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Author Topic: The New Yorker and the Poetry Foundation  (Read 11530 times)
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alan
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« on: March 10, 2007, 08:32:43 PM »

One of my favorites, David Orr, writes,
Quote
In 2002, for instance, the poet who appeared most frequently in {the New Yorker} was the assistant to David Remnick, the editor — that assistant’s name, coincidentally, was Dana Goodyear. In fact, since 2000, Goodyear (who is 30) has appeared in the New Yorker more than Czeslaw Milosz, Jorie Graham, Derek Walcott, Wislawa Szymborska, Kay Ryan and every living American poet laureate except for W. S. Merwin. She’s already equaled Sylvia Plath’s total.


Sounds like another case of Lehmantics to me.
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"You especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it -- don't cheat with it.” -- Ernest Hemingway
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Alan Cordle
jilly99
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« Reply #1 on: March 11, 2007, 03:50:12 PM »

I thought the way he waited so long to reveal that Goodyear was the assistant to Remnick was just brilliant.

I think I'm going to change the name of my blog to fluffy chimney.
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q cq cq
alan
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« Reply #2 on: March 12, 2007, 05:28:15 PM »

Now Gawker's in on the fight too.  One commenter says, "This is definitely one of the most thorough, most sophisticated and classiest bitchslaps I've ever seen."  Agreed.
 :lol:
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"You especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it -- don't cheat with it.” -- Ernest Hemingway
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Alan Cordle
Bugzita
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« Reply #3 on: March 12, 2007, 08:28:11 PM »

Hmmmm,

I wonder if DG is young, thin, and blonde...
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ennifer Semple Siegel

One must always question wrongheaded conventional wisdom.
poetastin
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« Reply #4 on: March 12, 2007, 11:13:30 PM »

You bet your ass she is. Someone at Gawker summed her up as "blond hair, big tits."

Heh.

I guess that and being an editor at New Yorker will, um, get you into the New Yorker.


OLD SAYBROOK

by Dana Goodyear

Pour the bourbon
in a scallop shell
and leave it on the porch,
but know that she's flown south.

Gone, but not to Florida.
As I sleep she reaches
for me with elderly, cured hands.

Her sandals curl by the back door,
white leather peeling from the sole
like afterdeath fingernails unfolding
in the last mute wave of growing old.


Well, it's not the poetry. So is it the T&A, or just that she's an editor?

Photo evidence is inconclusive:











 :?:
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alan
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« Reply #5 on: March 13, 2007, 10:42:34 AM »

Shapeshifter? Cool

In alien abduction lore, they are called the "Greys."
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"You especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it -- don't cheat with it.” -- Ernest Hemingway
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Alan Cordle
Monday Love
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« Reply #6 on: March 13, 2007, 02:17:35 PM »

'Hot' = how one is photographed.

Here's how one of her poems ends:

A woman, pregnant
like a red wool bud,
is circling the rink.
Catastrophe, I think.
 
Form and content suggest some kind of Plath complex.

And another passage from Goodyear's webpage poetry which indicates wide reading in Mr. and Mrs. Hughes:

eating in the dark and fearing
for its life. For the life of me
I can't get rid of it.
It's feeding at the heartmeat,
making scrimshaw of the bone.



http://www.posterband.com/safety.html


Her "About the Author" reads: "Dana Goodyear is an editor at The New Yorker.  Her poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in The New Yorker" etc
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Thewayitworks
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« Reply #7 on: March 13, 2007, 02:41:57 PM »

... she got hotter AFTER her poems appeared in The New Yorker?
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adamhardin
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« Reply #8 on: March 13, 2007, 03:09:42 PM »

Starting at the top...

Dana Goodyear's career path is very much like Megan O'Rourke's.

You got to have good bone structure.
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arold Bloom's accountant does not know how Harold managed to effortlessly transition their discussion of annuities to Falstaff but he suspects a similar ploy was used to sexually harrass Naomi Wolf.
sdedeo
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« Reply #9 on: March 13, 2007, 04:14:30 PM »

"scrimshaw" is one of those words that's the MFA equivalent of "moon".
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poetastin
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« Reply #10 on: March 13, 2007, 04:30:56 PM »

...though I like 'heartmeat'. Isn't that strange?

As a kid, I thought writers were a special breed, possessed of gleamy, toilet-white eyes. Years later my mom tipped me off they paid guys to airbrush everything but the pupil.
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Bugzita
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« Reply #11 on: March 14, 2007, 05:52:49 PM »

Okay, I see how it all works.

One should never write and submit while being old.

 Cool

Bugz
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ennifer Semple Siegel

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Thewayitworks
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« Reply #12 on: March 15, 2007, 11:22:27 AM »

Goodyear is this year's Deborah Garrison. Garrison was on staff at the New Yorker when her poems began appearing in... The New Yorker! Quite a few in fact. This culminated in her book, A Working Girl Can't Win (1998), which carries an acknowledgement that many of the poems first appeared in The New Yorker.

I might add that Howard Moss, poetry editor of the New Yorker (and now passed away) in the 1980s would give readings and workshops on college campuses and at the campus I was at was given a package of poems by the favorites of the teacher hosting Moss (and responsbile for paying Moss) and presto these neophyte, unpublished poets would suddenly appear in The New Yorker six months later. For many of them doing an MFA or PhD in CW I can see twenty years later that The New Yorker is the only significant publication they ever had. And the poet who directed the program did play to his favorite students.

So Goodyear is just the new flavor of the decade at The New Yorker to benefit from being on staff.
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Monday Love
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« Reply #13 on: March 15, 2007, 11:46:00 AM »

Bugz, I thought your phrase "while being old" had to be the title of some poem.   And sure enough, here is that poem:


While Being Old

There is no getting out of it.
Through and through the world is infected with quantity.  
To talk sense is to talk in quantities.  
It is no use saying that the nation is large—how large?  
It is no use saying radium is scarce.  How scarce?  
You cannot evade quantity.  
You may fly to poetry and to music
Quantity and number will face you in your rhythms and your octaves.  
I am 17.
I want to meet you.
I am 77.
I want to meet you.
Come to me, darling.
Come to me.
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Monday Love
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« Reply #14 on: March 15, 2007, 01:37:33 PM »

Quote from: Thewayitworks
Goodyear is this year's Deborah Garrison. Garrison was on staff at the New Yorker when her poems began appearing in... The New Yorker! Quite a few in fact. This culminated in her book, A Working Girl Can't Win (1998), which carries an acknowledgement that many of the poems first appeared in The New Yorker.

I might add that Howard Moss, poetry editor of the New Yorker (and now passed away) in the 1980s would give readings and workshops on college campuses and at the campus I was at was given a package of poems by the favorites of the teacher hosting Moss (and responsbile for paying Moss) and presto these neophyte, unpublished poets would suddenly appear in The New Yorker six months later. For many of them doing an MFA or PhD in CW I can see twenty years later that The New Yorker is the only significant publication they ever had. And the poet who directed the program did play to his favorite students.

So Goodyear is just the new flavor of the decade at The New Yorker to benefit from being on staff.



Thanks, TWIW, I didn't even realize this stuff happened at The New Yorker.  I had never heard of Garrison and Goodyear.  It takes an eye, doesn't it?

I thought the New Yorker's only sin was that they would publish John Ashbery because it was John Ashbery, publishing based on name recognition only.  

I was naive and now find out how it works.  I assumed guilt in the realm of names, and not in the realm of persons.  

It is almost charming to find at last how the world of literary reputation works: not through the letter but through the flesh.

Monday
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