Friday, May 25, 2007


The nervous centre of SCR's War on Poetry is humming along frenetically. Line after line of verse comes charging at us up Pork Chop Hill. We are up to our bloodshot eyeballs in amazingly good submissions for SCR #4 and II 'Lives', but decisions are being made and accept or decline letters are being sent out in dribs and drabs. This process will continue over the next week or so - if you have not heard either way yet, be patient. If you wish expedite matters, send bottles of laudanum or single malt whisky to our Nigerian branch office where the major decisions are being made.

We have had a healthy swag of critical prose submitted for SCR+II, but I'm always happy to find room for another interesting and well-written prose piece. Many of you write reams of prose when serial-posting to poetry fora: with a little work, some of these posts could easily become occasional pieces or essays of interest to a wider audience. We seek material relating to issues such as these:

  • What is 'Real Poetry?'
  • How many drafts?
  • How do poets handle dry patches?
  • How do poets handle wet patches?
  • Getting published
  • 'Canon' poems
  • Poems of Mass Deconstruction
  • The role of explanatory notes in poetry
  • Why free verse sucks
  • Why metrical poetry sucks
  • Translation of poetry
  • Where is Poetry going?
  • Despicable editors... Hang on! Strike that last one from the record!

  • My head hurts! Make up some more brilliant angles of your own.

    I'm keeping the books open until the 21st of June for prose submissions for SCR+II #4. Prose pieces which somehow relate poetry to our wretched* lives are particularly sought for the 'Lives'-themed edition of II which will be bundled with SCR #4: the extended deadline applies here too.

    As a more general rule, our policy is to accept submissions of poetry and prose at any time, but obviously to work to deadlines for particular issues. Any poems or prose submitted too late for one issue will be thrown into the contender's tank for the next.

    Wednesday, May 23, 2007

    "What exactly are toilet issues?", or, The Review Reviewed

    ...what exactly are toilet issues, "issues" being the operative plural noun here? I didn't know people had toilet issues...

    So enquires the gentle reviewer of Shit Creek Review over at Tryst3. I too was but dimly aware of toilet issues as poetic matter prior to editing The Shit Creek Review. But that soon changed: to the point that I came to realise that not only was the topic solid substance for the expressive efforts of many poets, but indeed it was a genre in its own right - Toilet Issues Poetry (TIP) was a type of verse that was very frequently submitted to me for inclusion in the SCR zine. Verily, based on the number of submissions, I could have devoted entire issues to the style. Apostrophes to unflushable turds, laments over motions passed or not passed, celebrations of faecal splendour or nuggets of lavatory wisdom, fleets of free-verse floaters, golden-showered fontes Bandusiae - the editorial desk was awash and replete with cloacal offerings. What was it about Shit Creek Review that encouraged or provoked authors to submit proudly this profusion of excretions?

    Sadly, the TIP genre has not often been productive of poetic excellence: hence my Submissions Guidelines article appealling to authors not to fling such material willy-nilly in my direction in the first raw flush and glow of creation. Please, poets, spend time polishing your effusion and moulding it into due form, until it reaches at least the standard of Jonathon Swift's exemplar:

    The Lady's Dressing Room

    Five Hours, (and who can do it less in?)
    By haughty Celia spent in Dressing;
    The Goddess from her Chamber issues,
    Array'd in Lace, Brocades and Tissues.

    Strephon, who found the Room was void,
    And Betty otherwise employ'd;
    Stole in, and took a strict Survey,
    Of all the Litter as it lay;
    Whereof, to make the Matter clear,
    An Inventory follows here.

    And first a dirty Smock appear'd,
    Beneath the Arm-pits well besmear'd.
    Strephon, the Rogue, display'd it wide,
    And turn'd it round on every Side.
    On such a Point few Words are best,
    And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
    But swears how damnably the Men lie,
    In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
    Now listen while he next produces
    The various Combs for various Uses,
    Fill'd up with Dirt so closely fixt,
    No Brush could force a way betwixt.
    A Paste of Composition rare,
    Sweat, Dandriff, Powder, Lead and Hair;
    A Forehead Cloth with Oyl upon't
    To smooth the Wrinkles on her Front;
    Here Allum Flower to stop the Steams,
    Exhal'd from sour unsavoury Streams,
    There Night-gloves made of Tripsy's Hide,
    Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she dy'd,
    With Puppy Water, Beauty's Help
    Distill'd from Tripsy's darling Whelp;
    Here Gallypots and Vials plac'd,
    Some fill'd with Washes, some with Paste,
    Some with Pomatum, Paints and Slops,
    And Ointments good for scabby Chops.
    Hard by a filthy Bason stands,
    Fowl'd with the Scouring of her Hands;
    The Bason takes whatever comes
    The Scrapings of her Teeth and Gums,
    A nasty Compound of all Hues,
    For here she spits, and here she spues.
    But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's Bowels,
    When he beheld and smelt the Towels,
    Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd
    With Dirt, and Sweat, and Ear-Wax grim'd.
    No Object Strephon's Eye escapes,
    Here Pettycoats in frowzy Heaps;
    Nor be the Handkerchiefs forgot
    All varnish'd o'er with Snuff and Snot.
    The Stockings why shou'd I expose,
    Stain'd with the Marks of stinking Toes;
    Or greasy Coifs and Pinners reeking,
    Which Celia slept at least a Week in?
    A Pair of Tweezers next he found
    To pluck her Brows in Arches round,
    Or Hairs that sink the Forehead low,
    Or on her Chin like Bristles grow.

