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Entry tags:
Disability and poetry.
ETA I wrote this post in bits and pieces over the last couple of days, so it may not be entirely coherent. Also, in this post, I'm speaking entirely for myself.
Invariably, whenever these internet scuffles have popped up in the last few years, they have always coincided with something very bad happening to me on the disability front. When a RaceFail started up (I forget which one), I was trying to take my trike on an important errand, down a street with poor sidewalks. The sidewalk crossed a driveway, and tilted; I ended up spilling into a relatively busy road. I got myself up, with difficulty. I was, literally, bleeding. I tried another route, to find that one blocked by poor placement of the pole for the traffic signal, bushes, and a concrete wall – I literally did not have enough space to get my trike through. Later arguments broke out just as the state of Florida put large holes between me and the grocery store, meaning I literally could not get groceries on my own; I discovered yet another building that I am unable to enter because of a lack of ramps; another route I cannot take because of sidewalks; had another argument with doctors or an insurance company; couldn't do something I wanted to do; had a friend assume that I couldn't do something that I knew I could do, without asking me; or encountered one of the thousand and one and so many more barriers and irritations that pop up once you have a chronic illness and start using a wheelchair.
This time is no different. My trike, as I noted last week, broke down last week and cannot be fixed. A new one is on its way, but until it arrives, I am absolutely dependent upon other people for such basics as grocery shopping, banking, and the pharmacy, which in turn makes me dependent upon their schedules. I hate this. I cannot tell you how much I hate this. To cheer myself up, I headed out to Universal Studios on Sunday with a couple of out of town friends. While we were there, a complete stranger sat on my mobility scooter without asking. (I'd transferred temporarily to a courtesy wheelchair.) Shortly after that, my friends popped on a ride that I wanted to do, but couldn't because by then I was feeling sick and the ride would have made things worse. I burst into tears, feeling absolutely useless and like the person who was ruining everyone's fun, upset that I'd actually been having a good physical day and I'd still managed to get sick anyway, upset that someone had thought that it was ok to sit on my scooter without asking, and hadn't apologized until I turned around and went back to yell at her, and mad at myself for not paying attention to what my body was telling me. And depressed and upset, because once again, I couldn't do the things I wanted to do. I couldn't go to the places I wanted to go. Fortunately we found some nice chocolate milkshakes and fudge, so I cheered up, but about two hours later, I was crying again. The following day I was sick and miserable and cranky and hating everyone and realizing that I couldn't go to the big Fourth of July celebrations at Lake Eola after all (I was too sick) which, as problems go, is, I admit, a minor one, but still frustrating, and I was upset until I got to see sparkling fireworks on our street. And I still had some fudge. So I cheered up again.
I bring this up not for expressions of sympathy or anything, but to point out that I rarely, rarely have the patience for internet arguments these days. It's not just the lack of spoons, to use a common and excellent phrase for my general lack of energy, or the depression that has slammed back this June thanks to numerous factors. It's that, when you are facing the inability to leave the house without help, and sometimes, the inability to leave the house even with help, two things can happen: you can find yourself getting drawn into trivial matters because on one level you desperately need the distraction, even though you really no longer have the time/energy for this, and on the other hand, compared to what you are actually facing, on a regular basis, these arguments can be aggravating.
Of course, saying this just leads to more irritation and fury, not to mention that nobody on any side of these arguments wants to hear, "But MY problems ARE MORE IMPORTANT!" It's offensive and irritating and extremely unhelpful.
But also, I wanted to note that right now, I'm depressed and oversensitive to all disability issues. I think you should be aware of this.
So with all this said...Star*Line and the SFPA.
************
A bit more of an introduction, for those who may not know. Along with the wheelchair, I'm also a bisexual Third Culture woman with a Jewish grandfather (raised Christian). And a very minor poet, published in a few places, rejected by many other places. If people outside of blog readers know me for anything, which they generally don't, it's for my Tor.com posts and possibly my short fiction, not the poetry.
I am not a member of the SFPA.
**********
According to the SFPA's website, membership in the SFPA costs $21 per year.
