A sad day has almost dawned, but my dog has me up early. A few things
to state before I exit.
Before I began talking to anyone on the list about such a project, I
cleared it with Anny and Joe. They weren't enthusiastic, which I found
disappointing, but they said 'okay'. In my naivete I thought this
meant it was a poetryetc project: p'etc poets, edited by p'etc people,
designed by a p'etc designer and published by a p'etc member.
Apparently, according to Joe and I don't hear any disagreement from
Anny, it is a personal project with nothing to do with poetryetc. So
it has lost all credibility as a group anthology for me. This is
extremely disappointing. Had I realised this was the case from the
outset, I never would have pursued it.
I began the anthology project aiming at an anthology like a PEN
anthology or Amnesty International's 'The Republic of Conscience'. We
have a wonderfully diverse range of poets here, some talkative, some
not. In my dream anthology I saw the best poems coming forth from
everyone. Once the anthology project was announced, the poems did come
in and I was often disappointed but, on the other hand, often times
elated at the far-ranging aspect of the collection as it grew. Candice
and I chatted about some submissions, but mainly agreed on our
selection. Distance made co-editing difficult but not impossible. I'd
like to thank Candice for her work and hope the anthology does
mysteriously see the light of day in some form, just to acknowledge
her labours.
This petty infighting and digression from the list's purpose drives me
to the brink of anger. But I restrain myself for my own sake: anger
would only eat at me and do nothing to change things. A multi-headed
beast with distemper is simply to be avoided.
I'll finish with a poem by Milosz, selected by Robert Hass for the
Selected Poems 1931-2004 (HarperCollins):
SO LITTLE
I said so little.
Days were short.
Short days.
Short nights.
Short years.
I said so little.
I couldn't keep up.
My heart grew weary
From joy,
Despair,
Ardor,
Hope.
The jaws of Leviathan
Were closing upon me.
Naked, I lay on the shores
Of desert islands.
The white whale of the world
Hauled me down to its pit.
And now I don't know
What in all that was real.
(Berkeley, 1969)
Thanks for your friendship. Adios, amigos.
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
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