An information pack entitled How to Get Your Poetry Published, circulated by the Poetry Society, contains the following gem of practical advice under the heading ‘Other Avenues’:
Alternative publishing.
If your work is all on one theme (e.g. gay or lesbian poetry, Christian
poetry, Environment poetry) then you should look for publication in the
relevant scene rather than in the
poetry press, for instance Onlywomen Press or the SPCK.
This ignorant dismissal of gay or lesbian poetry as
being ‘all on one theme’, and the relegation of such obsessively narrow
writing to the margins, where writers cannot even expect to get
published, let alone be received with respect, is
not by any means an untypical approach. The fact is that the British
poetry scene is reactionary, nostalgic and prejudiced. The reputations
of many of its star turns depend on an exclusivity that maintains an
embargo on true diversity. Experimentalism is
beyond the pale, as is pretty much anything that amounts to a
conviction. As for ‘Christian poetry’ and ‘Environment poetry’—so much
for John Donne, so much for Wordsworth. Let them peddle their narrow
obsessions from the margins and be ignored.
When gay poetry does
make it on to a mainstream list, it continues to be reviewed as if it
should not have been allowed there at all. My own first collection,
We Have the Melon (Carcanet, 1992), was reviewed in the February 1993 issue of
Envoi by Eddie Wainwright. Having described the book as
consisting of ‘a certain brand of male homosexual sex poetry’, but
without naming the brand or showing any sign that he knew of other
brands, he speculated: ‘I suppose somebody will call this kind
of writing a celebration of something or other’. Even when conceding
that I display ‘a good deal of skill with words and poetic forms’, he
had to add that ‘what is in question is the cause which such skills
serve’.
Quoting Thom Gunn—‘I
recommend this book to everyone’—Wainwright disagrees: ‘I would have
thought it was unlikely to stimulate the sympathies of those who do not
share its narrow focus’. The phrase ‘stimulate
the sympathies’, with its suggestion of a diddling finger or
masturbating hand, is Wainwright’s way of trivialising not only the
writing but also the reading of gay poetry. The suggestion is that a
poet like me writes pornography, and that the only kind of
reader who could possibly like my poetry is one who masturbates to
it—necessarily, therefore, a gay man. But not only that: a gay man with
no interest in poetry itself. The only way to appreciate this muck is
with an ejaculation. For my part, I have no
objection to that mode of reading; I merely believe there are many
other ways into my books. Yes, there are even portals broad enough for
the dull-witted heft of the heterosexual male. (Or for that rare type
represented by Wainwright, the only type of reader
he seems to be reviewing for.)
A recent review of Robert Hamberger’s latest book begins: ‘The Smug Bridegroom
is a collection of poems about the disintegration of a marriage and
family life and the establishment of a new and entirely
different relationship.’ At no point in the review that follows can
the reviewer bring himself to mention that this new relationship is
‘entirely different’ (as opposed to just different?) because it is gay.
In poems of great subtlety and technical finesse,
and without unneeded ostentation or concealment, Hamberger gives as
clear an insight into love’s routines and surprises as I have recently
seen in any British poetry. Mind you, the back-cover blurb of the book
itself does no better: it speaks only of ‘the
break-up of marriage and renewal of hope’. The publisher, Five Leaves
Press, evidently feels no one will buy it if they know it is gay. And
perhaps he is right. I am reminded of the blurbs on video/DVD boxes.
Even films with major gay themes are presented
as if no such themes were there, lest nobody should want to buy or rent
them. Pink pound or not, queerness is still uncommercial. (By today’s
standards, that means immoral.) Maybe the poetry market really is
currently so depressed that one needs to pander
to the prejudiced in order to survive. In my experience, booksellers
like Waterstone’s cannot decide which is going to be the greater
turn-off for their customers: to put a book in the gay section (if they
have one) or in the poetry section.
In a mad review of my last collection
The District Commissioner’s Dreams (Carcanet, 2002) in the London Magazine,
John Greening wrote, ‘I suppose a Professor of Gay and Lesbian Studies
has a professional obligation to write about these things, but I’d have
welcomed a few poems about
trees or fly-fishing’. The information about my job does not appear in
the book under review, so Greening has imported it from elsewhere in
order to use it against my poetry. Quite what he imagines my
professional duties as consisting of is not clear—writing
poetry is certainly not a part of them—but my job serves his purposes
as a sign of incomprehensible apartness. The idea that gay experience
might have something to teach us all—indeed, the vast majority of my
students are heterosexual—does not even remotely
occur to him. It is not his experience, so he is not interested.
