The Poetry Edit Newsletter is here!!
The inaugural newsletter covers who to tell about The Poetry Edit (A: everyone!) and the art of settling into a good poem
Firstly, a hearty welcome! Thank you for signing up to The Poetry Edit newsletter, and to those of you who submitted poems, I appreciate you taking a chance on a new publication, and I feel like I got to know some of you a little through the voices in your work.
The scale of my ambitions with this newsletter are just beginning to dawn on me, not least the burden of getting sufficient paid subscriptions to be able to pay featured poets for their work. Please encourage your friends, relatives, teachers, colleagues, postman, coffee provider and anyone else you meet to sign up as a paid subscriber – I fervently believe that poetry is worth proper recompense, but in order to begin embedding this idea in the wider consciousness, The Poetry Edit needs to survive for longer than a few weeks. Consider this a call to arms (or should that be alms?!) for undervalued poets and supporters of poetry everywhere! We will no longer go quietly into the pages of our notebooks! Proper Recompense for Proper Poetry! We shall write on to the end, we shall write in France, we shall write on the seas and oceans (etc.) but the cost is hitting subscribe! Poetry needs you!
Right. Off I get from my soapbox.
Where was I? Ah, yes, I wanted to tell you about a recent trip to Norfolk, where we spent a few nights in a rustic little cottage near the sea.
I don’t know about you, but I am a bit suspicious of holiday houses. I am always acutely aware that somebody else has been inhabiting the space hours before we get there – you can see the drips on the bottle of washing up liquid they used that morning, forming a little ring in the cupboard under the sink, and can practically feel the imprint of their bodies on the bed.
When I first arrive, I walk through all the rooms, opening the cupboards, trying to configure myself with the space, feeling strange to it. The following morning, I can only get the shower to deliver a scalding torrent or a Baltic mist, I can’t figure out how to get the top left ring on the hob to work and there are 3 remotes for the TV, none of which seem to do anything. I spot bits of peeling paintwork and wrinkle my nose. I see an ancient splodge on the hallway carpet and wonder what it came from. I feel resentful and a little guarded, like I’ve been set up a on bad, three-day-long blind date, but at the same time I know that I have to push through, make a cup of tea, and wait. Because two thirds of the way through a stay in somewhere like this, something always shifts.
The clothes that I laid out neatly in the cupboards on arrival are now pervading other spaces; a jumper flung on the sofa, a coat hung over the stair rail, or a pair of socks, damp from splashing wellied feet in the waves, left to dry on the radiator. I merrily wander round the house in my towel (a surefire sign that I am feeling “at home”), pottering into the kitchen to make toast, familiar now with the location of the cutlery and plates. I ignore the shower and wallow in a delightfully hot bath, leaving the bathroom door open, watching the kids run up and down the stairs in our little house. The bobbly landing carpet has absorbed some of our laughter and a dash of my morning tea and there is even a charm to the otherness of the paper-thin curtains on the windows. Nothing fundamental has changed, and yet I feel completely different to when I first arrived. The silt that was all stirred up in my life-addled, work-addled body has settled into a pleasant state and I am able to enjoy my surroundings in a way that implies belonging.
Well, that’s a lovely story but this is supposed to be a poetry newsletter so why on earth am I harping on about a holiday house? Well, the two featured poems in this week’s newsletter felt very much like holiday houses to me. I have to admit to being a little restrained when I first read Imogen Wade’s National Poetry Competition winning poem, “The Time I Was Mugged in New York City” – as though I was walking through the door of somewhere unfamiliar and trying to feel at home. I couldn’t sufficiently get around the deeply personal subject matter and the imprint of Imogen herself on the poem to make it feel like something I was reading for my own enjoyment or growth. Similarly, with Ellen Clayton’s poem, “Hippocampus”, there were some phrases that jarred with the subject matter as being too simplistic, and the switch between emotions, from sadness to giddiness to caution to love seemed a little broken.
But then I put the kettle on and made a cup of tea. And here I found myself climbing into the subtle language of these poems, casting my pretensions onto a nearby chair and finding a meaningful home to settle into.
Both poems are a reminder that poetry does not have to be complicated. In the former poem, the simple addition of a capital “I” (in the phrase “Get In”) hides in plain sight, altering the experience such that you only become aware of it a few lines later, while the matter-of-fact tone to describe a violation of this nature somehow allows for both detachment and intensity. The quiet break in line after the phrase “He made me unzip” carries a disproportionate weight of vulnerability, and the conflicting presence of the man in her dreams (as opposed to nightmares) lends the sequence much greater power.
In the latter poem, there is a child-like quality to the retelling that brings the reader to a humble state, whereas the use of “thin air” in the third line adds an edgy, gasping-for-breath undertone. The use of “desperately” and “laughed” at opposite ends of the same line feels like a familiar juxtaposition of emotion that happens in times of extraordinary stress or grief. The tangible quality of the memory is cemented by simply telling us, “Look,” and I am transported into that moment, sitting beside her, able to see the details, the hair on her father’s arm.
