When I opened the first yellow cardboard folder full of poems, I had no idea what I’d find.  That is still the case, though now I can make some guesses.

I did have a couple of vague assumptions, probably derived from comments by competition judges and editors, notably Helena Nelson who writes compellingly about her reading experience.

I’d assumed there would be enough very good poems to force some really difficult choices.  That hasn’t happened yet, though there are enough to make me open every folderful with interest and in hope.

This may be because of the way we choose poems.  We read and read, every now and then accepting a poem, until we’ve got enough for the next issue of the magazine.  The winter issue is starting to fill up.  So soon there may be a race between poems and time.  It could go either way: we might have to turn down a few poems we like a lot because the magazine’s almost full, or accept a few we’re less sure of because it’s time to get the issue out.

I’d assumed there would be some imitation-Wordsworth and neo-Georgian poetry.  There’s very little of either.  Maybe those who would have written it are no longer here.  Sometimes it’s fairly easy to tell from a submission what generation the writer belongs to, sometimes not.  Not that I try to tell – it’s one of the many signals a poem can give out.  (There’s more to say another time on who is sending in.)

Reading the poems is very enjoyable.  I didn’t assume that.  I was afraid of getting depressed by the sheer weight of poetry, and possibly also by its quality.  Instead, I’m amazed and drawn in by the variety; the amount of thought, craft and creativity that’s out there.  Also, I know what it feels like to print off some poems, address and seal the envelope, walk to the letter-box, take the next and irrevocable step…

Most poems are in free verse.  The best show skill and a knowledge of contemporary poetry.  They fly – take off in form and language, make new.  Others are competently written.  Quite a lot have not been worked on enough.  Some read like diaries or postcards, with flat linebreaks that tend to go automatically with the syntax and do nothing to give the poem music or pace.  Some are inchoate.

Specificity makes a connection with the reader.  Abstractions / generalised descriptions have to be earned; and made new.  All roads lead to Ezra Pound.  This passage is to remind me, as both editor and writer, never mind anyone else:

Don’t retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose. Don’t think any intelligent person is going to be deceived when you try to shirk all the difficulties of the unspeakably difficult art of good prose by chopping your composition into line lengths.

Against this background, striking subject-matter stands out, though if the poem hasn’t found its form etc then it won’t prosper.  What’s important is often less the subject than getting a good angle on it; and making form, music, tone, language, metaphor all work together for take-off.  I said ‘often’, because of course sometimes the subject matter is so original and/or engaging that it plays a part in a poem’s success.  I can now see why poems with unusual content often win competitions.

By the way, The Rialto gets sent plenty of bird poems, maybe chosen for bird-watcher Michael Mackmin, a few of which fly straight into the magazine.  I’ve only seen two cat poems so far, maybe for the same reason.

It’s interesting to see whether the poems in a submission are similar or different in form.  Sameness (except when it has a purpose, as in a series) can mean that the writer has a default mode and is not challenging him/herself.  That’s a broad generalisation with many exceptions – the writer may have found a golden vein of form to exploit.

Since the two calibration exercises described in my last post, Michael has given Abigail Parry and me our own sets of poems, from which we’re bringing shortlisted ones to a meeting, with a view to reducing the backlog.  To start with I read everything twice, with a gap in between – conscious that this was a luxury Michael, who gets dozens of submissions every week, couldn’t afford.

Now, for the first time, I’m reading most submissions once only.  Then interesting and borderline ones a second time, and a third/fourth/fifth if necessary.  (By the way, we are now reading poems that arrived in August, though Michael is still going through a few from May.)

I suppose this means I’ve gained confidence, which should be on the basis of having learnt something…  After reading a lot, it’s easier (or at least, I think it is) to identify what stands out: is original, truly interesting and engaging; creates its own space on the page, and inhabits it; takes off.  I’ve learnt not to judge a submission from the poem on top, because there may be a better one lower down.  And points of detail from Michael, for example: if a poem has a quote as an epigraph, it mustn’t need to lean on the quote in order to stand up.  I’ve also learnt from Michael – who’ll say at a meeting, That’s enough – to stop reading submissions as soon as my concentration level starts to fall.

I’m still haunted by a short, quiet poem that Michael spotted back in September when the three of us were all reading the same set of poems.  It had passed me by.  How many others have, or will?

Fiona Moore

There’s no poetry in money, and no money in poetry, yet I still enter the odd competition. In doing so, I’m not seriously seeking to disprove this fundamental law of the known universe, but merely hoping to draw a small spotlight toward a poem that may have something to say to a wider audience. While I believe that the personal is always deeply political, given the British poetry world’s general suspicion of ‘issues’ based work, I’m pleased by the fact that my two most successful competition poems have both addressed issues of public concern – ‘Shaking the Bottle’, a poem about a Palestinian suicide bomber, was a runner-up the 2010 Cardiff International Poetry Prize, while my Additional Prize winning poem in the 2012 RSPB and The Rialto Nature Poetry Competition, ‘On Advising a Young Man from Galway to do a Second MA in Biodiversity’ concerns ecocide. It’s heartening to report that some judges like to read poems that critically engage with our collective reality.

On the principle that poetry is a way of life, not a living, I spent my £50 Cardiff prize on a train ticket to Wales for the ceremony; and how grateful I am that the laws of poetic physics dictated that my RSPB prize would not be crude lucre, but an unforgettable experience: a bird walk in Norfolk with top ornithologist and nature writer Mark Cocker, poet and RSPB officer Matt Howard, and The Rialto’s own Michael Mackmin. My father was Norfolk born-and-bred, and I visit my aunt, a keen local historian, in the county twice a year. I’ve begun a long epic poem about Boudica in Norfolk dialect, a work interrupted by an unexpected diversion into science fiction novel writing, for which I am currently researching owls and pigeons and, more generally, climate change. So it was a sheer delight to spend a bright day on the Broads tramping down muddy lanes and over marram grass dunes, sharing high enthusiasms with three fellow eco-literary souls.

Sadly my aunt had hurt her leg and couldn’t join us on the walk, but Mary kindly drove me to Norwich where I took pleasure in introducing her to Michael Mackmin, who many moons ago published some of my first (rather racy) poems in The Rialto. Matt, a former young insurance salesman turned ardent conservationist, and the visionary behind the competition, hunted down some binoculars for me in the RSPB offices. Mark, natty in a knitted skullcap, directed us to Reedham, our first stop of the day. Conversation in the car revolved around Mark’s latest project, the monumental international study Birds and People, and the recent campaign strategy lamentably adopted by many environmentalist groups, of quantifying the financial value of birds, animals, plants and landscapes. In contrast we considered the vital role creative writing – and the much maligned CW degree courses – could play in opening people to a deeper appreciation of nature-in-itself, or what some eco-critics call the ‘more-than-human world’.

Well-wellied up, we walked along the reed beds of the Yare, skylarks soaring out of sight as reed bunting and bearded reedlings flitted between the sunlit stems. In the distant skies lissom skeins of geese confounded our counting abilities, while on the other side of the dyke, marsh harriers hunted for voles and – most wonderfully of all for this city slicker – a barn owl cruised a wetlands meadow, its body a golden bullet in the morning light. The barn owl plays a starring role in my second novel, Astra, and that shining image of its trim-winged form will, I know, find a roost somewhere in the final draft. I had glimpsed another barn owl the day before, in a field outside my aunt’s village, and happily Mark confirmed Mary’s view that the county’s nesting box schemes have increased the population of this much loved bird.

Our next stop was Horsey, where we parked on the side of the road by a field covered with plovers and seagulls. The word ‘kleptoparasitical’ practically prancing off Mark’s tongue, he explained that the gulls were whipping worms right out of the plovers’ beaks. The presence of the gulls also deterred raptors, however, and as the plovers paid their obeisance, a short-eared owl balefully circled, as yet unfed. Here my owl research took a quantum step forward as Michael set up his tripod and telescope, and I had a fantastic gawk at this large, ghoulish owl, its deep-set eyes and intensely patterned black-and-white feathers giving it the look of a crosshatched Edward Gorey villain. An image, perhaps, for novel number three . .

Here at Horsey as well, we saw a kestrel and a heron, and like a visitation of ergotism, twitching fever began to infiltrate our little group. ‘You visited the Scillies in the fifties?’ Mark asked Michael in awe. ‘But you would have known Hilda Quick?’ ‘Oh yes, I remember Hilda,’ Michael confirmed as Mark rhapsodized: ‘Hilda Quick found Britain’s first Blue-cheeked Bee-eater―’ It was all too marvellously arcane for a chat by a wintery ditch, and Matt and I burst into giggles. Mark stopped, with a sheepish grin, but later I googled Hilda Quick and discovered a great birder of yore and a fine engraver, a legend of the Cornish arts and nature scene.

