Free Poetry Publishing Advice
Okay, this entry used to be a snarky thing about a cover letter I saw recently (while wearing my editing hat). This person sent The New Quarterly a submission of poetry under a cover letter berating us for being dull enough to reject the last visionary batch. And the advice: don't do that.
But since people actually come here looking for Free Poetry Publishing Advice, here's the essay I wrote for my students on the topic.
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How to Get Your Poetry Published
Okay, the basics. Most poetry is not published in books to start with; it's published in literary journals, which range from Poetry, which you can pick up in every library, to the little staple-bound 'zines you can pick up in the editor's garage. And most poets looking to get published start small.
There's also a huge emerging scene in online 'zines. I'm going to skip that entirely, because I don't know much about it.
Picking a Market
These days I know the scene well enough to pick journals I'd like to be in, chose poems I think would suit them, and bother them directly. But this is really stage two -- stage one is getting to know the scene.
This is what I did: I picked some poets I liked and admired, but who weren't famous. (Aislinn Hunter, Stephanie Bolster, and Naomi Nye, in case you're curious. None of them was famous at the time.) I found out where they'd been published. In Naomi's case, I looked at the ack page in her book. Stephanie and Aislinn didn't have books at that point, so I searched online for them. Then I picked the journals that interested me, looked them up online, ordered a few sample issues, and off I went...
Yes, I really did —-and do -- get sample issues. I have never sold a poem to a journal I hadn't read. I know it's an expense, and I know sometimes it's hard to spend money on poetry –- but take yourself seriously. Check out the journals. At the very least,
read the website samplers. Or try a large University library for the more prominent journals(remembering that prominent journals are the hardest to get into). If you find a journal you love, subscribe. Subscribing is the best way to support a journal, and nearly all of them need your support. Publishing poetry is a risky, thankless business – sort of like writing it.
I know this sound like a lot of bother -- but it works for me. Haven't read The Poet's Market in years. Useless book.
Other ways to pick a market
Places for Writers is a great website which has a lot of news on "calls" (that's when magazine or anthology or whatever asks for submissions) and new journals, etc. A bit slanted to the Canadian. Poets and Writers has a classified section which also has calls. Those aren't bad places to start -- but I would still recommend getting a sample issue.
The Poet's Market (check your library's reference section) is the thing I just called a useless book. Well, okay. PM is something like 1,000 pages of various kinds of places that publish various kinds of poetry. The problem with that is you drown in all those listings -- where do you start? Well, you specialize. Maybe you're already writing specialized poetry on, say, bird watching, or vampire erotica. Poet's Market can help you find those markets -- which in the case of vampire erotica you won't have trouble with, god help us. Or if you want to start local (smart!) the PM geographic index is a good place to go.
Personally, I find new journals by reading Poetry Daily and by checking out other people's contributor's notes in journals I like. (Matt Robinson's poems have recently appeared in.... etc). Poetrymachine.com isn't a bad place to turn when you're looking for a specific journal's website.
Of course, you can also just ask poets you know where they've been published, and happy. What's that, you say you did? Well, subjective and incomplete, here's my list. Of the places I've been published, friendly markets for emerging talent include Harpweaver, Other Voices, Prairie Journal, and paperplates. Mid-list: Arc, The Antigonish Review, Prism, and Pottersfield Portfolio. Prestigious magazines that are worth a try: Malahat, Fiddlehead, Grain, Event, and The New Quarterly. This list is subjective and incomplete. Also, it's Canadian. Don't be afraid to stray over the border and across the sea.
PS: Beware anthologies.
Yes, many are legit. Most of the ones that are legit are focused in some way, be it demographically, geographically, or topically. (That is, Latina Poets Today, Poetry in Atlantic Canada, Women's Work in WWII, etc.) A legit anthology should be selective -- they should have an editor, and they should be picking the best stuff they can find. And they should provide you with a free copy, and possibly a payment -- usually a very small payment.
Be careful of anthologies that don't fit this bill. Many, many, many of them will take any poem you send them, print it with 5000 others, and sell you $75 hard-cover copies. They are not interested in your poetry; they are interested in your money. Well-known scammers include Poetry.com and the International Library of Poetry. While this is unfair to Utah, be especially careful of anything with a Utah address. Here, read this essay.
Bottom line: you should NEVER pay to see your poetry in print.
Good essays on poetry publishing, here (an American essay) and here (a UK essay). The official word and some nitty-gritty advice from the American Academy of Poets.
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An Orphan Named Justice
JUSTICE, How you are abused!
By strangers who know you not, how you�re often claimed By pretenders who care about you not, how you�re often embraced
JUSTICE, In your name, how many have been persecuted- how many lives have been sacrificed; how much blood has been shed!
JUSTICE Before your very eyes, how history has been fabricated- how �wrong� was proclaimed �right�; how �war� was declared �peace�!
JUSTICE Where are your true champions? Where are those Giants who honored thy name? Where are your Davids, your Jesuses, and your Mohammeds? Where are your Omars, your Haruns, and your Salladins? Where are your Gandhis, your Martins, and your Mandellas? Where are your Rousseaus, your Jeffersons, and your Lincolns?
JUSTICE When the world needs you the most, how you are orphaned and indeed abandoned!
