Sunday, September 16, 2007

Mais où sont les Shit Creeks d'antan?

Almost a year has gone by since issue #1 of The Shit Creek Review first gushed forth into the fine, wide meadows of the Muses. The founder/editor, Paul Stevens, moi, undertook the enterprise in a moment of light-headed mindless facetiousness back in September 2006, and merrily anounced the incipient flow of Shit Creek waters thus:

Submit! All your bases are belong us!

The Shit Creek Review is calling for submissions for its #1 Edition.

http://theshitcreekreview.blogspot.com/

Printed on cheap, low quality pixels, edited by a dodgy incompetent (Paul Stevens), and read only by The Editor, his family and friends, and his cat Geoffrey, as well as by googlers seeking the word "shit", The Shit Creek Review will nevertheless publish new poetry of reasonable merit, especially, but not exclusively, in the category of Yuma. It will make an impressive addition to your list of publishing credits.

Poets should submit 1-5 poems, together with brief biographical details, in the body of an email to:

shitcreekreview@yahoo.com


The rest is History. Or Legend. Or possibly total Bullshit. But The Shit Creek Review flows on, relentlessly stranding poets well up its farthest reaches, usually in a barbed-wire canoe and always without a paddle.

There have been turbulent eddies along the way: The Doubters, who said all would shun the name they deemed vile; The Limericks Overboard Affair, involving Caledonian nefariousness; Renaissance man Jack Conway's epoch-making discovery that the editor, who had declared himself from the start a dodgy incompetent with a readership of 4 ½ souls (since expanded to 9 ¾) really is a dodgy incompetent, and the famous Death-Grapple that resulted therefrom, ending in the accidental submersion of Conway beneath the green and slimy waters, from which he has not yet re-emerged; the strange disappearance of Nigel Holt into the Deserts of Uthgurz-Grimme in hot pusuit of a Goth gerbil; the mysterious retirement of Don 'Achilles' Zirilli to his tent; Artist-in-Resident Pat Jones' possession by the Benevolent Demon Quandoparamucho-Miamoredefelice-Carathon; the appearance of the Magna Mater in the guise of Angela France; and Paul Stevens' official certification as a Lunatic, for which he is now receiving regular Electric Shock therapy. Then there was the laying of the Egg-like subzine II, which cracked asunder betimes, the I from the I, and therefrom crawled The Chimaera, scrambling forth from the Creek to canter away across the hills and vales and yon. But some say that II is not dead, but will rise again.

These transient little disturbances have not impeded the vigorous flow of the mighty Creek, which races forward Tsunami-like to be-drench and be-mire all that tries to stand before it. It is testament to the widely-flung name and fragrance of our Creek that poets as famous as William McGonagall III, great-grandson of the famous William Topaz McGonagall (1825-1902) have submitted verses for publication in The Shit Creek Review.

So here's to another fertile year ahead! Beginning, appropriately, with The Shit Creek Horror—coming soon!

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