Lunch was a cosy pub meal at The Nelson Head. Here Matt and I discovered a shared appreciation of the esoteric Ted Hughes scholar Ann Skea, Michael intoned the immortal phrase ‘poets never forgive’, and I was touched by my companions’ keen interest in my winning poem. For what poets crave, of course, is not financial reward, but readers. I told them the story of its inspiration: my summer pilgrimage to Clare Island, County Mayo, home of the 16^th century chieftain Granuaille, AKA pirate queen Grace O’Malley. I had walked around the island like a banfili, begging bowls of soup in exchange for copies of Grace of the Gamblers, my ballad pamphlet based on her life and legend. I was followed by small birds I’d thought were robins or sparrows, hopping from post to post or riffling away across the grazing pastures, but a woman on the ferry back to the mainland informed me that no, these were male and female linnets. The discovery sparked the first draft of ‘On Advising …’ which I wrote in a great rush on the train to Kildare. Privately thanking Grace for having delivered another free lunch, I presented copies of my ballad pamphlet to my three Norfolk hosts. Mark told us that the linnet population is in fact declining in the UK; discussing what role the arts could or should play in eco-activism, we exchanged information about two organisations dedicated to bringing our place in nature back to the forefront of our consciousness: The Dark Mountain Project and New Networks for Nature.

We were a twenty minutes’ stroll from the coast, and Mark took us next on a walk along the dunes to visit a colony of grey seals. This was another tremendous sight: two hundred-odd massive seals lolling on the sands, their distinctive coats ranging from shimmering silver to speckly black archipelagos, the markings unique as human faces. Behind them, sleek heads protruded from the clouded sea, whiskery couples nuzzling and canoodling in the waves. Powerfully at home in their element, their ungainly bulk buoyant in the water, on land the seals were as comical as tubby, misplaced Club Med sun-bathers, glamorous matrons doing random yoga exercises on a cold bleak shore. Watching the animals stretching, yawning, or clumsily whalloping up the beach, I bubbled up with happiness, doubling over with laughter as one particularly curious individual began as if to wave at me, then, tossing its head, dismissively scratched its chest with a black-fingernailed flipper. Any clowning was of course entirely unintentional; the seals in fact regarded us with what appeared to be an indulgent yet wary awareness. Keeping a respectful distance, we scanned the herd, noting just one pup. Two RSPCA officers guarding a pair wounded in a fishing net, told us that last year’s young had grown rapidly: ‘their mothers’ milk as thick as lard’.

It humbled me to think that I’ve lived in the British Isles for over twenty years and yet this was my first close encounter with our largest sea mammal. ‘Quantify that,’ I whispered to Matt. As Mark commented, we used to be wholly dependent on seal oil for fuel and manufacturing, but though our economy has little need of blubber now, what we would lose if this threatened species disappeared is immeasurable. For on closer inspection, the seals’ enviable fat contentment was an illusion: one in ten showed marks of nylon mesh strangulation, and when Mark returned the following week, he learned that the little pup was probably dying. As the Mastercard ad should say: Cost of seal conservation: a tightly enforced law and a few hundred thousand pounds a year. Sense of your own species’ wider insignificance and true responsibilities: priceless. 

Our last stop was Stub Farm, between Horsey and Hickling, where Mark led us to a platform lined with telescope- toting twitchers, all of us hoping to see cranes. But though we counted fifteen marsh harriers flapping one by one toward their nightly roost; a goldcrest; four twilit herons; and two magpies – first, as Mark remarked, ‘a poet’s magpie – one for woe’, then, to redeem us, ‘two for joy’ – the white stalkers remained elusive. Mark was disappointed for me, but I didn’t mind. For on this crisp, beautiful day I had felt a sense of belonging, not only to Norfolk, but to a long, passionate, gloriously eccentric tradition of people who value the natural world for its own sake: and in that vast and multifarious world there will always be a bird you hope to see next time. That is, if we can protect birds’ habitats, their food supply, and their irreducible Otherness – the absolute autonomy of wild creatures that paradoxically illuminates the most solitary and communal aspects of human nature too.

Mark Cocker, me, and Michael Mackmin, photo by Matt Howard.

With thanks to Mark Cocker for the seal photos!

Originally published on Naomi’s blog here http://naomifoyle.com/wp/encountering-the-incalculable-a-walk-in-the-norfolk-broads/

We periodically have to roll with the changes that occur out there in internetshire, our website had become rather saggy and a bit tatty and too full of disordered information dotted about all over the place, the shop was quite frankly a real mess, impossible to update and was increasingly becoming something which caused a stygian gloom to descend on me when I had to update anything.

So after a week off duty, the website has had something of a regeneration, a fair part of the old content has been bagged up and removed and the useful parts have been recycled, the navigation has hopefully been improved with easy access to the ‘blog’ (now ‘News’) information about the magazine is fairly obvious, and the shop is now a working thing with categories and search facilities and a basket/shopping bag and a checkout. We’ve also attempted to dress everything nicely as befits the magazine.

It has been an experience of some vague joy as it now looks nice and works, counterpointed by moments of repeatedly wanting to scrape my forehead down some rough brickwork, but I’ve reached the other end emerging mole-like back into daylight with some help from Helen who helped organised my mind as to how we would approach it while I sharpened my crayons and cracking my XHTML knuckles.

One change we have had to make is we have rather suddenly realised that our international delivery charges were very very out of date, and barely cover the magazine cost let alone the carriage itself, so currently have an interim delivery charge whilst we study the options and try and work out exactly why it costs so much money to send a magazine to France, Australia, the USA or Mexico, so please bear with us on this one. Our UK delivery of course remains free.

We also now have a digital vault, which means we can finally push ahead with creating digital versions of the publication in future, something that has been a stumbling block in the past, this will hopefully open up the magazine for new readers to enjoy.

The site also features an FAQ section, which we hope will help allay some of the “my poetry has vanished” fears and so forth.

There will of course be some teething problems and some snagging, so bear with us on that for a few weeks, anyway hope you like it as much as we do.

The Rialto and the RSPB are very pleased to announce the results of the 2013 Nature Poetry Competition, judged by Ruth Padel.

First Prize: ‘Kites’ by Colin Hughes
Second Prize: ‘Swift’ by Marna Gowan
Third Prize: ‘The Inkling’ by Breda Wall Ryan
Fourth Prize: ‘The Slug’s Blue Rose’ by Eoghan Wall

The 1st Prize is £1000, 2nd Prize is £500, 3rd Prize is a place on a Writing Course at Ty Newydd, and the 4th Prize is a wildlife walk in East Anglia with Mark Cocker.

A big thank you to Ruth Padel who read all the entries, ‘ hundreds and hundreds of excellent and surprising poems – in a wonderful variety of voices and genres, profoundly felt, vividly imagined, beautifully achieved’ (Judge’s Report). Ruth’s report and the prize-winning poems are published in the new issue of The Rialto (No.79) which is currently being printed.

Highly Commended poems will, we hope, be published on The Rialto website. Highly Commended poets are (in alphabetical order)

Paul Bavister, ‘Starlings’
Cathy Bryant, ‘Glen’
Alexandra Josephy, ‘Notwithstanding’
Alison McNulty, ‘Bee In Alium’
Caroline Squire, ‘A Kestrel Came To The Tower’
Pat Winslow, ‘The Gift’

We are very grateful to Ty Newydd, the Welsh National Writers’ Centre who most generously donated the third prize, and to Mark Cocker who is again giving a walking tour of some of his favourite East Anglian wildlife locations.

Ty Newydd’s website is www.tynewydd.org Mark Cocker’s most recent book is Birds and People (Random House, 2013).

Competition winner, Colin Hughes, said: ‘It’s a long while since any of my poems received such recognition, so I confess I feel quite humbled by Ruth choosing “Kites” from among what I’m sure were a great many wonderful submissions. And, as a keen bird watcher, I’m especially delighted that it’s for the RSPB, one of the world’s most important conservation charities.
“Kites” was initially drafted standing at a hotel window in New Delhi watching several hundred of the city’s huge population of pariah kites gathering at sundown on a day when the papers had reported that more than half the world’s population now lives in cities. Somehow the two came together in a kind of environmental lament.’

Matt Howard, RSPB Community Fundraiser, said: ‘As there is so much great poetry written in response to wildlife, place and landscape, we wanted this competition to champion the very best of the natural world. Receiving the poems has been a real pleasure. They show how moved people are by nature and wildlife, how it makes us feel and think; crucially, these poems show exactly why nature, in all its forms, matters to people’.