Membership gets you:
1. The ability to vote for and be eligible to be an SFPA officer.
2. You get to nominate and vote for the Rhysling awards.
3. You get a copy of the Rhysling Anthology, which for the most part contains poems easily available elsewhere for free on the internet.
4. You get a copy of the Dwarf Stars Anthology, which, ditto.
5. You get half-price advertising on a website that according to Alexa gets fewer unique visitors per month than this blog does.
6. You get to be on a listserv.
7. And, you get a subscription to Star*Line.
*********
Since I'm not a member, I don't get Star*Line. I've never seen an issue. But Mike Allen, of Mythic Delirium, brought my attention to a poem appearing in a recent issue and to some additional commentary that arose. (ETA Since I started writing this post, more responses have come in, including one from the original poet. Not going to link because this post is too long already.)
Since the poem references disability in a negative manner, and I am a disabled poet, my name has been brought up in more than one conversation regarding the fallout from this. So I want to make my opinions here absolutely clear:
1. I was not that offended by the poem or by the mention of "disabled" or "tri-sexual." I did, however, think that these two lines were tasteless at best, and I could easily see where other people not me would be offended. I don't find "skinhead" amusing at any time, and I strongly question any attempt to put the word "skinhead" near the word "black" even if – perhaps especially if – you are attempting to be funny.
I also didn't think these lines were particularly good poetry, but that's subjective, so I'll let that one go.
2. It's difficult to see how someone could fail to see that the words "manFEM" and "jewslamic," particularly when coupled with the word "skinhead," would be found offensive by at least some people. Particularly given that one apparent point of the poem is that people get offended by words like this. Certainly, people can and do argue that no one should be offended, but this isn't a case of "should be"; it's a case of what is. Which is that other people do get offended by this language.
To be fair, I've often entirely missed seeing some questionable and/or outright racist statements myself. And I suspect that this poem might have done just fine circulated via email, or perhaps even put on a blog, the way Lavie Tidhar did with a recent controversial story (which I quite liked, but I can see that it's not everyone's cup of tea). In a publication that in theory represents the viewpoints of the official science fiction poetry association – well, that's more problematic.
I'll add that, as a writer, I assume that should I use the word "jewslamic" or "skinhead" in any piece of work, at best I'm going to have to justify this artistically; more typically, I'd get an automatic rejection. Not that I've ever had editors tell me that I can't write offensive material – I do, after all, have a blog and also a private journal – but if I write offensive material, or material that might seem offensive, they won't publish it. Fair enough.
Let me add one very important point here. I believe, very firmly, in freedom of speech, and in the right for any writer or poet to write things that I may disagree with or find offensive. I also believe, very firmly, that I and others have the right to say, in response, hey, that's offensive/hurtful without getting accused of censorship. And I have every right not to support such speech, either by not listening/reading or by withdrawing financial support – without getting accused of censorship.
3. I am all for poetry embracing the controversial, the uncomfortable. Poetry should not just be about pretty unicorns and rainbows and nice fluffy things. I like that too, but I also like poems that rip at you, tear at you, make your soul bleed. I like poems that bring healing. I like poems that switch my thinking, my viewpoints. I like poems that bring me healing, that comfort me. I like poems.
(Apparently in the above paragraph I also like the word "like," far too much. Who knew?)
4. As a writer, I am all too well aware how easily mere words, especially words on the internet, can get misinterpreted. (Not always for the bad, mind you, but I am often startled by the reactions to my work, wondering at the gap between what I meant to write and what the reader read.) I am also aware of how easy it is to make mistakes, and the deep hurt that can follow a bad review or negative comment. (Me = not the toughest skinned person on the planet.)
5. Since discovering my Jewish roots, I have found that I have become more sensitive to anti-Semitic images and words. Since discovering my bisexuality, I have become extremely sensitive to homophobic comments. Since starting to use a cane, and then a wheelchair....ye gods. Sidewalks and the lack of ramps are not the only problems; words are equally problematic.
