a poetry toddler.

Earlier this year, I submitted my poetry chapbook to my first “contest.” I’ve had a good amount of success getting the individual poems published in literary journals. I thought I had a grip on that golden horseshoe, the lucky winner, the chosen one, as I held my book in my hands.

I was not shy about letting people know that I had a “good feeling” about submitting my chapbook. People were nice and said great things, which of course egged me on to believing that my work had a chance, a shot with this small press. I had put all my eggs in one basket. This was the contest for me. If I did not win, I would at least be a finalist!

Damn. Have you ever had to eat crow? It ferments in your mouth like rotten grapes. It gets stuck to your teeth. You can’t even remove it with floss. Crow is finding out that you were way out of your league. You were toddling around in a messy diaper at the prom.

Last week, when I received the email letting me down softly and announcing who won the contest, I put down my pen and stuck my thumb in my poet mouth. Also, there were the finalists, great poets who I adore and admire and would never put my poems “up against.”

It’s been a week or so. In that week, I went back and read two important books that had been calling to me for months. Lola Haskins’ Not Feathers Yet: A Beginners Guide to the Poetic Life; and Ordering The Storm: How to Put Together a Book of Poems, an anthology edited by Susan Grimm. They are my Dr. Spock, helping with the care and training (and revision) of this toddler.

Alas, I overhauled my manuscript. It’s been on the floor (I tossed it up in the air), my desk, the couch, my bed (yes, I slept with it one night.) It’s been candy, a dish that I can’t walk by without picking up a random piece (page) and chewing on it.

Later this week, I will remove my binky/ego and send the thing out again. Nobody likes to see a toddler with a binky. I will leave the terrible twos behind for the get over it threes. One day, I will be ready for that prom, poems pinned to my breast, a corsage smelling of tenacity, hope.


4 thoughts on “Care And Feeding Of The Rejected Poet

  1. Damn that’s good. Got a rejection today. A few more winging my way, no doubt. No coincidence that binky is blue.

    • Poetry rejections just suck, Claire. They are the Hoover vacuum cleaners of my life. Hang in there and so will I. Thanks for reading my post. Best, Patty

  2. Good for you. You describe the feeling well. Don’t forget that even Bob Dylan got rejected…a lot.

  3. I, too, a poet with a considerable number of published pieces, felt that same sting of chapbook rejection not so long ago. I let it paralyze me for a while but have, since, been doing the re-shuffle & resubmit dance, which is difficult while keeping crossed fingers.
    If you’re interested, my published work is here:
    Clicking my name (above) brings you to my blog.

    I’m enjoying reading you!

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