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There's
been a bit of a hubbub over a
recent letter to The Danforth Review, sent by Karl
Siegler, President and Publisher of Talon
Books Ltd., questioning Shane
Neilson's "qualifications" as a poetry editor:
Are they academic? Are they editorial
credits (other than for TDR, of course)? Are they publication
credits? His "bio" says he's published ONE CHAPBOOK with a small
press?!? Excuse me, with that kind of publication(s) credit list,
at his age, what does he base his own critical credibility in
poetry and poetics on? The fact that he (like so many other aspiring
wannabes in the craft) has published "many" individual poems in
"literary magazines," in his 'special' case, not just in Canada,
but "also in the UK?"
Siegler was transparently irate (to the point
of hysteria) about a
brief comment Neilson had made about the "pernicious" influence
of Rob McLennan, whom Siegler has published in the past.
Whether what Neilson said was called for is, I think, not terribly
important. He was asked to be specific (i.e. to "name names") in
speaking about what he likes and dislikes about Canadian poetry.
What he said about McLennan might be construed as a "personal slag"
by Mr. Siegler, but to my eyes it seems clear that Neilson was talking
about McLennan's activities as a writer and editor, and not whether,
for example, he picks his nose and eats it, drowns kittens for sport,
or is a lousy lover. Any one of these would constitute a personal
slag and would therefore merit the kind of invective that Siegler
has directed towards Neilson and TDR. Saying that someone
is a bad writer, however, is, for want of a better term, a professional
observation.
What I find almost hilariously ironic about Siegler's rant is the
extent to which he criticizes TDR for being "adrift in the
fascist-imperialist flotsam & jetsam of "modernism,"" while he himself
hobbles along on the crutches of authority and the validity of credentials.
Siegler, a self-styled social activist whose press is known for
publishing writers on the so-called fringes of literature, seeks
to undermine Neilson's credibility by pointing out that he hasn't
established himself sufficiently in the mainstream! He accuses TDR
and Neilson of adhering to outdated and foreign paradigms of literature,
based on the fact that the latter mentions, en passant, that
he's published some poems in Great Britain. Well, I've got news
for ya, Karl: it's been several decades since Canada's colonial
status vis-à-vis the UK has been anything but a symbolic vestige;
I think you need to get over the fact that it was once one of our
"colonial masters," 'cause we've got bigger problems than that nowadays.
Siegler suggests that North American informalism (in dress and presumably,
by dubious extension, in poetry) is preferable to British-style
"continentals" (oddly, the only references I could find to such
articles of clothing had to do not with jolly old England, but American
military history). Siegler comes off looking a lot more dinosaurian
in this dispute than Neilson or TDR do, especially when he
takes the latter to task for lack of apparent editorial direction
(a charge Michael Bryson,
TDR's editor, answered
more than adequately); one would think that a left-leaning activist
would celebrate a forum that encourages a diversity of voices and
downplays the importance of staid decorum. Like so many other ideologues,
however, Siegler seems only to be interested in what gibes with
his version of reality.
The proof of the pudding, as the old saying goes, is in the eating,
and I have to say that, although I have had occasion to disagree
with Neilson both privately and publicly in the past, he and Geoffrey
Cook (another yet-to-be book-licensed poet who takes specific
issue with certain poets and "their imitators," but who escapes
censure from Siegler, presumably for not being Shane Neilson and
for not going after one of Siegler's precious writers) do a more
than credible job as poetry editors of TDR. After all, they've
published me, haven't they? But even without such a bright feather
in their caps, I find the slim selection published every six months
by Cook and Neilson far superior (and, perhaps as importantly, far
less predictable) to the standard fare in almost all the print quarterlies
and semiannuals; and their reviews, even if I don't always agree
with them, are consistently more engaging, intelligent and well-written
than the vast majority of would-be literary criticism out there.
As editors, therefore, I'd say they're more than qualified.
This question of official sanctification through publishing credits
or academic standing is an insidious illness in contemporary poetry
culture. Rob McLennan, in his
contribution to this foofaraw, at least had the sense to discount
the relevance of Neilson's qualifications to the statements he's
made. There is any number of legitimate reasons why a poet might
choose not to publish his or her work through the usual channels:
dissatisfaction with production values, aesthetics or promotional
assistance of publishers and journal editors; desire for complete
artistic and commercial control; distaste for the federal funding
apparatuses upon which most publishers depend; simple lack of desire;
etc., etc. Such decisions, however, are not looked well upon by
the rank and file of blinkered poecrats. Whether submitting to journals,
publishers or the Canada
Council, publishing and awards history seem often to be given
a weight at least equal to, if not greater than, the quality of
work produced by the applicant. Presumably, Siegler and others who
think like him would dismiss work by Blake,
Whitman
and Dickinson
because of their lack of qualifications? Poetry is that rarest of
things: a realm for passionate amateurs. It has never been, and
should not now become, a professional office space. Critics and
poets like Shane Neilson might occasionally be discourteous, and
the mavens of Canlit might despair of ever being able to housebreak
such rogues, but I for one would be loath to see any increase in
professionalism in our already tame cluster of poetry cubicles.
We need a few uncouth scrappers around, if only to irritate hidebound
critters like Karl Siegler.
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