WhimsyLand

When I'm not working lately, I'm watching one of the dozen poker shows on cable.  There's ESPN Classic episodes of the past World Series of Poker.  There's the ongoing World Poker Tournament competitions, featuring players in small Paris clubs or mid-sized riverboat venues or, in one case, all of the players sitting in shorts playing on a lanai somewhere in the Caribbean.  There's the Heads-Up tournaments and High Stakes Poker, the latter MC'd by Gabe Kaplan, the star of Welcome Back, Kotter.  Very funny guy.  Wry wit, obvious knowledge of both the players and poker — which should be no surprise as that's how he made his living for a couple of decades after his sitcom folded. 

Oh, sure, I'm reading poetry.  For some reason, though, I haven't gotten as many journals in the past month, probably the school break syndrome.  I've also been re-reading poetry manuscript contest entries, as we head into the final days of selection.  It's a different feeling than reading poetry submissions, something I've also done a lot of.  You receive a manuscript from someone and you just know (OK, barring a few contest master blasters) that this is probably the longest and most important thing that they have ever written.  At some level, it doesn't matter that they haven't mastered the art.  There's a lot of "remembering" and family and similes regarding this particular glacier or that particular levee.  Many of the manuscripts tell terrific stories, like the person who wrote the history of his entire family from slave ship to the 1930's.  Many manuscripts strike me as probably the most honest thing the person has ever said about his/her life, ambitions, passions, disappointments.  Some manuscripts have a quirky ingenuity that gets them into the 2d or 3d read pile.  It's clear that fully 90% of them have no idea what's going on in the Larger Poetry World.

Which brings me back to poker.  In the past 3 years, the World Series of Poker has been won by complete unknowns.  It is a grueling 5-day free-market exercise in psychological combat.  Past accomplishments mean nothing.  The winners have included two Internet players and an unknown Aussie.  Before the competition begins, these people are called Dead Money by the poker illuminati.

Imagine this happening in the 20 top poetry book competitions.  Someone winning a competition out of sheer writing ability, unassociated with any School, un-championed by any practitioner of a particular sub-genre, with a blank Acknowledgements page.  I don't know if it's a fair comparison or not.  Do we rely upon Dead Money in major contests?  Do we fully expect 800 of the $25 checks to fund the enterprise with no real chance of winning?  I'm still thinking about it.