(Presumably, he has never understood the point of
Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary or Hedda Gabler
because he is not a suicidal adulteress.) Yet his own hobbies—he being
heterosexual and male—are so universal as to be a required topic in any
decent literature. (Presumably, he just skims
through Tolstoy and Flaubert and Ibsen, sniffing for a whiff of fish.)
Complacently assuming the rank accorded to majority status, he cannot
imagine that what interests him does not interest the world—and the
topics he values are therefore those that are
valuable. This is the purely statistical version of how to measure
literary worth. The problem is, of course, that even his statistical
understanding is suspect. I am willing to bet you that far more men on
this planet have sex with other men than fish
for fish with flies.
I try to imagine myself
reading John Greening’s very best poem about fly-fishing—if such a poem
exists—and complaining that, well-crafted though it might be, it was no
good because it lacked any gay sex. What
is the matter with such people? Can they really not bear to read about
things from beyond the narrow limits of their own experience? Do their
editors not care that this should disqualify them from reviewing at
all? It is as if the cosiness expected of English
poetry cannot sustain the sheer seriousness—the problem—of queerness.
Imagine the cultural consequences—going back to
How to Get Your Poetry Published—of a national poetry scene that
routinely excludes lesbian/gay work, Christian work and environmentalist
work, purely by identification of their topic. The implications for
our literature are serious, to say the least.
Given this atmosphere
within the poetry market, it is hardly surprising that those who police
the reputations of individual writers tend to try to prevent their being
limited by the lesbian or gay label. In 1988
Carl Morse and Joan Larkin failed to get permission to include
Elizabeth Bishop in their monumental
Gay and Lesbian Poetry in Our Time (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1988). In 1995 Faber & Faber refused David Laurents permission to
print W.H. Auden’s poem ‘A Day for a Lay’ in
The Badboy Book of Erotic Poetry (New York: Badboy, 1995) and
the Auden estate actually threatened to sue if he went ahead, even
though the poem is readily available on the internet. In 1997 Random
House refused Neil Powell permission to use any Auden
poems in Gay Love Poetry (London: Robinson, 1997). And in 1998
the literary executor refused Gillian Spraggs permission to publish work
by Sylvia Townsend Warner and Valentine Ackland in
Love Shook My Senses: Lesbian Love Poems (London: Women’s Press, 1998).
The point is that the
owners of such literature do not want their property to be reduced in
value. And for a writer to be labelled ‘a gay writer’ or ‘a lesbian
writer’ is almost always taken as a reduction in
value. John Lucas has said of the fact that, in Gay Times, Alan
Sinfield once called me ‘the foremost gay poet working in Britain’,
such labelling of writers ‘is to guarantee that they’re pushed to the
shady side of the street, especially when … the
description itself comes from a gay newspaper, so that the street may
seem to lead straight to the ghetto’ (The Dark Horse, Winter 2001-2002). As Susan Sontag once said to Edmund White, ‘Surely you don’t want to be just a
gay writer. Don’t you want to hit the big time?’
What I am addressing
here is a question of the ownership of that tattered commodity the
‘universal’. Is it universally available or not? The case of Thom Gunn
gives us a pretty clear answer. Gunn’s reputation
went into decline in the UK during the middle period of his career.
This was partly because he became too Californian in
Moly (1971)—too much free verse, too many free attitudes—but also because he then became openly gay in
Jack Straw’s Castle (1976) and The Passages of Joy
(1982). His gayness was treated in British reviews, when it was
acknowledged at all, as just another Californian distraction from the
serious business, and the serious topics, of poetry. But
his stock then rose dramatically when The Man with Night Sweats
(1992) was published. Now that it involved AIDS, his gayness was no
longer trivial. It became palatable at last: for, as I am constantly
finding in literary criticism, gay deaths can
be identified with by straight men, but gay love can not.
This tendency may also
help to explain why Mark Doty’s openly gay poetry has been subjected to
surprisingly little Greening-like resistance in Britain. Doty’s is a
world in which nothing is so earthy that it
cannot be compared to a precious ornament. His sensuousness is
aestheticised to the verge of pure theory. The fact that he writes so
impressively about his relationship with his male lover is rendered
acceptable by the context of AIDS and mourning. The
English poetic tradition finds elegy attractive, once the loved man is
dying or dead and therefore rendered harmless.