So I am acutely aware of how much words can hurt, and worse, how much words can raise perceptions that are actively dangerous. Continuing depictions of disabled people as helpless children, or as people always begging for/needing help, in turn leads to assumptions that disabled people don't really need, say, SIDEWALK CROSSINGS ON STATE ROAD 50. (Whoops. A bit of personal irritation slipping out there.) And, although I am honestly trying not to be hyperbolic here, I am very well aware that Jews and queers have been killed for being Jews and queers.
Knowing this makes me more – do I want to say sensitive? Aware? Neither are quite right. What I think I'm trying to say is that a single word can make me clench my stomach or shiver with fear – even when others tell me that this word is innocuous. It may well be. But I'm still shivering.
And while, to repeat, I wasn't that offended by this particular statement, in the past few years people have said things that have driven me to tears. Often perfectly well meaning things. I spend time in the dark, watching the ceiling.
But. All of these groups contain individuals, who do not and will not always react the way I will and do, who do not always agree on what is and is not offensive and what the appropriate response to offensive speech should be. Some may be more offended, some less. (If you clicked at the link on my Sea Monkeys post, you would have read about the Jewish guy who....supported the Aryan Nation. Granted this is extreme.)
Another, related note: I had no problems discovering my Jewish roots – I thought this was fascinating, and also helped to clear up some confusing family sagas. Bisexuality was a little more…difficult, but I see both of these as positive, enriching parts of my life.
The wheelchair is different.
6. It's probably not wise to assume that just because I do not make a public statement on something, that I am not aware of it and/or hurt by it. It's equally unwise to assume that I am aware. Sometimes I genuinely am oblivious. Sometimes I'm just not responding publicly.
7. As far as I can tell, the original conversation about this poem involved fewer than 30 people, two of whom were dragged in by me to provide some perspective. The apology posted by Marge Simon in the SFPoetry forum has been viewed by fewer than fifty people.
This conversation has now, as such conversations do, spread, but I am going to guess that it involves, at a very generous guess, perhaps 500 people/readers. Ok, I'll make it a bit bigger. 2000.
*********
Where I live, a number of people have been running around with vans labeled with "BABY KILLER", holding up signs on both sides of the debate, getting into fistfights, crying over angelic little babies or protesting a mother's innocence. The cops have had to cut off a residential neighborhood to anyone not living there. People have made online and verbal death threats. And that's just the locals. The Orlando Sentinel states that over 60,000 people have been joining its live chats, most throwing insults at the attorneys and witnesses. One of the local news channels said that over 200,000 people were on their live internet feed alone. Yahoo recorded about 40,000 responses to their article alone. Tabloids rejoiced.
Regardless of how you feel about Casey Anthony's guilt or innocence – and she's been found innocent of murder by a jury of her peers -- this is, shall we say, rather a lot of interest.
*********
Anyway.
*********
While writing this post, I did some searching on Google. I won't bore you with the results, but let's just say that speculative poetry is not generating the same interest.
But I also found the SFPA's Facebook page. It's liked by only 130 people. If you read through, you see that various people have posted questions there, and never got answers. The SFPA's forums are even more quiet.
*********
I think I've mentioned this year that back when I first started writing little poems about dragons and trolls and nightmares and the like, I felt terribly alone. Aside from Tolkien and Yeats and Jane Yolen, I couldn't find anyone else who wrote this stuff, and two of those were dead and Jane Yolen unreachable. I checked before I wrote this post, and yes, the SFPA and the Rhysling Awards were around then, but I didn't know anything about them, even while I scoured the poetry zines that I could find (mostly the academic ones), finding poetry that was frequently beautiful, but mainstream. Even Poet's Market (remember them?) could only help so much. In college I finally managed to track down The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Asimov's, but once I headed to full time work and very part time poetry, those became hard to find again. I savored the occasional fantasy poems I could find.
And then the internet crept in.
And poetry exploded.
We still have the The New Yorker and its careful selection of poems and various academic zines and lit zines and major poetry sites and so on. But we also have an abundance of speculative fiction zines that have kindly opened their door to a poem or two or more. We have – this is marvelous – entire issues of zines focusing on speculative poetry. We have entire zines of speculative poetry that anyone can find without a massive search. We have editors willing to devote their own money (since it's somewhat more affordable now than it was in the 1980s) to pushing poetry about robots out to the wide world. (Like, WOW. I'm so thrilled.) We have zines that I can subscribe to with a touch of a button and get a lovely hard copy in the mail. Zines that I can read on my computer or my Nook. We have crowdfunded poets trying to revive a small part of the Middle Ages and poets writing about Buffy and the Muppets and poets combining forms and creating new ones and pushing language and form to pixelated limits.