You can read the four prize-winning poems and judge Ruth Padel’s report in the Wet Winter issue of The Rialto, out now; order it here.

And below, as promised, are the six Highly Commended entries, in alphabetical order.

STARLINGS                         by Paul Bavister

At first the forest filled us with fear –
long rows of pine trees, lifeless
but as the years passed we chopped
and sawed them into cottages
and burned the offcuts to keep us
warm through dripping winters.

Strawberries and raspberries leapt up
in the clearings, made our summers
almost easy. The kids showed no interest
in the place we’d left so on the tenth
year we trekked for two days back to
the overgrown high street. What struck

us most were the birds. Goldfinches swirled
up clouds of thistle fluff and in the birch trees
hundreds of starlings repeated the beeps
of unlocking cars, the Nokia ringtone, sirens
and an ice cream van’s endless repetition
of The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

GLEN                                                by Cathy Bryant

You comb your hair with thistles and drink at the burn
while the snow-hare is running. The witch appears
as trees do from mist, offers you a warm egg and
a hearth. She is half-here as a damselfly, threadbare
as the skittering clouds. Take the moths from her hair,
and the spiders; lay them gently in alder, to winter.

After the snowmelt runs and the bog softens, squelching
up to the softest skin between the toes, you will stroke,
for a summer moment, the living antlers of a pool-eyed
young stag, and feel them warm and furred.  Lice dance
on them, black as the snake-sized benign slugs who
seep out of the bracken at night, while you, naked,
walk into a water-moon. You, glaistrig, green woman
who hears insect wings and washes in waterfalls,
will hold herbs and the young deer will leave a warm
lick on your hand, barter for the fistful of watermint.

Here is the Highland fist of tongue-rough, tongue-smooth
rock. Each stone a fingerprint, a map of whorls like
those rippling on a wild goat’s pelt, spelled out in all
colours of moss and time, and each rock, stone, goat
and moss a solace. You remember the living touch
of a long-ago cat, ash coloured and softer than antlers;
you feel the sombre power of mountains. You shift
your feet, toes curling into turf, and cannot say goodbye.
When you drink from that burn and wash off your
weeping, as the hare runs, you will lift your face
and in your hair will be a crown of weed and the
coin of a water-snail, grey as your rain-eyes.

NOTWITHSTANDING     by Alex Josephy

your elderberry eyes; the sleek line of your back; your fawn pelt; the way you ripple when I move near; your creamy underside; your habit of sitting bolt upright, moving your head to and fro; the sheen on your delicate claws that still clutch a morsel of pecorino cheese; your rounded ears that light up in the sun, and the optimistic curve of your tail;  your ceaseless and methodical gnawing, one wire after another, again and again, never for a moment giving up hope; notwithstanding any and all of these,

after nightfall you will be taken from this house, shaken from this cage, decanted onto the North slope of the hill, left to find your own way onward under the moon, through the tall stalks of grass, docks and thistles.

BEE IN ALLIUM                   by Alison McNulty

A corona glow of sun rims around
the allium. Its tiny indigo
florets radiate and become a planet.
Over the zenith a forager bee
slowly orbits – searching. Sometimes pauses,
hovering like a nanoscale shuttlecraft,
its booster engines droning, faint zig zag
jet trails soon blurring. Zooming past dew domes
of rainbow slivered glass – poised above –
he pinpoints a blue open flute, alights,
balances; inner telemetry makes
his humdrum task easy. The sepals glide
automatically apart and docking
inside the shuttle bay, he barters
pocketfuls of pollen to fuel his tanks
with nectar. Then vital work over darts
brimful, back to his own waxy warm world,
to tremble dance a precise astral chart
for others to seek the waiting treasure.

A KESTREL CAME TO THE TOWER    by Caroline Squire

Our printed faces turn to the window
to see her silence touch, then rest
on the concrete pillar. We take time
to look into stillness

at the folding layers of cream
and brown, her superior eye,
the flecks of black
on wings lapping with grey,

and though she ignores our perches
where we praise codes inside,
forgetting our beginnings,
she scores a breeze for us

and we beat with envy,
our seated shapes flickering with time,
cram to hold every last bit of flight
until it’s gone, just a spot of grime

on the office window. So now, despite
being fifteen floors above ground
with our dulled view of the ring-road verges,
we’re closer to it somehow.

THE GIFT                            by Pat Winslow

303 acres of land on the western bank Allegheny River was given to Cornplanter, chief of the Seneca on March 6^th 1791 by Thomas Mifflin, the first governor of Pennsylvania.

A bark canoe paddling the broad flow,
a span of tumbling sunlight between
stands of cottonwood and pin oak,

years of thaw and melt, sounding
the white waste in winter, a spike
and a saw slicing through ice, a long

grey fish slimming into view, a spear
and a knife, deer hide stretched tight,
drying by day; by night, a fire,

pale smoke in the mornings, the creak
of saddle leather; silver dollars in spring,
thick pelt of beaver, otter, bear; a hawk

circling a planter’s moon, ears of corn,
beans, squash and melons, tobacco,
small quantities of oil for medicine.

A gift that’s not put to good use
is just asking to be taken back
say Stockburger, Kinnear and Noyes.

A blast furnace is built, a foundry,
a mill race, a warehouse, a landing stage.
The gift passes to the Graff Hasson Company.

Drake’s well is sunk, churches rise, a dam,
a bridge, a railway, roads, realtors, banks.
Quaker State and Penzoil move in.

In 2006 the city celebrates with fireworks
and a rock concert on the shore line.
But the economy’s shot and folks

are closing down and selling up.
For those who stay, there’s little left
apart from rust, food stamps and hope.

Image: A Wedge of Starlings. Walter Baxter. CC.ASA2.0

The Rialto arrived at the end of last week.  It’s strange to open a poetry magazine whose contents you know, down to the last comma – have discussed and selected, and then proof-read down to the last comma.  I hope there aren’t any mistakes.

On starting to read submissions for a new issue, you have no idea what shape it might take.  As the accepted poems mount up, some trends may emerge.  I found I wasn’t paying much attention to this, only to whether the poems I was reading were good, except for a couple of times when I thought Oh, this one might go well with X.

When it was time to put the poems together for Issue 79, the one that’s out now with hoopoes and a wild boar on the front cover, the three editors borrowed the sitting-room of a North London basement flat.  We each laid out on the floor our own proposal for ordering.  We were well on the way to a synthesis when the door was nudged open and a small black whirlwind skittered across the room, sending paper flying.  And back again, taking a different route.  Muddy paw-prints everywhere.  It was very funny and the puppy was adorable when she calmed down.  But then I didn’t have to try to recreate a magazine.  Michael Mackmin’s thoughts may have been less charitable.

Ordering the poems was like putting up a tent – the canvas needs to be taut everywhere, if it sags then a prop is needed.  (This metaphor won’t stand up itself when tested, but I found it helped the thinking.)  The prop might be a longer set of poems, or one especially striking poem.  Or two.

It seems to be good to have, in the juxtapositions, a mixture of resonances/echoes and contrasts. When I did my own ordering before we met, I made mistakes, for example putting two longer sets of work next to each other that were a little similar in tone.  Not that this would always not work, but it didn’t here.

One of the best things about The Rialto is its A4 spaciousness – there’s room for longer poems, or several from the same author, without unbalancing the magazine or making it look crammed.  So there are six short poems from Niall Campbell, plus his prose account of his own writing. Co-assistant editor Abigail Parry and I are both fans of his work and now Michael is too.  Niall’s first collection from Bloodaxe is one of my most-anticipated books of 2014.  There are some poems from Nichola Deane, whose pamphlet My Moriarty I’ve just reviewed on my blog (as I did Niall’s); several pages given to Hannah Lowe’s work in progress centred on saxophonist Joe Harriott who introduced her parents to each other; and three new poems from Rialto pamphlet poet Janet Rogerson.

World War One looms, with Carol Rumens and Liz Berry in search of their ancestors.  Michael swooped on Kim Moore at Aldeburgh after she’d read ‘A Trumpet Teacher’s Curse’ and secured it for the magazine.  There are other Rialto names such as Christina Dunhill and Julie Mellor.  Then there are poets new to The Rialto, some not yet much published, such as Roderic Vincent, Alex Bell, Selina Rodrigues, Joe Dresner, Edison Dupree who I don’t think has appeared in the UK before, and Olivia Walwyn whose first published poem I think we’ve got.  (My first published poem appeared in The Rialto; that was a life-changing event.)  The RSPB/Rialto poetry competition has thrown up some new-to-The-Rialto names too, and some birds.  Michael the birder tries to get away from these but they swim, fly, swagger or display in the rest of the magazine too: magpie, peacock, kingfisher, duck.  I think bird poems have to be extra good to get in.

