Conceit
Kevin E. Cleary
10:47 PM December 5, 2005 C.E.
Awaiting judgement of my work of fiction,
and to soothe baited breath
I succumb to nicotine addiction;
Each smoke five minutes’ death.
The weeks tick by like eons,
I see fault lines in every sentence.
My warm hope has filled with freon,
Certain rejection has met acquiescence.
I buy a nice frame for my first denial
which gathers dust in its plastic wrap.
Yet my patience gets no speedy trial,
the judges seem to be taking a nap.
But they’re The New Yorker, I say
to myself. Their rejection letter
is worth the wait. In fact, it may
tell me how my work could be better.
Surely I show promise or potential,
or verbal cleverness at the very least.
To their suggestions, I’ll be deferential
Their words will be manna on which I’ll feast.
I’m sure my work is juvenile,
but I wrote from my heart.
Some lines had to make them smile
and it had a promising start.
Marlboro miles tick by my odometer,
I feel a wrongfully ignored suitor;
When finally appears on my monitor
an e-epistle from my hopeful tutors.
“We regret that we are unable
to use the enclosed material...”
4 months for 2 sentences from this literary chaebol*1 (look it up, bitches*2)
I’ve been spurned like I’m venereal.
“...Thank you for giving us
the opportunity to consider it.”
Why did I wait so long for this bullshit?
Fuck The New Yorker.
*1 chaebol: a Korean word which literally translated means "money clan." They are characterized by their extremely authoritarian management style. I only know what it means because of an online rhyming dictionary.
*2 bitches: the staff of The New Yorker who made me wait almost four months for a 2 sentence rejection email... most definitely not anyone who is reading this, especially online.
10:47 PM December 5, 2005 C.E.
Awaiting judgement of my work of fiction,
and to soothe baited breath
I succumb to nicotine addiction;
Each smoke five minutes’ death.
The weeks tick by like eons,
I see fault lines in every sentence.
My warm hope has filled with freon,
Certain rejection has met acquiescence.
I buy a nice frame for my first denial
which gathers dust in its plastic wrap.
Yet my patience gets no speedy trial,
the judges seem to be taking a nap.
But they’re The New Yorker, I say
to myself. Their rejection letter
is worth the wait. In fact, it may
tell me how my work could be better.
Surely I show promise or potential,
or verbal cleverness at the very least.
To their suggestions, I’ll be deferential
Their words will be manna on which I’ll feast.
I’m sure my work is juvenile,
but I wrote from my heart.
Some lines had to make them smile
and it had a promising start.
Marlboro miles tick by my odometer,
I feel a wrongfully ignored suitor;
When finally appears on my monitor
an e-epistle from my hopeful tutors.
“We regret that we are unable
to use the enclosed material...”
4 months for 2 sentences from this literary chaebol*1 (look it up, bitches*2)
I’ve been spurned like I’m venereal.
“...Thank you for giving us
the opportunity to consider it.”
Why did I wait so long for this bullshit?
Fuck The New Yorker.
*1 chaebol: a Korean word which literally translated means "money clan." They are characterized by their extremely authoritarian management style. I only know what it means because of an online rhyming dictionary.
*2 bitches: the staff of The New Yorker who made me wait almost four months for a 2 sentence rejection email... most definitely not anyone who is reading this, especially online.
posted by Kevin E. Cleary at 1:35 AM
3 Comments:
Classic KEC style! Only you would take the time to write poetry in response to this-LA
Yeah, I'm actually thinking this might be my next submission to the New Yorker, just to see if I get the same exact two sentence rejection 4 months later. I figure it will amuse me either way.
do it!
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