Poetry.
Poetry.
And this is marvelous. Because, oh god, do we need poetry. We need poetry because the world is full of cracks and broken sidewalks and terrorists and bombs and tsunamis and sudden fires and dead children and really, really awful shit. We need poetry because some people want to turn language into weapons, want to walk the edge of language and violence. We need poetry because the world is full of pain.
And we need a fantasy/science fiction/speculative poetry organization and community that understands this and is ready to help push these poems out into the world.
Alas, the SFPA is not, at least now, that group. True, it's already in existence, with a website, a forum, that apparently all important Facebook page. Its members include distinguished poets who have offered and continue to offer rich poetry to the world. It has, I believe, the ability to be great, rather than just in existence.
I'd like to see the SFPA do several things: offer value for the money. Promote the hell out of its current members. Start stimulating discussions. Answer questions and comments left on its Facebook page. Leave bits of poems everywhere in odd little corners of the internet. And yes, make all poets, regardless of politics or identity, feel welcome. Embrace and welcome this explosion of poetry.
And yes, publish damn fine poetry in Star*Line.
I don't see this happening now.
You saw the numbers I quoted above. Those are terrible numbers. Do I think we can get people obsessed with Casey Anthony to read poetry instead? No. But I do damn well think we should be trying to reach those numbers, to form a larger role in the world. I do damn well think we should be changing the world. Through our blogs. Through zines. Through our words. Through any organization that we can. Because, yes, I think the SFPA can do this, if they wish to. (Not just saying this, either; the SFPA has great people and poets.)
Because, as I meant to say, in the beginning, while explaining just some of this current hell, this disabled, bisexual, part-Jewish Third Culture woman needs poetry. She needs words of magic, of power, of healing.
She needs poetry. And robots.
Invariably, whenever these internet scuffles have popped up in the last few years, they have always coincided with something very bad happening to me on the disability front. When a RaceFail started up (I forget which one), I was trying to take my trike on an important errand, down a street with poor sidewalks. The sidewalk crossed a driveway, and tilted; I ended up spilling into a relatively busy road. I got myself up, with difficulty. I was, literally, bleeding. I tried another route, to find that one blocked by poor placement of the pole for the traffic signal, bushes, and a concrete wall – I literally did not have enough space to get my trike through. Later arguments broke out just as the state of Florida put large holes between me and the grocery store, meaning I literally could not get groceries on my own; I discovered yet another building that I am unable to enter because of a lack of ramps; another route I cannot take because of sidewalks; had another argument with doctors or an insurance company; couldn't do something I wanted to do; had a friend assume that I couldn't do something that I knew I could do, without asking me; or encountered one of the thousand and one and so many more barriers and irritations that pop up once you have a chronic illness and start using a wheelchair.
This time is no different. My trike, as I noted last week, broke down last week and cannot be fixed. A new one is on its way, but until it arrives, I am absolutely dependent upon other people for such basics as grocery shopping, banking, and the pharmacy, which in turn makes me dependent upon their schedules. I hate this. I cannot tell you how much I hate this. To cheer myself up, I headed out to Universal Studios on Sunday with a couple of out of town friends. While we were there, a complete stranger sat on my mobility scooter without asking. (I'd transferred temporarily to a courtesy wheelchair.) Shortly after that, my friends popped on a ride that I wanted to do, but couldn't because by then I was feeling sick and the ride would have made things worse. I burst into tears, feeling absolutely useless and like the person who was ruining everyone's fun, upset that I'd actually been having a good physical day and I'd still managed to get sick anyway, upset that someone had thought that it was ok to sit on my scooter without asking, and hadn't apologized until I turned around and went back to yell at her, and mad at myself for not paying attention to what my body was telling me. And depressed and upset, because once again, I couldn't do the things I wanted to do. I couldn't go to the places I wanted to go. Fortunately we found some nice chocolate milkshakes and fudge, so I cheered up, but about two hours later, I was crying again. The following day I was sick and miserable and cranky and hating everyone and realizing that I couldn't go to the big Fourth of July celebrations at Lake Eola after all (I was too sick) which, as problems go, is, I admit, a minor one, but still frustrating, and I was upset until I got to see sparkling fireworks on our street. And I still had some fudge. So I cheered up again.