Both poems have humble beginnings. Is it a coincidence that the turning point for me is two thirds of the way through the poem? Perhaps that’s just how my brain works.
The Time I Was Mugged in New York City By Imogen Wade
I told people that the travel sickness pills
made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red
suitcase and no one to greet me. A man
came up to me, dressed in black. I found
myself in a car park by an expensive van
and he was holding my luggage. Get In, he
said. There wasn’t a single thought in my
head. I found myself inside his van; he
locked the doors immediately after; made
me switch my phone off as we went under
the bridge. We spoke about Niagara Falls.
He chose the narrowest roads in the city,
a needle making a joke out of Manhattan.
When he pulled up outside Grand Central
station, he said—don’t get out, there are
bad people around. He made me unzip
my suitcase, books and bras spilling over
the seat, and give him all my money. Then
he helped me out of the van like I was a
princess; he held my bags like a vassal and
kissed my cheek. Get In, I hear whenever
a man pushes me too far; Get In to my big
black car. Sometimes in my dreams, I am
sitting beside him on the leather; I don’t
need to be ordered and together, we drive
with melodious speed over the East River.
Imogen lives and works in Surrey. She has previously won First Prize in the Ware Poets Open Competition 2023 and was runner-up in The Poetry Business New Poets Prize 2023. Imogen was captivated by poetry from a young age and was commended in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, run by The Poetry Society.
Hippocampus By Ellen Clayton
On nights when I can’t sleep I start to cry,
thinking of my dad when he tried to trace letters
in thin air with his index finger
while recovering on the critical care ward.
The tube down his throat prevented speech
and he was trying to communicate
desperately and my mum and I laughed
the way you can only laugh when the person
you love most in the world is still alive
but they aren’t out of the woods:
your skin jangles with fear while
you’re lightheaded and giddy with relief.
And the memory has become lodged,
so solid I could hold it out for you now.
Look, see my mum’s puffy eyes and the way I stroke
my dad’s bare arm, cautious of the wires
and trying to instil all the love and gratitude I feel
through my fingertips into his bloodstream.
Ellen Clayton is a poet from Suffolk. Her work has been published in various online and print publications, including Nightingale & Sparrow and The Hyacinth Review. Ellen's debut chapbook, Home Baked, was published by Written Off Publishing. Her poetry has also been featured on BBC Upload. She can be found on Instagram @ellen_writes_poems.
Before I finish up here for the week, I wanted to tell you that I have decided to ascribe a value to all poems featured in The Poetry Edit. You may love this idea, or hate it, or just think it’s totally pointless, but I want to begin to familiarise people with the idea that poetry is worth something. How much would I pay for these poems if I were to buy one, in the same way that someone buys a piece of art to put on the wall? This is obviously deeply subjective and I in no way expect you to agree with my valuations, but I do encourage you to ask yourself the same question – how much would you pay?
“The Time I Was Mugged in New York City” : £130 (Being a National Poetry Competition winning poem increases the value by at least £50)
“Hippocampus”: £30
I recently put a poll on The Poetry Edit Instagram page asking the following “Are you interested in ways to monetize poetry?” and the answer came back as a resounding yes. It is very much my intention to make this newsletter a resource for paid opportunities for poets, but the pickings are extremely slim as things stand. So, instead of waiting around for something to change, I am approaching companies with collaboration ideas and have an exciting project in the pipeline, both with the aim of remunerating poets for their work. Watch this space!
The Poetry Edit Roundup
Podcasts
If you enjoy a poetry podcast, I would highly recommend The Poetry’s Dead Podcast featuring Ryan Duggins and Leon Dunne. Their palatable mix of light-hearted conversation, poetry and insight achieves the holy grail of interesting and accessible. Leon’s Irish lilt is also extremely easy on the ears! The Poetry's Dead Podcast (buzzsprout.com)
Opportunities and Competitions
If you are a National Poetry Society member you still have time to enter the Members’ Poems competition Members’ Poems – The Poetry Society
These competitions are also open, with some decent prize pots:
https://poetrylondon.co.uk/opportunities/
https://solsticelitmag.submittable.com/submit/19575/annual-literary-contest
https://bridportprize.org.uk/the-competition/poetry/
https://raleighreview.org/rr-laux-%26-millar-prize-1
And if you happen to live in Alberquerque… https://albuquerquepoetlaureate.org/apply-2/
Both featured poets in this newsletter will be paid £100. If you would like to submit for the next issue of The Poetry Edit newsletter, please send submissions on the theme of childhood or parenthood by replying to this post, or by emailing thepoetryedit@substack.com by April 24th, for publication on April 30th. Please note that you must be a paid subscriber in order to submit poetry.
Please consider following The Poetry Edit on Instagram and don’t forget to tell all and sundry to subscribe! Thanks and have a great week, Fi x