John Farley’s MisInformation Desk

I’m not a poet, but I sent a couple of hacky poems to a local, DIY literary magazine that shall remain nameless. I wrote the pieces as part of a writing assignment, so I shouldn’t have taken them seriously. The response was curt, but not necessarily rude. It was simply “I’m not quite sure when the sun and the moon were lovers? Please try again.” (Notice the statement followed by a question mark.)

My initial feeling was an almost irrepressible urge to smash the computer monitor. That was probably the editor’s sentiment after reading my drivel. Within a few minutes I recalled the advice given by just about every accomplished writer, performer, entertainer, and other self-made individuals. Each of them has said, in one form or another, that rejection will come, and you need to be able to shrug it off. If you’re going to put yourself out there, you need to be a thick-skinned, sure-footed, nimble member of the great ape family. I still feel like an ass, though.

It’s events such as this that make me reconsider my career choices. I’m thankful that I have not yet quit my day job, and I wonder if my current occupation is the best I can accomplish. Have I peaked? Is this long plateau that stretches into the horizon all that is available to me? Or am I simply at base camp awaiting the opportunity to continue to the summit? I wonder if I’m just jerking off.

Regardless, for your amusement I’ve posted below the poems that received the rejection letter in question. Was it deserved? Yeah, most likely.

In Defense of Night

When the Sun and the Moon were lovers,
The whole of the world was illuminated.
A treacherous swine called Night stole the Moon away,
And cast half of the world into darkness.

Most people of the world hated it,
And chose rather to sleep.
The audacious danced around fires
And called each star by name.

This Town Used to Swing

Way up in Harlem,
125th and Lex.
Stranded at the station.

Three young boys
Blow wild and fierce,
A frenzy of subterranean joy.

Homemade drums, a penny trombone,
Trumpeter of all colors,
Ecstatic.

The city is a ghost.

Posted on November 28th, 2007 by John Farley
Filed under: Trepidation