I bring this up not for expressions of sympathy or anything, but to point out that I rarely, rarely have the patience for internet arguments these days. It's not just the lack of spoons, to use a common and excellent phrase for my general lack of energy, or the depression that has slammed back this June thanks to numerous factors. It's that, when you are facing the inability to leave the house without help, and sometimes, the inability to leave the house even with help, two things can happen: you can find yourself getting drawn into trivial matters because on one level you desperately need the distraction, even though you really no longer have the time/energy for this, and on the other hand, compared to what you are actually facing, on a regular basis, these arguments can be aggravating.
Of course, saying this just leads to more irritation and fury, not to mention that nobody on any side of these arguments wants to hear, "But MY problems ARE MORE IMPORTANT!" It's offensive and irritating and extremely unhelpful.
But also, I wanted to note that right now, I'm depressed and oversensitive to all disability issues. I think you should be aware of this.
So with all this said...Star*Line and the SFPA.
************
A bit more of an introduction, for those who may not know. Along with the wheelchair, I'm also a bisexual Third Culture woman with a Jewish grandfather (raised Christian). And a very minor poet, published in a few places, rejected by many other places. If people outside of blog readers know me for anything, which they generally don't, it's for my Tor.com posts and possibly my short fiction, not the poetry.
I am not a member of the SFPA.
**********
According to the SFPA's website, membership in the SFPA costs $21 per year.
Membership gets you:
1. The ability to vote for and be eligible to be an SFPA officer.
2. You get to nominate and vote for the Rhysling awards.
3. You get a copy of the Rhysling Anthology, which for the most part contains poems easily available elsewhere for free on the internet.
4. You get a copy of the Dwarf Stars Anthology, which, ditto.
5. You get half-price advertising on a website that according to Alexa gets fewer unique visitors per month than this blog does.
6. You get to be on a listserv.
7. And, you get a subscription to Star*Line.
*********
Since I'm not a member, I don't get Star*Line. I've never seen an issue. But Mike Allen, of Mythic Delirium, brought my attention to a poem appearing in a recent issue and to some additional commentary that arose. (ETA Since I started writing this post, more responses have come in, including one from the original poet. Not going to link because this post is too long already.)
Since the poem references disability in a negative manner, and I am a disabled poet, my name has been brought up in more than one conversation regarding the fallout from this. So I want to make my opinions here absolutely clear:
1. I was not that offended by the poem or by the mention of "disabled" or "tri-sexual." I did, however, think that these two lines were tasteless at best, and I could easily see where other people not me would be offended. I don't find "skinhead" amusing at any time, and I strongly question any attempt to put the word "skinhead" near the word "black" even if – perhaps especially if – you are attempting to be funny.
I also didn't think these lines were particularly good poetry, but that's subjective, so I'll let that one go.
2. It's difficult to see how someone could fail to see that the words "manFEM" and "jewslamic," particularly when coupled with the word "skinhead," would be found offensive by at least some people. Particularly given that one apparent point of the poem is that people get offended by words like this. Certainly, people can and do argue that no one should be offended, but this isn't a case of "should be"; it's a case of what is. Which is that other people do get offended by this language.
To be fair, I've often entirely missed seeing some questionable and/or outright racist statements myself. And I suspect that this poem might have done just fine circulated via email, or perhaps even put on a blog, the way Lavie Tidhar did with a recent controversial story (which I quite liked, but I can see that it's not everyone's cup of tea). In a publication that in theory represents the viewpoints of the official science fiction poetry association – well, that's more problematic.