The Rialto, Venice by John Singer Sargent. Philadelphia Museum of Art

A mix of the familiar and the unexpected seems to me to be best.  If I read a magazine regularly I want to see more poems by writers whose work I like, to track what they are up to.  But I also want to be surprised.  I hope we’ve got a good balance of the two.  Comments welcome.

So: how does the balance of the magazine compare to the balance of submissions we receive?  I’d say The Rialto is very well served by its regular poets, who between them would keep a good quality magazine afloat.

But our catchment area for the new and unexpected is too small.  We’d like to see more submissions from the likes of the new-to-The-Rialto poets named above.  In particular, more from women.  We are seeing a narrower range of work from women than from men, and a smaller amount of the new and unexpected.

This is surprising, given that the magazine publishes men and women in more or less equal numbers (though more submissions come from men), and Michael has a reputation, with his Bridge series of Rialto pamphlets, for supporting new women writers from Lorraine Mariner through Hannah Lowe to Jen Campbell.  And new men too: Luke Yates last year.

Our catchment area for black and Asian poets seems to be very small.  We’d like to see more, far more work from them.    Maybe The Rialto is perceived as a white magazine.  I hope not.  But perception and reality can reinforce each other.

One reason for all this may be the time people have had to wait to get their submissions read: Rialto regulars may be more willing to take the risk.  I know of two Facebook threads in the last week alone where people have said they’ve stopped sending to The Rialto because it takes too long.  (I’ve also been told by people that they’ve been rejected a few times… so have most poets who get into the magazine.)

BUT: we’re now reading poems sent in the second half of November.  So for most people, the waiting time should be around three months.  If your poems are shortlisted, it may take a bit longer.  As there are three of us reading, we hope to get the waiting down to a maximum of three months for everyone.

So, calling all poets: especially if you haven’t sent to us before, please think about doing so.  If you can get hold of the new issue, have a look.  See if you enjoy reading it and think you might fit in, or provide an unexpected contrast.  If you can’t get hold of it, try anyway.

We’d like to read your work.

Tonight – Monday 17 February – at the Troubadour in London, Michael will discuss the art of choosing with three other editors, Maurice Riordan from Poetry Review, Patricia McCarthy from Agenda and Ahren Warner from Poetry London.

I was one of the six readers commissioned last summer to sift and assess the anonymous entries for the Faber New Poets competition – our job was to each select ten or so manuscripts which would be finally judged by a panel at Faber. The winners have just been announced: Declan Ryan, Rachael Allen, Zaffar Kunial and Will Burns – all relatively young writers, although new is not necessarily tantamount to young in the poetry world. The prize – mentoring, pamphlet publication and financial support – will provide the winners with an excellent foot-up into the poetry world – as it has for previous winners, including Heather Phillipson, Jack Underwood, Joe Dunthorne and Sam Riviere.

This was the first year Faber opened the competition to public submissions. In previous years scouts from each of the Arts Council England regions were employed to put names forward for consideration. This time around, Faber weren’t sure how many entries to expect. They estimated around 400, but since there was no entry fee (unlike most poetry competitions) there were more offerings – and the original four readers were soon increased to six. Alongside me, the readers were Liz Berry, John Clegg, Inua Ellams, Andrew Macmillan and Helen Mort.

As for the reading process itself, I enjoyed it. The manuscripts – 16 pages of poetry each – arrived in batches of twenty at my door, in several deliveries over the course of two months. There was a huge range, from what I can only call poor poetry, to some very solid manuscripts, to a few really dazzling ones. My reading process was simple but methodological: I made a pile of NOs and a pile of MAYBEs – the intention being to return to the latter when I’d read all of my entries. I think all the readers did the same, except for Inua Ellams who invented an impressive rigorous grading system to choose between manuscripts. Less systematically, I made a few notes on the front page – on the NO’s, why so, and on the MAYBEs, often a note about whether the manuscript was consistently good throughout or more hit and miss. Of these, the first poem was usually the best.

As for the subject matter, again the range was broad: nature and the environment, relationships, family and history all featured prominently; there seemed to be many poems about the city and urban living, and a number about the future, in a sci-fi mode. And despite the relative youth of the winners, there were entries, I presume, by older people, dealing with retirement, widowhood and ageing. John Clegg says of the thematic concerns common among his batch: “Dementia and the death or decline of an elderly relative were the most common themes by a mile. There were more religious poems than nature poems (and the religious poems came off more often).” I didn’t come across many religious poems, but I was surprised by one entry entirely comprised of poems that railed against the sins of drinking, smoking and sex.

There were a few entries from those not familiar with the “rules” of contemporary poetry submissions, e.g., poems centred in the middle of the page, or arbitrarily beginning every line with capitals, or using a jazzy font. In one case, a different jazzy font for every poem. But in general, it seemed to me that the entrants were people engaged with contemporary poetry, who had an idea of what Faber were looking for and who may well have been familiar with the previous cycles of pamphlets. A few of us inevitably found poets we knew and whose work we recognised among our batches and some manuscripts were returned to Faber for redistribution on this basis.

Inua said that at first he’d tried to “put aside his tastes” and choose the technically sound poems, before deciding he’d been chosen because of his tastes. I chose those manuscripts that struck me in different ways, and were consistently good. I wasn’t quite sure what the Faber aesthetic is (if there is one), but I was right in thinking that a particularly wonderful collection of quite minimal concrete poetry that I did put through in my final ten, wouldn’t get selected.

I’m interested by Faber’s approach to this year’s competition – choosing readers who are relatively young (in poetry terms!) and in the process of becoming established, and judges who are certainly well established – Imtiaz Dharker, Maura Dooley and Jacob Polley were the poets on Faber’s panel, alongside Faber poetry editor Matthew Hollis and a representative from the Arts Council. It’s also interesting that the winners did turn out to be relatively young, considering the range of ages I suspect were represented across the entries. I wish them all the best, and unlike John Clegg, who’s still wondering what to do with the foot high pile of manuscripts in his house, I have to admit to recycling them a while back!
Hannah Lowe

Calling all those who’d like to out their inner editor. We are looking for two more people to take part in our Editor Development Programme, run in conjunction with the Poetry School. A chance for poets and would-be editors to get hands-on experience of poetry editing.  Abigail Parry and I, the first generation of assistant editors, wrote about our experience in the spring/summer issue of The Rialto, and I’ve blogged about it here, here and here.

It’s been terrific.  If you got the job:

-      You’d read a lot of poetry, and find out what people are writing at the moment.  You’d discover (probably) whether you like reading large numbers of poems.

-      You could bring new writers to the magazine.

-      You’d sit around with editor Michael Mackmin and discuss whether a poem works or not, and why.  That was the best thing of all.

-      You’d learn about ordering poems, and work on putting the magazine together.

-      You’d edit your own section in one issue of the magazine, together with your co-assistant editor.

-      You’d find out what’s involved in running a poetry magazine, from design to finance to publicity.

Follow this link to the Poetry School website to find out how to apply, and to download an information sheet. Application deadline: 5pm this Friday, 22 August.

From our Vimeo Channel.

Lorraine Mariner – Poetry Dreams from The Rialto on Vimeo.

We’ve had the decorators in at home for the last few weeks. Nothing major – a few licks of paint here and there, a new light switch or two; the hey, have you had your hair cut? level of change.

But what I found most surprising was my reaction of getting in of an evening. It wasn’t, as you might expect, to check that the dado rail was aligned just so, or that, yup we’re gonna need more shelves for the shoes. It was rather: I hope the guys haven’t got any dust on the poems.

When Michael handed over the two folders of poems to Holly and me a few weeks ago (for the record: one pink, one dull coloured, both held firm by elastic bands), he stressed that more than anything at this stage, we were custodians of these poems. Not that he said it, but the implicit sentiment was clear. These things are precious; treat them as such.

Hence the fear of any dust, debris or other form of damage that might happen to them under my watch. Oh sure, most of the poems have clearly been word processed (we have a slight detective novel-esque subplot in that one submissions is handwritten, with no name or covering note either – NB, this is not an advisable strategy), and so recoverable if anything were to happen to them – but still, I guess I hadn’t expected to feel so protective of words that weren’t mine.

