29.3.12

Can You Spot the Differences?

I just can't...I'm so mad. I'm going to post the altered poems here, along with the name of their "editor": Chelsea Gentile. As I do a line by line comparison, I just get more upset. So, here are her versions...right next to mine.

MINE:


Interdit

When I was born
I imagine you were reading Salinger;
I imagine it was simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas
intellectual prowess academic progression-
I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming perfect rings on an essay
left over from before my entrance.
I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod?
By plugging our ears in,
we wired our brains together,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand.
You could do it now,
If you could reach across
all of these rivers,
if I could stop
burning all of these bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate it in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

This puts all the coffee
back into your cup, and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicked back with river water;
This places brick on top of brick,
not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don't bother reaching towards it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against it,
and sneer at all those phonies,
fingers interlocking tightly,
and pretend that
I don't believe in love.

HERS:

When I was born
I imagine you reading Salinger;
I imagine it seemed simultaneous:
your teenage angst, my infant struggle.
Your dreams were made of ideas—
intellectual prowess, academic progression—
and I am your interruption.
I am the idea that chases your fingers
around and around in your hair;
I am the voice that spills your coffee,
forming a perfect ring on an essay
left over from before my arrival.

I imagine a lot of things.

Remember when we shared an iPod
by plugging in together?
We wired our brains,
but you weren't allowed to hold my hand
though you could do so now,
if you could reach across
all these rivers,
if I could stop
burning bridges.

Every time I kissed you
I tried to narrate the act in my head:
How did we lead up to this?
What brought your face so close to mine?
Do we leave imagination any room to wiggle?
This is why you stopped kissing
(me).

Which puts all the coffee
back into your cup and
runs a comb through your hair,
slicks back each strand with river water;
places brick on top of brick,
building not a bridge but a wall:
a solid, tangible obstacle.
I don’t bother reaching for it.
Your fingers will never
graze the rough red surface,
nor wish it were my face.
But I can put my back against the wall
and sneer at all those phonies,
their fingers tightly interlocking,
and pretend
I don't believe in love.

MINE:

SOLD


When I think about that house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
the utmost protection and structure,
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in that kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding each other of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies, over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs
cursing whoever it was who thought
intricate black and white tiling would look good on that floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She may use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
But will she ever notice the outlines of where I smeared poetry
onto the mirrors in soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
are filled with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls are painted white?
What if music never fills the kitchen at Christmas,
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then,
and all I can see is what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear the horrible crunching sound
of old beetle flesh becoming dust?


HERS:

When I think about our old house
I am reminded of a discarded exoskeleton:
the utmost protection and structure
so easily crushed between my thumb and forefinger.

I imagine some other family
will eat breakfast in the kitchen,
spilling milk across the table
and reminding one another of their manners.

On Sunday nights they will likely
gather in the basement,
chairs placed across that squishy place in the carpet,
to watch old movies over and over.

Chore days will find a petulant child
crouching over the toilet upstairs,
cursing whoever thought to intricate
black and white tiling in a bathroom floor.

I presume a girl will open those west windows
and let the curtains flutter in the breeze.
She might use the barre for ballet or for displaying her scarves,
but will she ever notice the remnants of poetry
smeared onto the mirrors with soft blue wax?

What if the shelves by the fire
fill with knick-knacks instead of books?
What if the yellow walls get painted white?
What if music never remakes the kitchen at Christmas
and the porch light loses its supernatural glow?

What if I forget what it looked like then
and remember what it looks like now?

What if, in a moment of carelessness,
I close my hand into a fist
and hear that horrible crunching sound
of beetle husk becoming dust?




Honesty

It bothers me when people do not say what they mean. Seriously, when a person says one thing and means something else, it doesn't matter what either is, suddenly the person loses credibility and respect in my eyes. This loss is only increased if one proves in other ways he or she is not thorough or consistent in their dealings with me. What has spurred this? Oh, blogosphere, what indeed.
I received an email today from the magazine publishing my work, asking me to look at the proof and check for errors before sending it to print. They went on to explain that their team had fixed grammar errors, punctuation weirdness, and in some cases, made drastic changes to a poet's work, but they would revert back to the originals upon request. I reviewed my work and WHOA. They changed the verb tenses in the beginning of Interdit, added the word "seemed" in some lines, as though the observations the speaker is making were figments of her imagination. Furthermore, in SOLD, they ADDED AN ENTIRE LINE about the house, calling it "our old house", I guess for those readers who couldn't put those pieces together...whatever. So I emailed them back, politely stating that while their revisions made nice pieces, they were not my voice, nor were they in line with the meaning of the poems, and requested they revert my work back to the originals they had accepted in the first place. Not an hour later I received a reply, stating that they were impressed with my talent, what with me not being in the creative writing program, and they would change the works back, but could they please fix the grammar and capitalization errors?