By Abukar Arman Hilliard, Ohio 2003
The wind blows cold upon my face, this night so weary, wet and bleak, The rain trickles down my skin, cleansing me free of dirt and muck, Smoke from a old mans coat arises as he lights up a cigarette, Coughing and spluttering as he takes another draw, My socks soaked right through, my feet wrinkled inside and curled up like a brain, I hear the squelching of the water in my shoes as I trod along this smooth city path.
The smell of whiskey pervades the air as a hag wanders past, bottle in hand, My eyes squint as the rain rolls over them, I can barely see where i’m walking, Tall grey buildings around me, looking down on me as if i’m a nobody, The stand tall and proud like a bear, dominant and sturdy, I stroll to a phone booth; I spied the light through the corner of my eye.
I grip the phone booths door with my hand and swing the door wide open, In a dubious manner I swiftly drag myself in to this cold, lit up box, In a desperate measure I begin to filter the pages of an old, stained phone book, I cant find the number I need, and nor the name I wanted to find.
I see a black taxi float by me, I ask for a lift to a pub, He accepts and I jump in.
On the way I drive past lots of beautiful buildings, theatres, monuments and English heritage, The theatre gigantic, golden and most elaborate detail consumes me, The monument is lofty and elegant, with Earl grey upon it, the Earl peers down on me, Demeaning me and I feel small. The heritage buildings are made of thick limestone, cut so fine by a mason so strong, I leave the cab and up pops my umbrella saving me from the acidic rain, The pub door is huge and red, with little stained glass pictures transferred onto it.
I walk in and look around, I see people laughing as they down a last shot of some brew, they stumble together with hands held tight and fall over as they leave the pub, I wander over to the barman; he is tall and dark wearing an aerosmith shirt, He is greasy skinned and thin, I ask him of how to get to Jesmond dene as I remember this boy showing me pictures of it, was a wood with bridges and walkways, He points me the way to it as it is near town.
I head in the direction of the way the man pointed I am in a rush, Running along and almost tripping over the poorly laid concrete slabs, Dashing and singing your song in my head to myself, I feel you becoming closer and nearer to me.
I see a big sign with writing saying Jesmond Dene this way, Aha I�ve found where my love once mentioned, his place of fun and hope, The place we shared our dreams together, the place which is ours but I�ve only just found, I walk cautiously down this eerie path luring me into this place of green and fresh colours, so bright and smells so magnificent, the scent of roses as I go further, I can see the sky above me turning light from darkness; I am tired and debilitated, I hope and pray for a seat or somewhere I can park myself for a short while, Walking further into this ceremonious forest I feel stronger knowing he is with me.
I hear birds chirping and see them flying high above, singing to me and telling me to keep on moving and following the song in my mind, I see a waterfall before me, with a bridge before it and some rocks and trees surrounding the rocks, the rocks with luscious green moss covering them like a form of protection from wear and tear, The water so smelly and not very insatiable for me to dive right in, I sit down on the freshly snicked grass cold beneath me, to me this is fantastic that I�m near him, I long for him so badly, I can feel my head against his strong warm chest, And his song and voice I hear too.
I pick up my bags and walk towards a little light I see in the distance, strange I think to myself a house in this wonderful place how peculiar, I approach the house with caution and press the doorbell lightly with my wrinkled hands.
A woman opens the door she has long grey hair and a woollen stripe jumper, The kind your Grandma sows for you when you are little, I question her of this Longbenton place and she helps me more than anything, She helps me inside and offers me tea and biscuits, of course I accept being cold and hungry, I thank her for her food and drink and hospitalities and then head for the door, smug and with a big grin on my face, most thankful for her help and things, As I open the creaky old door she grabs my shoulders and hands me a map of Newcastle, I turn around in delight and hug her so tightly thanking her like nothing before.
I walk down the little path in her beautiful garden of tulips and bluebells, I am so full of merriment and begin to skip my way on the map, Trees so grand and radiant, as I ponder and skip my way down this thick of mud path, I see drunks having sex on a wooden bench, I briskly sneak past them, wishing that id had my camera, all my notes are mental notes now of how this boy made his forever staining mark inside of me.
I leave the dene and I see houses and roads all around me, figuring out where to go by looking at my map I walk in the right way, crossing a empty road, and trundling up a hill towards a big illuminated box shaped sign saying Metro.
I get there and peer down at my map now wet, The ink running down the front of it smearing it and blurring the roads and paths, I feel closer to him now, knowing that the Metro station is named Longbenton Metro station, I cross the lines by a bridge above the track and look down thinking he has been here before I am sure about it.
As I walk down the last few steps I see a working men�s social club, People plummeting to the ground outside, I walk on towards a big shopping centre, It is amazing just the very sight of it, its greatness and its splendour make me dizzy, I pass through the shopping centre the lights out within and simply illuminated outside.
I cross a old bumpy road with holes in it and look for his street name, I see it Blackfriars Way yes I�m such a good place finder, I walk down it looking from side to side of it for number 4, I continue to walk down thinking will I ever find it, My mind closes down as I see the door of number 4, Big and blue and rigid, I trod along towards the door with my bag on my back wondering he remembers me I drop my bags and ring the doorbell������..