    The Virtues we must not let pass,
    Of Celia's magnifying Glass.
    When frighted Strephon cast his Eye on't
    It shew'd the Visage of a Gyant.
    A Glass that can to Sight disclose,
    The smallest Worm in Celia's Nose,
    And faithfully direct her Nail
    To squeeze it out from Head to Tail;
    For catch it nicely by the Head,
    It must come out alive or dead.

    Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
    And must you needs describe the Chest?
    That careless Wench! no Creature warn her
    To move it out from yonder Corner;
    But leave it standing full in Sight
    For you to exercise your Spight.
    In vain, the Workmen shew'd his Wit
    With Rings and Hinges counterfeit
    To make it seem in this Disguise
    A Cabinet to vulgar Eyes;
    For Strephon ventur'd to look in,
    Resolv'd to go thro' thick and thin;
    He lifts the Lid, there needs no more,
    He smelt it all the Time before.
    As from within Pandora's box,
    When Epimetheus op'd the Locks,
    A sudden universal Crew
    Of humane Evils upwards flew;
    He still was comforted to find
    That Hope at last remain'd behind;
    So Strephon lifting up the lid,
    To view what in the chest was hid.
    The Vapours flew from out the Vent,
    But Strephon cautious never meant
    The Bottom of the Pan to grope,
    And fowl his Hands in Search of Hope.
    O never may such vile Machine
    Be once in Celia's Chamber seen!
    O may she better learn to keep
    "Those Secrets of the hoary deep!"

    As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat,
    Which tho' with Art you salt and beat,
    As Laws of Cookery require,
    And toast them at the clearest Fire;
    If from adown the Hopeful Chops
    The Fat upon a Cinder drops,
    To stinking Smoak it turns the Flame
    Pois'ning the Flesh from whence it came;
    And up exhales a greasy Stench,
    For which you curse the careless Wench;
    So Things, which must not be exprest,
    When plumpt into the reeking Chest,
    Send up an excremental Smell
    To taint the Parts from whence they fell.
    The Pettycoats and Gown perfume,
    Which waft a Stink round every Room.

    Thus finishing his grand Survey,
    Disgusted Strephon stole away
    Repeating in his amorous Fits,
    Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

    But Vengeance, Goddess never sleeping,
    Soon punish'd Strephon for his Peeping;
    His foul Imagination links
    Each Dame he sees with all her Stinks:
    And, if unsav'ry Odours fly,
    Conceives a Lady standing by:
    All Women his Description fits,
    And both Idea's jump like Wits:
    By vicious Fancy coupled fast,
    And still appearing in Contrast.
    I pity wretched Strephon blind
    to all the Charms of Female Kind;
    Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
    Because she rose from stinking Ooze?
    To him that looks behind the Scene,
    Satira's but some pocky Quean.
    When Celia in her Glory shows,
    If Strephon would but stop his Nose;
    (Who now so impiously blasphemes
    Her Ointments, Daubs, and Paints and Creams,
    Her Washes, Slops, and every Clout,
    With which he makes so foul a Rout;)
    He soon would learn to think like me,
    And bless his ravisht Sight to see
    Such Order from Confusion sprung,
    Such gaudy Tulips rais'd from Dung.

    Sunday, May 20, 2007

    May 21st the deadline for submissions to The Shit Creek Review and II. So push aside the hubble-bubble or whiskey flask (it need only be for a moment), grab the immortal effusions, bundle 'em up, stuff 'em into an email, and launch 'em to glory! Poetry, critical prose - you know the drill. Anything received after 21st May will go into the running for the October issues. OK? Back to the hubble-bubble.

    Saturday, May 19, 2007

    Alphabet soup

    'I could eat alphabet soup and shit better lyrics.' - Johnnny Mercer, describing a British musical.