By Norman Bissett

(Presentation to Edinburgh Writers’ Club 9th October 2000)

My topic is how to get your poetry published. My initial response to the topic is:- I only wish I knew.

I also wish I could offer you a formula for writing good poetry, but I can’t. Every poem represents a new beginning, a fresh struggle to shape intractable material. And that’s a marvellous opportunity, is it not? Every day a new beginning, a fresh start? To write poetry is to glimpse the secret of eternal youth… or something like that.

But I’m sorry, I can offer no useful remarks about how I shall write my next poem. I can only comment on how I came to write the last one. Frequently, I don’t know what I’m going to say until I’ve said it. And until it has been set down and worked and re-worked on the page, I’m unable to judge if I’ve done so successfully or not.

How to get your poetry published? Well, attempting competitions and submitting work to small arts magazines are two possibilities. Eventually you may accumulate a sufficient body of good work to start thinking about a collection. For what it’s worth, I began by taking out a subscription to Writers’ News/Writing Magazine, of Nairn. These give details of dozens of open poetry competitions, big and small, held annually in Britain and overseas, including their own.

Other sources of information are the Writers’ And Artists’ Yearbook, The Writers’ Handbook, The Small Press Guide, and the international poetry quarterly, Orbis. The reference books cited also list many art magazines and quarterlies which publish poetry.

Once you’ve identified an appropriate competition, and go the relevbant entry for, all you have to do is write a potentially prize-winning poem. You will be stimulated by awareness that several thousand others are engaged in the same exercise, and by the realisation that if your poem exceeds 40 lines, it is likely to be disqualified. For most competitions the Immortality Ode, and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage would both have been non-starters — too many words.

Note also that many competitions don’t publish an anthology. It can be frustrating to win the laurels — and still not appear in print. So, read carefully the fine print of the competition details.

I usually send off several poems at a time to each competition, and submit different poems to several competitions simultaneously. On the percentages principle, this enhances the possibility of an occasional acceptance. I enclose a self-written, self-addressed, stamped postcard acknowledging receipt, and a self-addressed stamped envelope for eventual confirmation of results.

Bear in mind that most competitions, apart from the major national ones, are run on a wing and a prayer by enthusiastic amateurs giving their time voluntarily. Anything you can do to minimise their costs and workload is appreciated. Likewise, if your poem does win a prize, or is published in an anthology, a note of thanks and a complimentary word or two about the anthology are usually appreciated by the competition organiser — the pat on the back principle — and may encourage them to run it again the following year. They might even recall your name, next time round.

I keep a record, both in notebook form, and on a notice board beside my Apple Mac, of which poems have been sent to which competitions, with the date of submission, the deadline for submissions, and the date when results will be announced. If a poem wins a prize or is anthologised, I highlight is on my notice board with magic marker, and normally take it out of circulation: one less waif wandering the planet.

The rejects, I immediately recycle and submit to other competitions or poetry magazines. That’s important. One judge’s rejection slip is another judge’s prize cucumber. If your work has genuine merit and if you believe in it, it will eventually find a home. I’m convinced of that. Until it is published, it is arguably not yet a poem - merely a wandering orphan.

The more you write and submit, the more familiar you will become with the various competitions and poetry quarterlies in the UK. You’ll develop a sixth sense about which may accept your work in principle, but are destined to go bankrupt just before scheduled publication. You’ll come to recognise those whose concern for proof-reading is minimal and which print on an obsolete Gestetner. You’ll come to exercise caution about competitions on such subjects as "Ley Lines" or "Earth Magic," the details of which are printed in black letter gothic and which spell T.S. Eliot with two l’s.

You’ll soon identify and avoid certain other publishers, such as one in Edinburgh, which retained my work — my precious stock-in-trade — unacknowledged, for over two years, before rejecting it. You’ll also learn which competitions and publications are genuinely worthwhile, and which to regard as filing cabinets of the last resort.

I began by apologising for my inability to suggest any kind of formula for writing effective poetry. I suspect that no such formula exists. Just occasionally, when things are going well, we can endorse the familiar description of the poet as a mere conduit for things written elsewhere. Mainly, however, the successful poem is a cocktail, comprising 90% hard graft, 5% mystery and 5% good fortune.

I’d like, in lieu of a formula, to suggest a few of the qualities I look for in a good poem.

Firstly, it should celebrate a happy marriage of content and form. It should have something worthwhile to say and should say it clearly, avoiding gratuitous obscurity and the ‘Ultra-modernist claptrap that dominates the world of poetry today.? Its structure should be intrinsic, organic, appropriate to what it expresses. As in the best stories, the opening line(s) - the hook — should grab the reader’s attention.

The body of the poem should develop that opening logically, combining inevitability with surprise. The punchy, summative conclusion should startle, present an unexpected twist or open up new thought provoking possibilities.

Secondly, good poetry demonstrates mastery of language. Poetry isn’t prose arranged in stanza form. Its language is heightened, richer, more intense, more concentrated. It makes greater use of literary devices (such as allusion, alliteration, prosody, metrics etc.) and figurativce language, those figures of speech we all imbibed at school — simile, metaphor, onomatopoeia etc. — all the techniques of foregrounding that makes the page vibrant and mysterious.

Irony and humour are but two valuable resources in a vast, frequently underused, linguistic arsenal. Good poetry experiments, takes risks, puts all these devices and more to work in order to make the page sing.

Thirdly, good poetry is rooted in actuality, in sensory experience, in terra firma. A nod in the direction of metaphysics, towards larger and more universal truths beyond, is admirable and welcome.

But the poem per se should have its feet planted firmly on the ground. This is achieved by bringing all five senses to bear upon the subject. I want to see, hear, fell, smell and taste it. To visualise and experience it with the same force and immediacy as prompted the poet tot commit it to paper in the first place. In a good poem every word counts. Be alert not just tot he meaning of the words, but also to their volume, rhythm, physical weight and phonetic power.

Fourthly, good poetry demonstrates imagination and knowledge. I like to be informed and enlightened by it — not by a bald display of esoteric facts or specialist information — for which I can consult the encyclopaedia — but by the subtle, imaginative incorporation of knowledge into the poem. The yoking together of unexpected bedfellows offers the pleasure of freshness of vision and agreeable surprise.

Fifthly, a memorable title and discernible theme which can be expressed succinctly and extrapolated from the words of the page like gold or diamonds from a mine.

Finally, good poetry involves a partnership with the reader. Too many poems submitted for competitions exhibit Strictly Private notices. They are self-therapy, outpourings in a deserted confessional. As such, they can demonstrate considerable power, but in order to speak to a larger audience, they need to become public property. The subject or its treatment ought to be one into which the reader can fully enter and can fully share.And finally finally, before subjecting yourself to the misery and frustration of writing poetry, you might want to consider why you want to embark on such an unrewarding course of action at all. I like Samuel Beckett's bleak yet memorable formulation of his reason for writing: "To leave a stain upon the silence.!" One school of thought says the only valid reason for wanting to get published is to make money. You are extremely unlikely to do so by writing poetry. While it is true that Murray Lachlan Brown, the performance poet, received an advance of £1.1 million from the record company EMI, most poets will consider themselves fortunate if they earn enough from their writing to cover their competition entry fees, and their postage and stationery costs. However, if you are determined to persist in this folly, it isn't too difficult to get into print.I've suggested some of the ingredients of good poetry. All you have to do is incorporate these into the perfect poem - in not more than 40 lines; maximum.