EXCUSE ME. I proofread the College's Course Catalogue at work and never have I gotten a comma splice question wrong on chompchomp.com, EVER. Furthermore, if they were going to change the poems anyway, they shouldn't have given me the option to restore my work. If they wanted revision, they should have asked me instead of letting student editors alter my work to fit their idea of what the poem should have said. They actually changed the phrase "I imagine it was simultaneous" to "I imagine it seemed simultaneous" and thought that was just fixing up some grammatical issues. Clearly, they did not want my poems the way they are, so why didn't they say so? They made no indication of revision in the acceptance letter!

I allowed them to make their grammar fixes, but asked to see these revisions before the magazine goes to press. This time, I hope they do what they said they would, and do not keep pushing for something else.

10.3.12

How Social Media is Ruining My Higher Education

That title makes it look like this is a post about how I spend all my time on Facebook instead of studying.* In truth, it is a post about how the existence of social media has made applying for scholarships incredibly difficult, for all the wrong reasons. I miss the idea of scholarships being applied for by writing essays about how you learned things, or how you plan to change the world, or how college benefits society, you know, pull-it-out-of-your-butt essays that barely skid under the absurd 500 word limit but sparkle with the brilliance only attained by writers accustomed to cranking out 1400 word chunks on the daily. Now, all you can find are contests where you make a video about how you recycle really well, or make a plan to recycle and follow it, or make a multi-media presentation about copyright law, or write several thousand words about the single most important political issue involved with the 2012 Presidential Election and pray to the Almighty that the judges are on the same end of the political spectrum as yourself. Or, my favorite type of all (dear, faithful 4 blog followers, and random blog stalkers in the Ukraine): the popularity contest. That's right. The existence of Facebook/Twitter/Tumbler/Blogger(uh. yeah.) has made it possible for the following exchange to take place.
Scholarship Coordinator: Gee, thanks, Mr. Money-Haver. It's sure nice of you to offer this large sum of money to college students. What stunt shall we have them perform to compete for it?
Mr. Money-Haver: Let's ask them to write some dumb essay about learning, or how they love the world.
SC: Do you think they'll do it?
MMH: Of course! Kids love that crap! There'll be thousands upon thousands of entries!
SC: Thousands?!?!?!?!?! How ever will we judge them all in a timely manner? This is so difficult!
MMH: Let's narrow the playing field a little, shall we? Pick a top percentage and then judge only those.
SC: How will we ever manage that? That involves some amount of judgement, doesn't it?
MMH: Aw, shucks, you're right! We could always pawn that off onto their peers. Whoever bullies the most people into voting for their work regardless of its quality will obtain the honor of us reading their essay.
SC: Sounds perfect!

So here's a scenario: A quiet kid who was home schooled for a lot of her elementary school career has never really made friends in high school, and doesn't spend much time on Facebook because she doesn't have many friends. She's got the requisite close pals, because quality means more than quantity for her. She's brilliant, completely genius, and if she can scare together enough money for college, she has the potential to go Ivy League and discover cures for cancer, or rebuild Africa's infrastructure, or fix the United States economy. So, she decides to apply for scholarships. Our friends SC and MMH have totally screwed her over, so when one of them gets diagnosed with liver cancer, he's going to be sad, and not even know why.
Now, down the block lives the most charismatic guy around. He's got like 5,000 Facebook friends because he adds everyone whose name he ever learns, and even just some people who are friends with his friends whom he has never met. He went to several different high schools so his base of acquaintanceship is wide. He's nothing too special, goofed off for all of high school and doesn't have the grades to get any merit-based aid from the state school, nor does he qualify for need-based, but his daddy cut him off for crashing the family car. He applies for the same scholarships, but thanks to his charisma and uncanny network of friends, he manages to get enough popularity votes to make it into the final percentage, and is smart enough to beat out the other charismatic individuals. He'll grow up to be a miserable accountant who misses the glory days of high school football, and very few people will care. They'll all have died from cancer.

So, even though this is entirely fruitless...vote for my essay? Please?

http://www.wyzant.com/scholarships/v2/essay51868-New_York-NY.aspx





*Not that I don't do that too...a lot...