My book did well enough with my family. My brother Bill even bought extra copies for his two daughters and his mother-in-law. I sold a copy to Dr. Case, the foot doctor I was seeing for a bone spur in my heel, too–and he later told me he did read it. As my visual poetry friends, just about all of them I sent copies to wrote me back about it during the summer of ‘90. I got expecially good feedback about my sonnet from Jody Offer and Stephen-Paul Martin, revising it on the basis of what they said. Stephen-Paul also made a good point about the Canto of Pound’s that I discussed, one that I inserted into the revision of my book I soon was working on (credited to him, of course).
My local literary friends–by which I mean the dozen or so other members of the Port Charlotte Tuesday Writers’ Group, which met the second and fourth Tuesday of each month at the main local library, were supportive, too, several buying copies of it. My number one such friend, Lee Hoffman (also my number one friend of any kind), had already helped me considerably through pre-publication versions of the book, but Nell Weidenbach, another member not only bought a copy but came to the meeting after she’d bought it with her copy, which she left with me, full of annotations. Several were Very Sharp. She argued with some of the passages I’d put in hoping to engage the reader in just that way, which particularly pleased me.
Not what I’d call sophisticated about poetry, though, she told our group that she preferred most very traditional stuff to my later stuff, and to the work of Stevens, Pound et al! She then recited my poem about wanting to run madly into the brush to the group, and they applauded. Nell wanted to know why I didn’t write like that all the time. I didn’t tell her I’d quoted the poem in my book to show the reader how far I’d advanced since it. (Although I have to confess I was fond of it).
At that meeting or another when we discussed my book, a lady named Carol who teaches writing workshops somewhere and seems quite knowledgeable and (proof of her acumen) wanted to buy a copy of my book from me, showed up for the first time.. She said when I discussed marketing of the book by appearing at writers’ clubs and the like, then expressing doubt as to my ability to carry it off, that I was “presentable,” and would come across well. Alas, I never did appear at a such a club. I didn’t even get my own club to organize a presentation although we’d had two such events for commercial writers (who weren’t members of the club). I’ve never been good at pushing for things like that–if “only” on my own behalf.
Speaking of marketing myself, in July I did mail a copy of my book to the University of Pittsburgh, as well. My hope was that they’d be interested in republishing it, Jonathan Brannen (I believe) having mentioned that they seemed interested in such material. Three months later I got a not from somebody there claiming to have enjoyed reading it, especially the part about what I was then calling vizlature, but passing on a chance to do a reprint of it as it did not”suit the aims they (were) establishing for their series.”) Manywhere had been sent them as a sample of what I could do, not a submission, but clearly if they were interested at all, they would have asked me to try again with a book nearer what they’re looking for.
Arond the time of the Pittsburgh rejection I got a notice about the annual Pushcart prize competition, and thought I might enter a chapter or part of a chapter from Manywhere in it. Later I sent them the section on Geof Huth. The inclusions in the Pushcart anthology went to the usual mediocrities–the ones in the small press, which the Pushcart people were famous for encouraging, who were doing excatly the same things mainstream writers were–not to the likes of me.
My one semi-successful attempt at publicity was getting the columnist, James Kilpatrick, to mention my coinage for “visual art,” then “vizlation,” in an early 1991 columnof his. He didn’t mention my book, however, nor agree that the word could be useful, nor pay any attention to my one or two further letters about it.
The last name writer I wrote to about my book was James Dickey–because I liked his poetry and had read a collection of his criticism with enjoyment. I thought he might be open to what I was up to–and considered it a good sign that his birthday was the same as mine, 2 February. He didn’t so much as acknowledge receipt of my book, and Geof, a fellow alumnus of Vanderbilt with Dickey told me that he had once tried to get something from Dickery for an anthology of poems by poets who had gone to Vanderbilt and he had turned him down with a joke about his agent’s not letting him. In short, a jerk. Although, on reflection, I’m not sure how I’d react if students at Cal State, Northridge, my alma mater, asked me for a poem once I became as well-known as Dickey. I’ve been totally ignored by CSUN since graduating. I think I’d send them a poem, though. If I didn’t, I’d explain why. I certainly wouldn’t ask for money.
One of my most quarrelsome literary friends through the mail at this time was Will Inman, a terrific Whitmanesque poet who, alas, didn’t merely dislike his friend Karl Kempton’s and my visual poetry but thought anyone involved with any kind of poetry other than his kind of free verse was an enemy of poetry. I like people that committed to anything, and expressed admiration of his poetry, even publishing my veiw of him as a major poet, so he didn’t chuck me entirely.
In his first letter about my book, which I’d sent him, he blasted a lot of what I was trying to do, particularly my attempts to connect the discussions of various poems and poets with my sonnet. These he called mechanical. He didn’t like my Keats section, either, which surprised me. I never thought anyone could consider it worse than innocuous. But he praised my section on Roethke’s “The Shape of the Fire,” and said that if the book were like that section all the way through, it’d be his kind of book–like one I’d never heard of (by an author I’d never heard of) that he brought up. He liked my theme and the idea of Manywhere-at-Once, though.
He had only gotten to page 85, so I was sure he’d have worse things to say. He did, giving up entirely on the book 48 pages later–it was too “clinical and mechanical.” Etc. The usual anti-intellectualism of too many poets. I should expect reactions like his, and be happy if anyone likes so much as a section or two of the book–but, of course, I want everybody to like every line of everything I write. That couldn’t happen with a book as complex as Manywhere.
Almost all my other advanced literary friends seemed to like the book. Doru Chirodea, for instance, even said he liked the part about my theory of aesthetic affect. He was the only one who mentioned it. Mike Gunderloy liked it enough to give it a complimentary capsule review in Factsheet Five in August 1990. Crag Hill and Jonathan Brannen both gave me a thumbs up, but complained about the amount of terminology I cluttered the thing with.
John Byrum liked what I said about the writing of my sonnet but didn’t go along too much with the theorizing. Al Ackerman sent me a very funny enclosure along with compliments on my book, and John Bennett went so far as to agree with my blather about visual poetry and why his visio-textual poems probably weren’t. I by then was 70% sure they are.
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Márton Koppány 
Great news, Bob!
I wish you quick recovery,
Marton
Bob,
Welcome back to the world of communication. Good lick recuperating.
Geof
B O L & Healing ! ! !
Thanks, all. Dunno how back to communicating I am–not up to saying much yet. But I do think I’m getting better.
Bob
Bob,
Sorry you had to go through this, but glad you’re on the other side of it now and recuperating. Like where the new mathmaku was going at latest posting. Get well. You’re due on the track.
Jake
now
when you go through an
airporte
check-point
will all of the alarms go off
and they’ll pull u out of the line
and make you dropyourpants
to show your scar ?
well be
just crwl under a bush
lich your wound
cat-like
and re:cover
Gee, thanks for giving me something to look forward to when I next travel by plane, Ed!