How to Get Your Poetry Published
refers to ‘other avenues’ available to lesbian and gay poets, but the
fact is that no such avenues exist, other than on-line. There is a lot
of gay and lesbian poetry on
the internet—more than we have ever seen before—but there are no
consistently reliable sites showcasing the best of such work. The
development of the net has both hindered and helped. But, in truth, gay
magazines and periodicals in Britain have not been publishing
verse for many years. The cultural journal perversions (1994-1996) could have carried poetry but never did. The
European Gay Review (1986-1992) only published work by anyone
famous enough for its editor to have heard of them; this restricted the
field. I did once manage to infiltrate a poem, ‘The Fire Raiser’ into
London’s gay newspaper
Capital Gay, but only because it was about an arson attack on the premises of
Capital Gay itself. Before that, the editors of the much-lamented Square Peg
did not appear to believe poetry could ever be trendy enough to fit in
with their admirably experimentalist ethos, but they did occasionally
overcome their scruples
on this point.
There has not been a consistently enthusiastic outlet for gay and lesbian verse in Britain since
Gay News, under the literary editorship of Alison Hennegan. I
remember, in particular, regularly seeing the work of Ivor Treby and
James Kirkup. Ironically, of course, it was poetry that more or less
finished off
Gay News when, in 1977, Mary Whitehouse took exception to
Kirkup’s fatuous poem ‘The Love that Dares to Speak its Name’ and made
sure that the newspaper was prosecuted for ‘blasphemous libel’. Sad to
say, the poem was not worth the eventual effect of
its publication—the killing off of the country’s main outlet for gay
verse (and many other things besides).
No gay poetry publishing houses have
survived. The Oscars Press came and went, publishing chapbooks by new
poets and a sequence of impressive anthologies. Oscars luminaries
included Peter Daniels, Steve Anthony and Christina
Dunhill. (Brilliance Books flared up briefly, too, but although they
were daring, they had never had the nerve to publish verse. Nor did the
short-lived Heretic Books and The Trouser Press.) In the 1980s the Gay
Men’s Press used to put out two-poet collections,
under the poetry editorship of Martin Humphries, but the series was
discontinued for economic reasons. I remember being especially,
enviously impressed by Steve Cranfield’s collection, which Humphries
sensibly paired with his own in 1989. For a while it
seemed that there was a thriving gay poetry scene, if only in London.
Of course, some of our most promising writers have been lost to AIDS.
The very best of the Oscars poets was Adam Johnson. His posthumous
Collected Poems were published this year by Carcanet Press.
Yet there are still
plenty of gay poets around. Carcanet alone publishes a number of them,
besides myself, including David Kinloch, John Gallas and Roger Finch;
Edwin Morgan and John Ashbery; Edward Lucie-Smith
and Neil Powell. Elsewhere, Lee Harwood continues to produce some of
the most impressively sidelong takes on both male relationships and on
verse itself. The most well-known of the new generation of
Irish-language gay poets is Cathal Ó Searcaigh. And there
is always the venerable Thom Gunn. His last collection, Boss Cupid (2000), struck me as more impressive, even, than
The Man with Night Sweats. The whole book crackles with
disturbing splicings of the erotic and the deadly. Who could forget
Gunn’s grim variation on the
carpe diem entreaty, expressed from the serial killer Jeffrey
Dahmer’s point of view: ‘love must be ensnared while on the run, / For
later it will spoil’?
Before Andrew Motion was
appointed Poet Laureate in 1999, two lesbian poets, U.A. Fanthorpe and
Carol Ann Duffy, were spoken of as strong candidates. Jackie Kay, too,
was occasionally mentioned. From its dedication
(‘For Rosie as always’) onwards, Fanthorpe’s latest collection, Queueing for the Sun
(Peterloo, 2000) wanders gently back and forth between the first
persons singular and plural, with the effect of extending the refined
subjectivity of an alert and
sensitive poet’s mind to the shared experiences of loving
togetherness. In this respect, her ‘we’ reminds me of that of Elizabeth
Bishop in the Brazil-based poems she dedicated to the woman she loved.
Gay poetry has been
relatively under-researched by literary academics. Although there have
been books on individual authors, as far as I know there have been no
accounts of Anglophone gay poetry in general since
Robert K. Martin’s The Homosexual Tradition in American Poetry (University of Texas Press, 1979) and my own
Articulate Flesh: Male Homo-eroticism and Modern Poetry (Yale,
1987). However, the Australian academic Paul Knobel is now writing a
history of gay poetry. Until that is finished, we have his
Encyclopedia of Male Homosexual Poetry and Its Reception History (2002), a very wide-ranging CD-Rom (available from Homo Poetry, P.O. Box 672, Edgecliff, New South Wales, Australia 2027).
[This essay was first published in Magma 27 (Autumn 2003), pp.22-26.]