More unexpected still was that sensation continuing as I started to make my way through the files. It’s one thing to take care with your own words, weigh them scrupulously, hope they’re doing what you want to do. But I was surprised at how often I started a poem willing it, wanting it to work all the way to the end, let alone the pang of disappointment when it didn’t.

Or, to put it another way, I was delighted to be surprised that words that other people felt precious enough to be put into a poem also felt precious to me.

Now, this is not to say this heightened level of caring means we can be anything other than rigorous and clear-sighted about whether a poem succeeds on its own terms: my pencil scribbles hither and thither across stanzas, wondering why a poet didn’t enjamb here, or questioning a word choice there, should be proof of that. And I would hope that this sensation of taking more than the utmost care over the poems is something that animates the development of my editing skills over the next few months.

Now, I have been known elsewhere to rail against too much preciousness, in poetry as well as elsewhere – I’m rather fond of words being a little wild, a little unkempt; I don’t believe everything has to be necessarily perfect for the message to come across. Rough edges can be your friend and all that. But for now, precious is as precious does with those two files of poems.

And no, there’s no dust on them yet.

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

The assistant editorship of The Rialto is helping me let poems take over my flat.

I recently finished teaching a reading group for The Poetry School so my Wall Of Hill (entirety of Mercian Hymns photocopied and arranged on my bedroom wall so I could scribble notes) has come down. Things might have felt a bit empty had all available surfaces not then been filled with submissions to The Rialto along with associated envelopes, folders, headed papers and a small infestation of paperclips.

 The Wall of Hill

I have done mass poem reading before, mainly for competitions, so the slab-like stacks of submissions are not as overwhelming as they might otherwise be. I’ve learned to pace myself, the importance of cups of tea, and I’m used to managing the inevitable anxiety that I might miss something and the sometimes painful knowledge that someone poured themselves into the piece of paper you are holding. In this I am well prepared.

I know reading for a magazine is going to be different. A lot of the competition work I have done has been early-stage where anything approaching reasonable competence will go through to the next step. For the largest competitions this can be communal work, around a table or on office computers, with readers occasionally stopping to share a particularly brilliant line or to shout out a daring title. Meanwhile, reading for young people’s awards has often meant looking for a curl of potential, a mixed entry with real ambition being noteworthy, even if the author hasn’t yet learned to edit the less successful lines.

Moving to a magazine the biggest shift may be that in competitions the poems are vying against each other: as a judge I am looking for the best, as a sifter for the better than average. Poems can be held up against their neighbours and, while sometimes it is an extremely close call, there is always a fixed limit to the work. A magazine with rolling submissions isn’t like that, the question isn’t ‘is this better than the last poem’ because there is no finite limit to the poems – they will and do keep coming. The question is do I want to read it again? Is it something I want to share? Would other readers enjoy it too? The safety blanket of direct comparison is less applicable, the poem has to excite by itself.

I feel the responsibility has changed too. It’s not just about the people who are sending in their poems anymore, the focus must be on the readers. I imagine them looking over my shoulder and wonder what they would make of the poem I’m looking at. I’m not sure who my imagined reader is, are they cover-to-cover readers or do they dip? Does my imagined reader have a stack of poetry magazines in their bathroom or are they trying a single issue for the first time sat at a table in the Poetry Library? I can’t predict them, but I hope in the next few folders of submissions I’ll find some poems that will thrill and mesmerize me, that I can share with this unknown reader.

Holly Hopkins

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

Holly Hopkins and I, your editorial developees, have been asked to shed some light upon what we actually get up to when attending an editorial meeting of The Rialto. Herewith, a joint diary of a recent trip to Norwich, where selection of some poems took place.

NB: Unless otherwise stated, it can be assumed that all times the subject of all conversation was ‘poetry’ and tangentially-related matters.

11.03 – HH finds RD loitering, with a lack of poetic intent, at Liverpool Street Station, signified by his reading of the autobiography of Swedish footballer Zlatan Ibrahamović. RD has reached the part where Zlatan has signed for leading Italian club Juventus, and asked for a Ferrari Enzo as part of the deal, and the player is reflecting on how having 1 of the only 399 cars made gives him “a feeling that I’ve got to work harder in order to deserve it. It prevents me becoming complacent”, and RD is about to launch into a peroration about how that anecdote is actually a good metaphor for the writing of poetry when he realises that HH is already in the queue for the ticket barrier.

11.03 – HH finds RD who immediately wants to tell her about football. Why do people think this is appropriate? HH tries very, very hard to pay attention; however she is more concerned about finding the correct platform, as the indistinct tannoy announcement appears to have moved it.

11.34 – HH and RD discover that the quiet coach that they have booked to sit in, to additionally review their folders of poems, is actually a decommissioned first class carriage and hence have the fear for the rest of their journey that they will be turfed out from it.

12.02 – HH runs out of tea. RD is unmoved.

12.07 – Hunger being a greater threat to the optimum condition of reviewing poems than the fear of being made to move carriages, lunch is taken.

12.12 – HH learns there are neither plug sockets nor wifi in said carriage, casting doubt on whether it ever as a first class carriage at all. However, the little table lamps are still working and there are curtains, which adds picturesque charm. RD is deep in poems; HH needs to send day-job related emails.

12.22 – HH achieves some degree of online access by utilising her mobile phone; her triumph in this achievement is tempered by discovering that her day-job emails have bred.

12.29 – HH joins RD in the realms of poetry.

12.39 – RD takes the following photo, and decides that it is an obvious but effective metaphor for the sort of feeling that the best sorts of poem can leave you with:

12.57 – Review of folders and hence preparation for editorial meeting is completed.

13.07 – RD completes a first draft of a poem, featuring the word ‘lycanthropy’.

13.16 – HH loses a needle and thread, which was to be used to undertake some repairs on various items of clothing. RD is about to suggest that is a metaphor for the poetic work that HH and RD are about to undertake, but HH gives him a look.

13.20 – Train arrives at Norwich station, where a small Christmas tree is decorated with stuffed toy turkeys.

13.34–13.56 – A whistle-stop tour around Norwich Castle and environs is undertaken. The castle’s prominent disability lift is admired. Conversation ensues on lottery funded architecture and the use of glass, oak beams and atriums in the noughties. The popularity of the upside-down glass-bottomed boat formula is also discussed.

14.00 – HH and RD assemble for beginning of editorial meeting.

14.01 – HH and RD realise that editorial meeting is actually taking place elsewhere, but pretend they knew this already.

14.02 – While waiting for MM of The Rialto to appear, HH decides to read up on publishing using a Ladybird book on display above the shelving unit. This prompts conversation in which RD and NS, The Rialto’s art director, discuss developments in printing technology and reminisce about the old days. HH attempts to follow, but the Ladybird book only goes up to the early 1980s.

14.17 – Actual venue for editorial meeting having been reached, it is decided that no poetic editorialising can be expected to occur without victuals and other comestibles being procured.

14.18 – Victuals and other comestibles arrive.

14.28 – It is agreed that the editorial meeting really should start now.

14.30 – Editorial meeting starts.

15.42 – It is confirmed that the ‘real fire’ available in the meeting venue is only real in the sense that a gas flame is, ontologically speaking, real.

16.07 – RD almost sprains wrist attempting to pour tea from, frankly, the biggest and most unwieldy teapot he has ever seen. Inevitable spillage sees hasty removal of various poems and folders from table, to avoid tea stains and other damage to poems. (No poems were damaged in the drinking of said tea).

17.03 – In an attempt to provide one last burst of energy to the attendees of the meeting, more victuals and comestibles are ordered.

17.05 – It is agreed that the continuation of the meeting can wait until said victuals and comestibles are actually cool enough to eat.

17.27 – HH and RD break out in sudden and spontaneous laughter, the source of which is unexplained, and later agreed to be inexplicable.

17.37 – Editorial meeting ends.

17.42 – RD takes the following photo, and decides it is an obvious but effective metaphor for the process of selecting poems that has just been demonstrated through the editorial meeting:

17.44 – Another, impromptu, whistle-stop sightseeing tour of Norwich is undertaken, this time the slant being to celebrate city’s status as a UNESCO city of literature.

17.48 – The Writers Centre Norwich building is admired, with its Regency-style white columns. MM tells HH and RD that Writers Centre Norwich is moving to Dragon Hall. HH is about to launch into an anecdote about a birthday party she attended at Dragon Hall before realising that this statement is the full extent of the anecdote.

17.58 – The team reassemble at NS’s office for a meeting of The Rialto’s advisory board. HH and RD discover there are only enough chairs for one of them to sit at the table around which the advisory board has gathered. In a fit of solidarity, both HH and RD retreat to perch on what might be referred to as a ‘kid’s table’ at the back.

