Rhymesayers Entertainment :: Atmosphere

Rhymesayers Entertainment :: Atmosphere.

Just testing this press thing for my blog.  Oh ya, I’m excited for Atmosphere! <– Check them out here.

Avoiding Stubbed Toes

I’ve always wanted to write something worth recognition.  Publication is the key to being recognized, but before publication comes recognition.  You need to impress a small number of people before you can expose yourself to a large number.

Recently being a part of that small number, I found it interesting just how picky we had to be.  Even the cover of a book from the image, lines, symmetry, contrast and tones of color was all disputed.  The libs are relevant and edgy, but does it appeal to the whole target audience?  The colors work well together, but is it too feminine?  At first my reaction was “who cares?” but I found there was actually some real debate over those questions.  I found out that I cared after all when I started getting opinionated.

The whole process made me realize there is much more going on than just writing a good piece of literature.  Even the best piece will get overlooked without the proper start.  Maureen said something that I hope will stick with me for a very long time.  She said something along the lines of a good beginning paragraph not guaranteeing a publication, but guaranteeing that it wont be thrown out immediately.  Its so true, I can’t tell you how many pieces were doomed just because they couldn’t get their foot in my door.

Beautiful Country

The thing I noticed about this round of poems was the amount of truth in them.  Or at least the amount of truth trying to be conveyed.  There weren’t any secrets or anything like that; each one was just raw.

One of the poems was too hard to follow to be interesting and another too prosey for my taste.  My favorite was the 3rd, Beautiful Country.  I liked how the scene was about people supposed to protect us and uphold the law, getting high.  Everything, from the reasons they were all there to pushing the nasty clump into the cup, was truthful.  There was no need for explanations or excuses.  It just was.

At points it also sounded as if the narrator was one of the men.  The way some of it was worded was a little weird.  I read it out loud first to see if it had an awesome sound to it, but it just made me sound like I was under the influence of something.  It made sense to me then.

What once was, is again.

We just finished reading pieces of poetry sent in by high schoolers and I must say that I’ve had better days.  It’s not necessarily the quality of the pieces that scare me, but how I once related to them.  So many of them seemed to be straight from early Beetles songs.  I was reminded of things I’ve long since taken as common knowledge like how money Can’t Buy me Love or the feeling of I Wanna Hold Your Hand.

It was once again stressed that these poems aren’t meant to be judged by college standards; they are from HS ans should be read accordingly.  Even picking out the cover was somewhat of a hassle.  I thought one of our two options was overwhelmingly better, but because it had lips and the color purple, we had to seriously discuss whether or not younger males would be ok with it.

I think the hardest part about reading all of the poems wasn’t the subject matter, it was all the prompts.  I cant even begin to describe how many pieces I had to read about an ode to something in the bedroom or where people come from.  It was awful.  There were a few that had good, interesting material (for example one was about a smoking addiction), but the poor writing was hard to overlook.

With a few exceptions like those prompts or incoherent sentence structures, it was a rather nostalgic trip.  Hey, we all had to start somewhere.  I remember writing stuff like this and it meant the world to me.  We were just passing on the good little parts of other people’s worlds to those who can and want to relate.

Submission and publication

We just finished reading, debating and accepting or rejecting pieces for our yearly anthology.  The experience, although somewhat monotonous, was fairly interesting.  We got to experience a number of different poems from women of various ages.  I think the most surprising part of the whole process was reading about the different topics these women wrote about.  I couldn’t tell you how many of them wrote about a break-up or leaving their significant other.  Although each one of those poems had the same topic, each was tailored to their specific scenario keeping the recycled matter somewhat fresh.

Because of the large number of submissions entered, our group didn’t get to read pieces one of our other peer groups thought publishing worthy.  After the seemingly unworthy ones were weeded out we had to vote on our favorites.  It was cool to see a poem chosen by so many people even if I didn’t personally think it anything special.  Some of the poems that were only partially voted for were argued for; that was the most interesting part to me.  There were many times two or three poems were pitted against each other and one would just melt away because nobody felt strongly enough to argue for it.

I’m glad the poems rejected by students were looked at by our supervisors, because they “saved” some of them which really means they just made it to the next round.  Some of those pieces were much better than our approved ones.  I dont think any of them really survived, but it was interesting to see some poems that were unanimously rejected rank higher than some that passed the first round.

Stolpestad

This story by William Lyshack has a strange appeal to me.  I’m usually not a huge fan of the second person narrative, but it works really well in this piece.

I believe the reason I like it so much is because of the tension the author creates between the your(a cop) wife and the little boy’s dad.  The story starts out a little slow with a mundane, repetitive feeling, but it’s because of this that we get tension with the wife.  We go to a bar and miss dinner with the family then at the end we leave her standing on the porch.  As for the boy’s father, when he talks “…his tone’s all wrong, all snaky, a salesman nudging his boy ahead to give you–and what’s this?” After he gives you the dog tag, “…put it on your mantle, maybe, or under your fucken pillow.  The man is obviously just frustrated, but there is a marvelous amount of tension created between you two;  you thought you did well by putting the dog down and the man treating you like you did something wrong.

One other reason I really like this story is all the sensory details.  The story only works this well because of these vivid details and the author doesn’t try to put many thoughts into the reader’s head.  Considering the slow start in second person, I enjoyed this story more than I thought I would.  Glad I gave it a shot.

Rain by Peter Everwine

The poem Rain is satisfying as both a visual picture and as a contrasting feeling of love and loss.  I think it’s interesting how the speaker can’t tell the difference between the loon’s wailing.  He thinks it’s either lonely and inconsolable or something untamed and nameless.  I think he remembers this specific memory, because although he can’t exactly place what the call means, he can relate to it.  This memory is of camping with his father who is no longer alive.  I believe a father is the person who teaches us who to be and how to live.  Without a father the world can seem so lonely and after he is gone you are all that’s left of him.  The memory holds because it was a nice camping trip with his father and “good companions.”

The poem Rain immediately gives a solid setting so that the reader feels right next to the speaker.  It also stimulates the senses while, remaining slightly ambiguous, and still leaving the reader satisfied.