I'll add that, as a writer, I assume that should I use the word "jewslamic" or "skinhead" in any piece of work, at best I'm going to have to justify this artistically; more typically, I'd get an automatic rejection. Not that I've ever had editors tell me that I can't write offensive material – I do, after all, have a blog and also a private journal – but if I write offensive material, or material that might seem offensive, they won't publish it. Fair enough.
Let me add one very important point here. I believe, very firmly, in freedom of speech, and in the right for any writer or poet to write things that I may disagree with or find offensive. I also believe, very firmly, that I and others have the right to say, in response, hey, that's offensive/hurtful without getting accused of censorship. And I have every right not to support such speech, either by not listening/reading or by withdrawing financial support – without getting accused of censorship.
3. I am all for poetry embracing the controversial, the uncomfortable. Poetry should not just be about pretty unicorns and rainbows and nice fluffy things. I like that too, but I also like poems that rip at you, tear at you, make your soul bleed. I like poems that bring healing. I like poems that switch my thinking, my viewpoints. I like poems that bring me healing, that comfort me. I like poems.
(Apparently in the above paragraph I also like the word "like," far too much. Who knew?)
4. As a writer, I am all too well aware how easily mere words, especially words on the internet, can get misinterpreted. (Not always for the bad, mind you, but I am often startled by the reactions to my work, wondering at the gap between what I meant to write and what the reader read.) I am also aware of how easy it is to make mistakes, and the deep hurt that can follow a bad review or negative comment. (Me = not the toughest skinned person on the planet.)
5. Since discovering my Jewish roots, I have found that I have become more sensitive to anti-Semitic images and words. Since discovering my bisexuality, I have become extremely sensitive to homophobic comments. Since starting to use a cane, and then a wheelchair....ye gods. Sidewalks and the lack of ramps are not the only problems; words are equally problematic.
So I am acutely aware of how much words can hurt, and worse, how much words can raise perceptions that are actively dangerous. Continuing depictions of disabled people as helpless children, or as people always begging for/needing help, in turn leads to assumptions that disabled people don't really need, say, SIDEWALK CROSSINGS ON STATE ROAD 50. (Whoops. A bit of personal irritation slipping out there.) And, although I am honestly trying not to be hyperbolic here, I am very well aware that Jews and queers have been killed for being Jews and queers.
Knowing this makes me more – do I want to say sensitive? Aware? Neither are quite right. What I think I'm trying to say is that a single word can make me clench my stomach or shiver with fear – even when others tell me that this word is innocuous. It may well be. But I'm still shivering.
And while, to repeat, I wasn't that offended by this particular statement, in the past few years people have said things that have driven me to tears. Often perfectly well meaning things. I spend time in the dark, watching the ceiling.
But. All of these groups contain individuals, who do not and will not always react the way I will and do, who do not always agree on what is and is not offensive and what the appropriate response to offensive speech should be. Some may be more offended, some less. (If you clicked at the link on my Sea Monkeys post, you would have read about the Jewish guy who....supported the Aryan Nation. Granted this is extreme.)
Another, related note: I had no problems discovering my Jewish roots – I thought this was fascinating, and also helped to clear up some confusing family sagas. Bisexuality was a little more…difficult, but I see both of these as positive, enriching parts of my life.
The wheelchair is different.
6. It's probably not wise to assume that just because I do not make a public statement on something, that I am not aware of it and/or hurt by it. It's equally unwise to assume that I am aware. Sometimes I genuinely am oblivious. Sometimes I'm just not responding publicly.
7. As far as I can tell, the original conversation about this poem involved fewer than 30 people, two of whom were dragged in by me to provide some perspective. The apology posted by Marge Simon in the SFPoetry forum has been viewed by fewer than fifty people.
This conversation has now, as such conversations do, spread, but I am going to guess that it involves, at a very generous guess, perhaps 500 people/readers. Ok, I'll make it a bit bigger. 2000.