18.05 – Advisory board meeting starts.

19.10 – Advisory board meeting finishes.

19.17 – Advisory board, plus HH and RD, head out to celebrate Christmas with the finest vegetarian curry available. Chitchat ensues. Bizarrely hot poppadums appear.

20.08 – It is noted that HH and RD’s train to London departs soon and the main meal hasn’t arrived yet.

20.11 – HH and RD try to combine shovelling down food as quickly as possible with creating a good impression for new acquaintances.

20.20 – HH and RD take the rest of their meals with them in boxes and proceed with ill-disguised haste towards their train. This provides healthy exercise to offset their culinary indulgence.

20.30 – HH and RD manage to clamber aboard said departing train.

20.32 – HH and RD begin process of restoring depleted oxygen levels.

20.44 – HH finds previously lost needle and thread, lodged in her notebook and mends her coat. RD at this point too tired to offer any metaphorical commentary on the event.

Rishi Dastidar

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

As I write this, the latest edition of The Rialto is at the proofing stage and the last of the biographical notes are slipping in by the skin of their teeth. It feels a bit strange, having spent months getting to know poems, to now have a task focused on poets.

In most cases the bio note is everything (external to the poem) that I know about these poets, so they were read with particular curiosity. It seems a little unfair to give bio notes such scrutiny when I know how often poets are unsure what to say in them. How can someone sum themselves up in a couple of sentences?

It raises the question of what makes a good bio note. Personally, I have only ever received one piece of guidance on the subject. When I was starting to write poetry as an adult, I was fortunate enough to meet a well-known female poet whom I greatly admired. I asked what advice she would have for a poet starting out. I thought perhaps she would know of a daily regime that would hone my metrical skills until fully formed sonnets would drop out of my head. Or perhaps from her great height she could see the course of 21st century poetry laid before her and give me directions. Instead, her advice regarded bio notes and was surprisingly simple: ‘Start lying about your age now.’ Her reasoning being that opportunities are squared towards the ‘young’ and that men can string out being ‘young’ in poetry until their mid-40s while women had until 30 at best. I didn’t take her advice and have remained honest if reticent, but since then whenever I’ve seen biographical notes starting ‘XXXX was born in 19XX’ it has always made me pause.

Maybe the best approach is to think about what the biographical note is actually for. Usually when I am reading the bios in a magazine, it is either because I’m having a quick skim to see who is there or because I enjoyed a particular poem and I want to find out if the poet has more poems I can read. If it is a tool for finding more poetry then a workman-like list of publications remains extremely useful. The formula of poets listing magazines before they have a publication, and publications afterwards, does do the job. Meanwhile, including prizes reassures the reader that the poet they’ve just read wasn’t a one-hit wonder.

There is a school of thought that the bio note should be more advertising hook than information board. With pressure to add something completely unrelated to poetry that makes you stand out. I do enjoy it when a note feels like it gives a glimpse of the poet’s life, even though I’m aware that with so little space and so much, conjecture these fragments are as likely to mislead as they are to paint an accurate portrait. I have read notes in the past that went a bit overboard, ‘So-and-so lives in an exotic location where they have an exciting job and are having a much more fun than you’ can make the heart sink. Are you applying for a job as a professor? No? Then don’t send an academic CV in miniature. The trick, as ever, is to think of your reader.

Remember that biographical notes have a tendency to breed. I once wrote a bio for a schools project in which I focused on my work with children, only to find that event organizers copied and pasted it without permission for about a year afterwards. The result was that no matter the context, in pub or anthology, my poetry was recommended purely on the basis of my experience working with children.

Finally, when in doubt – keep it short.

Holly Hopkins

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

I’ve been thinking about the law over the last couple of weeks. Not that I’m in any trouble I hasten to add – apart from the usual one that I’m sure some of you have also been quizzed on by other members of the family: “Yes this poeting is all well and good, but when are you going to become a lawyer?” Sorry Mum, not quite yet*.

No, this particular rumination was prompted by some recent attempts to try and argue on behalf of a particular poet and their poems. I’ll explain.

English law has this rather wonderful way of working that’s known as ‘the cab rank principle’. Simply put, it means that a barrister has an obligation to accept any case that might turn up on their doorstep, whatever the case might be, and whatever views they might have formed as to the character, reputation, innocence or guilt of that person. Unpopular people are represented, and those representing them are not criticised for doing so. A small blow for equality is struck.

It doesn’t take too much by way of evidence to see how I made the analogous leap from the courtroom to the folders of poems. After all, it often feels like the main principle that operates in the world of the folders is: you never know what is going to turn up next.

It is, of course, what makes the process wonderful, maddening and maddeningly wonderful. Some folders are studded, positively littered with gems. Others are as parched as the rapidly drying Aral Sea, and leave you feeling as enervated. At the moment, I’m still mostly unfamiliar with the names I come across; now and again there’s a sliver – and a shiver – of recognition, that a poet whose books I have on my shelves is submitting, and in a small way you recognise the threads that bind all us poets together.

Then of course you have the poems that refuse to fall one way or the other: good, or bad? Working, or not? Like, or hate? Here’s where the cab rank principle kicks in. This poem has arrived – it might be a squib, it might not be very good, it might be the next ‘Digging’. Do you know? Can you construct a case for it? Do you want to – is the poem giving you enough for you to feel that you can risk putting it in front of three other pretty demanding judges?

Candidly, I hadn’t realised at all the degree to which I would need to become an advocate for poems that were on the cusp in this way – not yet (and maybe not ever) yielding up their qualities, but still worth a punt, whether that’s because of a phrase, a title, an image… I won’t disclose my current success rate in the editorial court, but suffice to say I think I’ve helped some poems appear that might have been on first glance to be late bloomers.

Which naturally leads on to mention of what you, dear poet, might do to help your case if – when – it might become my case. I’m tempted to say, apart from the obvious, not much. But please make sure that you’re doing that: is your poem as tightly drafted as it can be? Have you spellchecked? Have you submitted six poems when we asked for six, not 11? Have you included any notes or translations that a reader might need?

Of course the ideal is for the poem that, in every sense, speaks for itself, with no need of silver-tongued persuasion of any form. They do arrive and hopefully I am becoming more adept at spotting them – or letting them find me. But in the meantime, to bring Jerry Maguire almost unnecessarily into this: “Help me, to help you.”

*I jest. I think Ma would have preferred me to be an accountant.

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

Rishi Dastidar and I are working closely with The Rialto editor Michael Mackmin on a programme designed to teach us about the process and philosophy of poetry editing.

Following the publication of The Rialto’s 81st issue, I met up online with Rishi to discuss how receiving poetry submissions has changed our perspective on the best way to send poems.

Holly: When you read the covering letters and poems that are sent to The Rialto, are there things in them that have made you see your own submissions in a different light?

Rishi: Yes, definitely – I think I’ve been consistently… surprised? impressed? about the care that goes into submissions. Makes me feel a wee bit guilty that I just dash stuff off at the last minute. How about you?

Holly: Looking at the covering letters has been interesting. I used to worry so much about what to say, and reading so many of them has really brought home to me how much I just want people to get the name of the magazine right, remember a short bio and list the poems.

How does it make you feel guilty?

Rishi: Well, if I walk you through a submission I did last week – 1) left it until the last moment, so maybe two days before deadline; 2) searching my inbox for the last bio I sent off; 3) copy and pasting both into a document; 4) pressing send; 5) remembering two hours later that I should have really put a big name publication on there that I didn’t because I’d been in such a rush to get it done. Not. Enough. Care.

Holly: The Rialto has rolling submissions, so we don’t get the last minute rush. However, I’m not sure if that means we’re getting more considered submissions from the last minute people, or if the last minute people are less likely to submit – because there’s never a last minute.

Rishi: I think there’s a very definite ‘need a deadline’ camp vs a much more organised camp. I know there are people out there with systems and spreadsheets to help marshal their submissions.

Holly: Surely you have a system or it would get so confusing?

Rishi: Nope, no spreadsheet here – just a plain Word doc with no tables.

Holly: That’s still a system, just more linear.

Rishi: When others have described their systems, I’ve been struck not just by the systematization of the process (and I would argue that my process is not very systemic), but also an implied underlying principle that all finished poems should be sent out.

(I am over-worrying that my system does not appear to be very systematic.)

Holly: I do think a spreadsheet can be useful – that’s how I record submissions – but I don’t think it means every poem on the sheet needs to be published. It’s more that once something has had a certain amount of effort invested in it, it goes on. I started a spreadsheet as a way to remember what poems I’d sent where, but then it became more of a way to remind myself what I had written full stop. I have a page for each year and I’m always surprised when I go to the current page and realize that yes, there is stuff on it.

