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The Battle of The New Yorker: A Diary |
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Sparrow & the Unbearables
We proudly bring you yesterday's eternal news today, the personal diaries of the poet who is our National Town Crier: none other than Sparrow. Yes, here at last (before his publisher, Soft Skull, can get it onto literal paper) is the moving journal (escalator?) of how one man and her merry band, the Unbearables, opened up the revolving door to the Future forever.
Bob Holman
The Battle of The New Yorker
December 7, 1995 11:02 am
I sit on the subway (the No. 6), approaching 42nd Street. In my lap I hold two rolled up posters:
GIVE OUR POEMS HOEMS
and
I'M DOROTHY PARKER
WITH A MAGIC MARKER.
I am heading uptown, towards the office of The New Yorker. Will any of the other Unbearables be there? Or will I be alone, an embarrassed ruffian in an unpopular beard, handing out flyers?
And, in fact, I have eight flyers, which I have xeroxed at the local candy store, in my coat pocket. They read:
How Much Misery
has been created by the rejection slips given out, daily, by The New Yorker? How many suicides have they induced? And worse, how many poets have been silenced? How many stopped writing sonnets and maritime ballads? How much writerly paralysis is directly invoked by these small 3" x 5" notes, which begin: “We regret...”?
The Unbearables have a resolution to this poetic blight -- a suggestion that is both fair and militant. We demand, and suggest, that The New Yorker publish once a year all the poetry that is submitted unto it. This yearly 5203 page poetry issue will be the first egalitarian literary journal in history. Finally, great poets like Mark Strand will coexist with awful poets like Claude Hollister-Melnode. For once, readers will see how delightful great poets are, and how nauseating are poetasters. And perhaps, by a miracle, we will find another poet as brilliant as Brad Leithauser.
Let us begin! Poetic utopia is within our grasp, if we act quickly!
I feel like a Japanese bomber pilot in a Spitfire K60, exactly 54 years ago, flying into the dawn, towards Pearl Harbor.
6:12 pm
The day's adventures are ended. Let me try to recall exactly:
As I walked across 42nd Street, my breath inventing mist in the frozen December air, I saw them up ahead: Manx, The Face, “Dimples” Lazario, Shiny Laurie, Jest, Ron Kazar, Flinty, Kuzo, Carlo Markup... the Unbearables! My eyes dimmed with moist comradehood. I saw the signs they were holding:
HOW ABOUT PUBLISHING A POEM THAT'S ALL NOUNS?
I'M A KAMIKAZE
FOR POESY
IF I'M SO SMART
HOW COME YOU'RE RICH?
WE REJECT REJECTION
BAD POETS NEED LOVE, TOO!
PUBLISH ALL OF US OR PUBLISH NONE OF US
and
DAWN ANGELS
CIRCLE US.
Who are The Unbearables, you ask? A group of poets, artistes, and novelists who meet in Manhattan bars, encouraging each other to drink and extol. Together they plan to create a Democratic avant-garde (which, may I note parenthetically, is impossible). Based on original principles set forth in 1931 by Rollo Whitehead, the Chicagoan Sinophile, sex-Marxist and inventor, the group formally coalesced in 1989, at the Life Cafe on East 10th Street. The Unbearables has approximately 46 members, plus thousands of teenage adherents in the Midwest.
Ron Kazar, the tall, bent, mustachioed anti-leader of The Unbearables, approached me: “Sparrow! Good to see ya! We need a chant! You have a chant for us?”
I approached the group, milling in the cold midday, and announced: “How about this one? PUT THEIR VERSE / IN A HEARSE.” Soon we were all happily braying.
A few minutes later (the chant had changed to WHO NEEDS EDITORS? / THEY'RE WORSE THAN CREDITORS) Ron approached me: “It's time to go upstairs.”
A small delegation entered the elevator -- me, Ron, Flinty and Kuzo. Kuzo carried a video camera. We exited at the 11th floor.
So this was The New Yorker! -- a small waiting room with aquamarine wallpaper, and a fat receptionist sitting behind a desk reading a Sidney Sheldon novel. “I'm sorry, there is no videotaping allowed in here,” she spoke, confusedly, as we entered. I took up a position in the corner, and began writing poetry. My plan was to write numerous poems, and submit them to The New Yorker for publication. Here are some of the poems I composed:
Poetry
Poetry
is easy
to write.
Why is it
so
difficult
to
publish?
Pay me
You
need
not
pay
me
very much
to
publish
this
poem.
Pearl
Pearl Harbor
was
quiet
on
Dec. 6.
After
After
this poem,
I will
write
two more.
Pinto
If poems
were pinto beans,
We could eat them.
Way
On my way
here
I saw 3
buses.
A Poet
I
am
always
a poet,
even, while
I wrote
this
Run, Run
Run, run...
but you
will not
escape
The Unbearables!
After a while, a young fellow in short sleeves emerged from within the office, attempting to persuade us to leave. “You don't understand, we're here on direct orders of Rollo Whitehead...” Flinty explained, patiently. Flinty continued speaking until the young functionary retreated.
When we were almost out of videotape, we left, waving warmly. I submitted my 26 poems (plus my address).
December 19
Today I received my rejection letter, from Matilda Damoset, poetry editor of The New Yorker. “I know that these ditties were composed in the midst of your merry spree at our offices, and are not representative of the depth of your work. We at The New Yorker are much more open to submissions from the Downtown community than we may appear...” it read, in part.
December 21
I submitted four poems to The New Yorker: “Disobeying Eve”, “The Stove Is Hot”, “Gender” and “Outside Lotharville.”
January 8, 1996
Today “Outside Lotharville” was accepted by The New Yorker. This represents the first time a real human being -- not an Academic Professor or Courtly Poet Snob -- will be published in this august journal. The Poetic Establishment has crumbled! All poets are now free!
Sparrow
Note: Five of Sparrow's poems were eventually accepted by The New Yorker, for which he received $1250. Two of the poems were published.
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