*********
Where I live, a number of people have been running around with vans labeled with "BABY KILLER", holding up signs on both sides of the debate, getting into fistfights, crying over angelic little babies or protesting a mother's innocence. The cops have had to cut off a residential neighborhood to anyone not living there. People have made online and verbal death threats. And that's just the locals. The Orlando Sentinel states that over 60,000 people have been joining its live chats, most throwing insults at the attorneys and witnesses. One of the local news channels said that over 200,000 people were on their live internet feed alone. Yahoo recorded about 40,000 responses to their article alone. Tabloids rejoiced.
Regardless of how you feel about Casey Anthony's guilt or innocence – and she's been found innocent of murder by a jury of her peers -- this is, shall we say, rather a lot of interest.
*********
Anyway.
*********
While writing this post, I did some searching on Google. I won't bore you with the results, but let's just say that speculative poetry is not generating the same interest.
But I also found the SFPA's Facebook page. It's liked by only 130 people. If you read through, you see that various people have posted questions there, and never got answers. The SFPA's forums are even more quiet.
*********
I think I've mentioned this year that back when I first started writing little poems about dragons and trolls and nightmares and the like, I felt terribly alone. Aside from Tolkien and Yeats and Jane Yolen, I couldn't find anyone else who wrote this stuff, and two of those were dead and Jane Yolen unreachable. I checked before I wrote this post, and yes, the SFPA and the Rhysling Awards were around then, but I didn't know anything about them, even while I scoured the poetry zines that I could find (mostly the academic ones), finding poetry that was frequently beautiful, but mainstream. Even Poet's Market (remember them?) could only help so much. In college I finally managed to track down The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and Asimov's, but once I headed to full time work and very part time poetry, those became hard to find again. I savored the occasional fantasy poems I could find.
And then the internet crept in.
And poetry exploded.
We still have the The New Yorker and its careful selection of poems and various academic zines and lit zines and major poetry sites and so on. But we also have an abundance of speculative fiction zines that have kindly opened their door to a poem or two or more. We have – this is marvelous – entire issues of zines focusing on speculative poetry. We have entire zines of speculative poetry that anyone can find without a massive search. We have editors willing to devote their own money (since it's somewhat more affordable now than it was in the 1980s) to pushing poetry about robots out to the wide world. (Like, WOW. I'm so thrilled.) We have zines that I can subscribe to with a touch of a button and get a lovely hard copy in the mail. Zines that I can read on my computer or my Nook. We have crowdfunded poets trying to revive a small part of the Middle Ages and poets writing about Buffy and the Muppets and poets combining forms and creating new ones and pushing language and form to pixelated limits.
Poetry.
Poetry.
And this is marvelous. Because, oh god, do we need poetry. We need poetry because the world is full of cracks and broken sidewalks and terrorists and bombs and tsunamis and sudden fires and dead children and really, really awful shit. We need poetry because some people want to turn language into weapons, want to walk the edge of language and violence. We need poetry because the world is full of pain.
And we need a fantasy/science fiction/speculative poetry organization and community that understands this and is ready to help push these poems out into the world.
Alas, the SFPA is not, at least now, that group. True, it's already in existence, with a website, a forum, that apparently all important Facebook page. Its members include distinguished poets who have offered and continue to offer rich poetry to the world. It has, I believe, the ability to be great, rather than just in existence.
I'd like to see the SFPA do several things: offer value for the money. Promote the hell out of its current members. Start stimulating discussions. Answer questions and comments left on its Facebook page. Leave bits of poems everywhere in odd little corners of the internet. And yes, make all poets, regardless of politics or identity, feel welcome. Embrace and welcome this explosion of poetry.
And yes, publish damn fine poetry in Star*Line.
I don't see this happening now.
You saw the numbers I quoted above. Those are terrible numbers. Do I think we can get people obsessed with Casey Anthony to read poetry instead? No. But I do damn well think we should be trying to reach those numbers, to form a larger role in the world. I do damn well think we should be changing the world. Through our blogs. Through zines. Through our words. Through any organization that we can. Because, yes, I think the SFPA can do this, if they wish to. (Not just saying this, either; the SFPA has great people and poets.)
Because, as I meant to say, in the beginning, while explaining just some of this current hell, this disabled, bisexual, part-Jewish Third Culture woman needs poetry. She needs words of magic, of power, of healing.
She needs poetry. And robots.