Rishi: Have you ever done that most heinous of sins? (Simultaneous Submission) (Is it even heinous any more?)

Holly: I don’t think I’ve done so, at least not on purpose. When I first submitted to magazines I didn’t record what I’d sent, as I thought I would remember, but three months later I still hadn’t heard back and no longer knew what I’d sent. Instead of risking it, I didn’t make any more submissions until I’d heard back. That’s when I knew I needed to keep a record.

Rishi: I’ve seen a couple of covering letters saying “this is a simultaneous submission…” Is this now a growing trend? Has / is the stigma of doing so wearing off?

Holly: I don’t think I can really judge – since I would have needed to be editing for a longer period to see a change. However, it seems a bit self destructive – I mean what do you do if your preferred publication comes back and your poems have already been taken? It also seems a bit rude (unless simultaneous submissions are openly invited) a bit like saying you don’t care about a publication enough to think about what you’re sending, that you’re just sending the same thing to everyone. Do you think that’s a bit harsh?

Rishi: A little harsh, but then that gets us on the territory of: does one shape ones poems for certain titles? Who do you target and how?

I think its fair to say from what we’ve seen over the last five months we get a broad range of subjects, forms, attitudes…

I wonder if simultaneous submissions are basically saying ‘I haven’t actually seen / read where I’m sending to. And I don’t care?’

Holly: I think that might be a fair characterization. I think I’m more likely to see simultaneous submissions from someone who opens their covering letter, ‘Dear Editor’, or worse, ‘Dear Sir’, than from someone who uses the editors’ names. It’s partly acknowledging you’ve read the publication but also that you are sending your poems to real people.

I was asked to do a talk for some creative writing undergraduates a few months back, about how to submit work for publication. Many of the students assumed that most poetry magazine editors were full-time paid employees of their magazine and were very surprised when I explained that this isn’t the case. As soon as you stop and think, “hang on, I’m sending this to someone who is editing part-time or squeezing it into evenings and weekends,” you maybe treat it a little differently.

Rishi: Indeed, indeed.

Holly: Did you have a mental picture of what an editor was like before your first-ever magazine submission?

Rishi: No… I’m not sure that I ever did; I’m not sure that I do now, even while dabbling.

The thing of ‘editor’ has always struck me as being more of an ‘embodiment’ even though I know rationally its the expression of a person’s taste, judgment, experience.

Holly: How do you mean?

Rishi: Well, I suspect this is my previous dabblings in other publications driving this, but: once the thing has a title and a name, it starts to take on a life, a characteristic that is more than just the tastes etc. of one person.

It might be almost wholly associated with that person, but there’s something about a masthead that should (ideally?) move it towards something a bit more objective.

Holly: Awww… I was hoping you’d have amusing stories about what you thought editors were like when you were little.

Rishi: Ha ha! Probably Julia Sawalha in Press Gang!

Holly: I have no idea who that is.

Rishi: Youngsters!

<iframe width=”100%” height=”400″ src=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/aZZg_-yrZHI” frameborder=”0″ allowfullscreen></iframe>

That’s the first editorial figure I can remember.

Holly: Wow! Do they solve crimes? Like the big corporation secretly dumping toxic waste in the local lake?

Rishi: I believe there was a local corruption story in the school broken open every week.

One last one… Does publishing make a poem ready? Complete?

Holly: No. Definitely not. There are poems I’ve had published that I’ve continued to change – and I’ve helped people with manuscripts where they have a poem which has an obvious flaw but they feel like they can’t change it because it’s been published and it’s depressing, because publication doesn’t make a poem more of a poem. It’s just a way of sharing it with people.

Rishi: That *is* useful to know. Publishing a poem in a magazine is just a step on the poem’s way somewhere else.

Holly: There are poems of mine in online magazines that are easily Google-able where the online version is not as good as the version in my pamphlet. This is particularly true of themed projects where I wrote the poem for a specific brief so it might have been only a few weeks old when it went online, whereas I prefer to keep re-drafting for a longer period.

Rishi: So how do you know when something’s, if not finished, ready to send to a magazine?

Holly: Well, a poem can feel finished, but you return to it six months later and realize it wasn’t. But since I’ve learned that now, I usually wait those six months before sending it anywhere. However, when I write something for a themed project, usually there’s a deadline, so I just have to decide whether I think it’s ready enough. I like those projects because sometimes when I feel too busy with my paid jobs they can help me carve out a space to work and I enjoy having both the challenge and the deadline. But I know when I submit I may end up revising it much later.

I think the big ask is, ‘Would you want to read this in a magazine?’ (If it had been written by someone else) and to be brutally honest with yourself. I reckon that self-honesty is the most important and hardest part of developing your writing. But at the same time, not to be disheartened by the honest answer, but to do something about it instead.

Holly Hopkins

Originally published on The Poetry School Website as part of “Re: Drafts”.

Below is a copy of the long list, alphabetical by surname. Thanks to everyone who entered the competition, your response has been very heartening. We had over 3,000 entries in total.

After Light Rain – Josephine Abbott

Estate Management – Patricia Ace

It’s Turning Dark Early Now – Virginia Astley

Otmoor – David Attwooll

Nightjars – Bruce Barnes

Wheat Field – Veronica Beedham

First The Feathers – Amanda Bell

Mole – Philip Bentall

Winifred – Kaddy Benyon

Marsh Thistle – Jemma Borg

Portrait Of Shingle And Wildflower – Jemma Borg

Out In The Fens – Pat Borthwick

Snow In October – Caroline Bostock

Dipper – Paul Bregazzi

Homing – Carole Bromley

On A Woodblock Prepared For Engraving – Judy Brown

The Green Man – Judy Brown

Red Kites – Mrs M F Burton

Birch Tor – Dominic Bury

Meadow-Maker – Jennie Carr

Uprooted – Ian Royce Chamberlain

August 16 – Robin Chapman

Thuringia – Elaine Charwat

Martha – Elaine Charwat

Badger – Gaynor Clements

Walking With Gilbert White – Barbara Cumbers

Herring Gulls – Stephen Devereux

Skylark – Catherine Dreyer

Anembryonic – Catherine Dreyer

Philae – Catherine Dreyer

At The Aquarium – Charlotte Eichler

Me, My Mum And The Great Crested Newt – Roger Elkin

Oriental Poppies – Frances Field

To A Grey Seal – Martin Figura

Field – Nick Flittner

Pinioned – John Foggin

Blackbird – Imogen Forster

Gardener’s Friend – Dr J P Freeman

Beachcomber – Cynthia Fuller

Bower – Jo Gardiner

Hymn For The Ash – Victoria Gatehouse

Pleurobrachia – Majorie Lotfi Gill

Aphid – Giles Goodland

The Population Dynamics Of Fish In Some Coastal Lagoons Of Ghana – Jean Harrison

Of Swallows – Lesley Harrison

Rain – Josephine Ann Haslam

Understanding – John Haynes

Lesson Plan – John Haynes

Lambs – Charles Heathcote

Honey – Tania Hershman

Hide – Paul Howarth

Crane Flies On Glass – Kirsten Irving

The Night Heron – Laurie Johnston

Hedge Sparrow – Dylan Jones

Oil – Dylan Jones

Search And Rescue – Elizabeth Kelly

Self-Portrait In The Blue Mountains – Kristen Lang

Homemaker – Janet Lees

Smeuse – Philippa Little

Encounter – Andrew Mangeot

Wild Honey – Andrew Mangeot

Gull’s Bones – Jerome Martin

Hot Days – Sol Miller

Mountain Hare – Sarah Moor

Antler – Helen Moore

Feeding A Young Crow Too Soon From The Nest – Michael Murray

The Age Of Aquarius – Elizabeth Newman

August Enfolded – Helen Overell

Feel Your Way – Caleb Parkin

Moles – M R Peacocke

Cuckoo – M R Peacocke

The Songs Of The Golden Oriole – I Cato Pedder

In The Balance – Ilse Pedler

The Cow Pat – Nigel Prentice

Thrushfall – Denis Pye

Come-Bye – Lesley Quayle

Heron Taking Flight – David Redfield

Of Limpet Larvae And Home Scars – Mary Rozmus-West

Bridge Diving In Mostar – Anna Selby

Smallholding – Diane Slaney

Dung Beetle – Dan Stathers

Bird Photographer – Paul Stevenson

The Camel – Alexandra Stmad

The Wounded Pelican – Alison Thompson

In This Wood – David Underdown

George Monbiot’s Agricultural Policy – Alexander Velky

River Valley – Olivia Walwyn

Home Time – Olivia Walwyn

Summer’s Lease – Sarah Watkinson

Immortal Bird – Christine Webb

How To Let Light Enter The Soul – Elizabeth Weir

Changeling – Rosemary Wilkin

Sea Stack #6 (The Corncrake) – Gareth Williams

Corpse No. HT57061 – Gwen Williams

Perhaps A Skylark – Noel Williams

Pipistrelle – Sue Wood

The Jar Of Sleep – Patricia Wooldridge

Saving The Swift – Patricia Wooldridge

Far Field – Howard Wright

Crab Apple – Pamela Zinnemann-Hope

We have now received the results of the Nature Poetry Competition back from Simon Armitage and are delighted to announce that the winners are:

