[Quincy Lehr]

Since moving to Ireland in September, virtually all my work has been in long form. I mean seriously long-the shorter of the two pieces ("The Joke") runs 11 pages in Times New Roman, and the present full draft of "Hither and Yonder" (which I'm prenting canto by canto on Met). With the exception of "A Letter Home" (posted on Met a while back)and a couple of pieces that didn't go anywhere, that's the sum total of my output over the last three months. (Which, granted, is roughly 900 lines, I think, but all but around forty are in two poems.) I've popped off "The Joke" to a venue that might (might) be sympathetic, and sent off the first part of "Hither and Yonder" as well to a different venue.

The long poem (which we'll define here as a poem more than two pages in length in a civilized font) allows the writer to do many things that a short lyric cannot accommodate, whether it be extended narration, the development and resolution of multiple themes, or whatever. There is no virtue in length as such, but a long poem needs to go on.

The reasons for magazine publishers being chary of the things likewise seem pretty straightforward. That big, bulging manila envelope looks mighty threatening over there in the slush pile, and besides, if you take that 200-liner, 14 sonnets, say, will get squeezed out, as well as the (again, say) six writers of those 14 sonnets. Finally, the long poem asks more of its reader. You can't get through it posted on a subway billboard. You can't pick it up and read it all the way through while brushing your teeth or taking a dump (though the latter, I suppose, depends on what you ate the night before; if the answer is "twenty taquitos and seven margaritas," you'll have plenty of time). But the drawback is one of a relative lack of variety, of an emphasis on concise, relatively simple (or alternately gnomic and opaque) lyric poems at the expense of various other things that poetry can and problably should do on occasion.

So what is the writer of long poems to do? Yes, my reasons for asking are essentally selfish, and suggestions to "write more villanelles" and the like will wake Dr. Whup-Ass from his shallow hibernation.

Quincy

[MEHope]

Ah, the extended wringing of hands. Why all this worry about size? If they're good, will they be forever an orphan? Fold them up and send them out. I don't mind at all turning the page to find more, especially if it's good.

The American Poetry Review publishes long poems, as does Bellowing Ark, I know there are others but some things you do need to do. Query the editor, and ask.

Next!

[Quincy Lehr]

Well, easy enough said, but just because you don't have problems with length doesn't mean that this is generally the case. Many places explicitly state a preference for shorter work, and others, judging by what they publish, have an implicit preference for them. Such policies, stated or not, don't make said venues the spawn of Satan himself, but it can be a problem for poor little me. Hadn't thought about APR or Bellowing Ark. Thanks for the suggestions. (Though I have difficulty imagining APR responding in the affirmative to, "Hey, I've got a 250-line piece in rhyming iambic pentameter couplets about the phases of the moon--interested?" Which is, of course, their prerogative.)

Quincy

[Susan McLean]

Quincy,
I sympathize with your situation. You are quite right that a large number of journals express a preference for shorter pieces. There are all sorts of reasons for that: diminishing attention spans, the overall tendency of those who do read to read less, the privileging of lyrical over narrative and satirical verse in the past century, etc. While I have received enormous pleasure from long poetic works by Homer, Chaucer, Byron, etc., my own preference is for concision, in terms of what I write myself and most of the contemporary poetry that I read. You can't really change people's tastes, and complaining about them does no good. But if enough people who like long poems read yours and enjoy it, the word will get out to those who don't that it is worth reading. I suggest that you keep writing the short poems too, which are easier to publish in journals, and consider adding the longer poems to your book manuscript. People often are more willing to devote time to reading a book than to browsing through journals, so that would give your long poems more of a chance to shine.

Susan

[Quincy Lehr]

Susan--

That's more or less the tack I've been taking, as it happens, but you put it quite sensibly. And I really don't mean to complain. (In fact, I thought I was more sympathetic than usual in my raising potential objections to my cri de couer or whatever exactly it is.)

I have absolutely nothing against short poems. I have written my share of them and doubtless will do so in the future. (Of course, by "short," I mean fewer than sixty lines.) But the Muse (not one of them you've heard of; my Muse smokes too much and insists I call her "Ms. Muse") demands long pieces these days.

Quincy

[Mark Allinson]

Well, Quincy, I would say you are very fortunate to have a chain-smoking Ms of a Muse, continually asking you for a long piece.

All I get from my Muse is, "not tonight, dear, I have a headache."

[Janet Kenny]

Quincy,
I suspect that long poems must be book-length in order to be taken seriously.
People are daunted by a long poem but not by a book-length poem. Seth's "Golden Gate" is the shining example. You excel at narrative.
Your present stuff is personal which might be a problem in that context but not necessarily.
Janet

[grasshopper]

I must confess that these days, I find long poems off-putting.
Years ago I devoured Paradise Lost and Chaucer etc--but, thinking about it, it was the narrative that carried me through the long'uns. I have the preconception, I admit, that a long modern poem is not going to immerse me in a good story. I'm going to be expected to be fascinated by what the author feels and what he thinks, page after page. I don't find the thought very engaging. I doubt the pleasure I'll get will enough recompense for the time it will take me.

And I do agree with Susan that the essence of poetry seems to me to be compression, concentration, multum in parvo--and I know that in a long poem, there will be parts that drag, just from the nature of things. It's very hard to sustain the jewel-like intensity of language over the long haul, and it's that intensity that appeals to me.

I suppose that why I like sonnets so much--14 lines seems just about right to me--lol.
Regards, Maz

[This message has been edited by grasshopper (edited December 17, 2006).]

[Michael Juster]

Malahat Review takes long poems--I believe they even have a contest for them. It's a fine and often overlooked Canadian journal.