Here is an amazing poem my friend emailed me… WB Yeats…

The Cold Heaven

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! When the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

Recently, Rebecca solicited all editors, past and present, of Fence to write essays about their editing practices. Though I began the writing process thinking I would write a lot about audience - and more specifically, how coterie is fetishized in the writing community in a way that reminds me of the developmental theories around masochism first articulated by D. W. Winnicott, I ended up writing, much more boring, about “operations” - all the things we do here at Fence to produce the material object of the magazine itself. I focused in particular on our response times - how long it takes us to let someone know we are interested (or not) in their piece. I suggested, in this essay, that if we could guarantee submitters that we would get back to them one way or another within a month, we could improve the overall quality of our slush-pile because people would submit to us first, knowing they weren’t risking the sort of 6 month or year-long wait they look forward to from most publications. When this issue was brought up in an editorial meeting a couple of months later, someone pointed out that we accept simultaneous submissions, so it shouldn’t matter how long we take to get back to a person, since we’re not asking for exclusivity in the first place. I argued that there was a psychology to the notion of rapid response time - it’s not just that people would feel they weren’t losing time waiting around for a slow editorial board, but also that they would generally think of Fence as organized, together, and engaged… Curious what all your blog-readers (if you exist) think about these highly operational considerations…

So I tried to lose my blogging virginity - I mean, I _did_ lose it - last night, but the post didn’t stick… not sure what that means technically (vis my virginity vis blogging - ie perhaps I’m still a virgin), but here we go again…

I am here now blogging from my office job - joining the infamous ranks of the poets and other disgruntleds who do that sort of thing every day… Office job is ending soon, though (9/1 will be my final day after six long years of sitting at a very big black desk)… as will my use of this fancy computer.

Thinking today about taste. A friend of mine sent me the following Rumi poem after she and I had had a heavy conversation. I liked the Rumi poem - very much - which made me worry for my little dark avant-garde heart….

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

– Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks

Mary Oliver, who also taps into the New Age or more touchy feelie poetry market sells really well… in general, those most disposed toward reading poetry in our current cultural climate seem also to be those most interested in things like yoga and praying and hiking in the great outdoors. Fence, obviously, does not cater to this crowd… publishes a lot of anti-Rumis/Mary Olivers… and I wonder if this is just a reaction - a high-brow, snobbish reaction to the “natural” poetry instinct (contemplative, mystic, religious) - or if it is something else…