1st Prize of £1000 – ‘The Cow-Pat’ by Nigel Prentice

2nd Prize of £500 – ‘Gulls’ Bones’ by Jerome Luc Martin

3rd Prize of A place on a creative writing course at Ty Newydd– ‘Nightjars’ by Bruce Barnes

Additional Prize of a personal tour with Mark Cocker of his most cherished wildlife places in East Anglia – ‘The Jar of Sleep’ by Patricia Wooldridge

The four prize winning poems will be published in the next issue of The Rialto.

Simon also selected seven highly commended poems:

‘Oriental Poppies’ by Frances Field

‘To a Grey Seal’ by Martin Figura

‘Otmoor’ by David Attwooll

‘Aphid’ by Giles Goodland

‘On a Woodblock Prepared for Engraving’ by Judy Brown

‘Feeding a young Crow too soon from the Nest’ by Michael Murray

‘Pinioned’ by John Foggin

We have been greatly heartened once again by the wonderful response to the competition. It really is a special thing, making a difference to nature and poetry. Many thanks to Simon, Ty Newydd and Mark Cocker for their generosity in working with us and indeed to all of you who entered.

To view the long list please click here.

There’s something of a frisson going on about the fact that a ‘discovered’ new poem by Larkin turns out to be one that was written by another poet living in Hull, Frank Redpath.

Here’s a Frank Redpath poem for those of you that don’t have on your shelves his rather good collection How It Turned Out (Rialto, 1996, edited by John Wakeman with an Introduction by Sean O’ Brien). I think it’s easy enough to see how the poets could be mistaken for one another. They share a preoccupation with the mundane, make sharp observations of the ordinary, and both have that anxiety that life might consist entirely of dullness which was, I think, a feature of the 50s. Something I suspect to do with wanting to bury the horror of the war and the simultaneous flight from the guilt that it had all been rather exciting? Forgive the psychobabble. Here’s a poem.

COMING TO

Remembering purpose suddenly, hearing the clock,
Is always to be lifted from that sailing
Utterly unintentioned elsewhere; looking,
Feel, between tick and yes-I-thought-so tick,
Frank recognition wheedling you to share
Whatever reach-me-down events surround you there.

Always a shock, but it soon passes. Why,
There’s Mrs Body-Language from Dun Brown
Taking her dogs out for a crap; that clown
Who always parks his car with one wheel high
Mounting the kerb; lumping from tree to tree,
That lass who jogs and jogs so earnestly.

It seems to fill their time. Why shouldn’t he
Who sits here, vacant in a cooling car,
Get out and do as they do? Check the doors,
March up the path, go in and make some tea?
He will. He always has. But not without, untrained,
The sense of some huge ocean being drained,

Some timeless tide retreating, leaving the pier
Grey, mussel-crusted, drying; tilted smacks
Newly defined and useless; weathered rocks
Disarmed, reduced to holding rock-pools; gear
For loading, launching, signalling left dry:
And more time left than these can justify.

Frank was a likeable bloke. He and John Wakeman had been poetry buddies and then friends from the time when John worked as librarian in London. Frank would take the train journey from Hull to Norwich several times a year and could then be found, glass of red wine in one hand, cigarette in the other, in the Wakeman’s kitchen, laughing and gossiping.

I think he wore his angst more lightly than Larkin could, maybe had a bit more hope in the soul mix. I’m not sure about Larkin, I feel there’s a coldness in him, something Pharisaical – though that might just be his voice, standard BBC Third Programme enunciation (something that was somewhat swept away by Ted Hughes’ reading style). I wondered about typing in at this point Frank’s poem ‘Miss White’, but it’s a poem about a cat ( I have to admit it is good) and I made a resolution about steering clear of cat poems. So here’s a short, terrific, poem that I think should be widely anthologized.

LYRIC

Something is happening that never, ever,
Happened to anyone before, he thought.
This is the moment when the sudden river
Breaks through the rocks to flow and end the drought.
Sitting straight-backed upon the bedside chair,
She took pins from her lips and fixed her hair.

Give me just this, he thought, let me for ever
Be sitting here with this, without a thought.
Ice ages come to freeze the flowing river,
Still ponds surround us both to cool the drought.
Taking each eye in turn, she painted it
Using a brush, a block of black, and spit.

M.M.

We have a few remainders of the book here, they are the first edition.

My Rialto pamphlet won the Michael Marks prize, and part of the prize is that you get to go to Greece for two weeks to be the poet in residence for Harvard University’s Hellenic summer school. I think if someone were to ask me what was the best single thing about this experience, I would say that it showed me how to write about big things without fear.

Most of the Greek poets that I met and read with seemed to soar effortlessly into the places I want to get to in my own poems, the places I hold back from because of a fear of … I’m not exactly sure what, but anyway let’s not get into that now, let’s ask where the Greek poets go, because that’s what matters. They kept returning to the high risk place where poetry is about the soul, and death, and love, and beauty, and myths – the place where bits of myth fall into their laps, soft and ready to be made into poems. And they used the whole array of words associated with those things – precisely the words that I can remember being slapped on the wrist for using in some of my first workshops. I can still remember the advice that it was better not to speak directly about beauty, or the wince of embarrassment when I was told that an allusion to Odysseus was pretentious.

I’m not saying that there aren’t British poets who write about these things – of course there are – but rather that an emerging poet in this country, someone who is just starting out, is too likely to get the message that taking one’s images into this area is a foolhardy thing to do, something to be discouraged.

One of the poets I met in Greece, Siarita Kouka, writes about exactly this.

Beautiful the lists of words
From alpha and epsilon.
It is urgent to have a flexible language
To allow a beginners’ poetry
The bravery of ignorance
The sweet swoon of idiosyncrasy.
So you handle it
Without shame
You play with passion like a child
To offer succour.

‘Shame’ is absolutely the right word, and the more I think about it, the more I think that’s the source of the fear.

But my fortnight was too rich for me to stop at a single best thing. The other best thing was taking part in the Paros translation symposium in Athens. I loved this not only because I am new to the slightly giddy ego boost of having my poem translated at all, but also because it made me aware of the very specific sorts of precision that poems call for. What I found, was that sometimes, at least, this precision is not located in the words – the words are the vehicles that get you there. So for example when we were working on a poem, either my own or someone else’s, we were often looking for a word that would identify a precise bit of something; a particular place within the body, a particular part of a ship, a colour or a texture. When we got stuck we used gestures or drawings – which was possible because the solution to the problem was not so much the word as the thing the word served to name. And what I noticed was that the places where we got stuck, were the places where the poem was at its strongest, where it was pushing itself right up against the limits of expressibility. So there was an amazing sense in which translating a poem is like having another go at writing it, only this time it isn’t a solitary activity, it’s a collective one.

My residency began on the day of the Tsipras’ referendum, and ended as angry crowds demonstrated in front of the Parliament building in Athens. And of course everyone was talking about the crisis, constantly and passionately. So it would be odd not to say anything about that here. But in a way I don’t want to because now I’m back in the UK, that way of talking about Greece, as a place of crisis and economic failure, strikes a very different note. It is as if the whole conversation has shifted into a harsher, more judgemental key where Greece has to constantly wear its humiliation every time it appears in front of us. And I don’t want to take part in that conversation because the place I’ve been lucky enough to go to isn’t essentially the country of financial failure. It is so much more than that.

Laura Scott

You can buy Laura’s pamphlet here.

The Rialto Editor Development Programme – Jan-Sept, 2016

Closing deadline: Friday 20^th November 2015

Do you really enjoy reading poetry? Are you interested in running a poetry magazine?

Running from Jan – Sept 2016, applications are open now for the EDP; a chance to gain editorial experience with UK’s leading independent poetry magazine and award-winning poetry publisher, The Rialto. In partnership with Writers’ Centre Norwich

Find out more here or here