Thou shalt not omit commas

Here’s one of the oddest requirements for submitting to literary journals that I’ve ever come across:

‘Ensure that poems are properly and fully punctuated’.

So at a stroke this particular journal would presumably have excluded, for example, e e cummings, T S Eliot, Sylvia Plath, Nick Laird and Ilya Kaminsky, to name just a few that come to mind.

I suppose it’s a good way of reducing the amount of submissions they have to read. But glancing through a print issue I happen to have, I note that one or two seem to have slipped past the editor’s attention.

Publications update

I have three pieces forthcoming, as follows:

A text called ‘What I did on my holidays’ has been accepted to be published in this summer’s issue of Fahmidan Journal.

Two prose poems, ‘The sisters are neighbours but no longer on speaking terms’ and ‘Moth’ have been accepted for an anthology to be published by Writing Space Press.

A deep delve into my hard drive confirms that the second of these ('The sisters are neighbours') was first written in April 2006, ie it is 20 years old, and has undergone little change since. It has been rejected at least 14 times. The last piece, 'Moth', first emerged from its chrysalis in August 2024 but in its relatively short life has been rejected six times. I draw no conclusions from this peculiar history, but I note that these are two comparatively 'accessible' pieces, and I'm unlikely to waste my time and others' time submitting some of my 'less accessible' pieces since I've not found journals likely to take an interest in them. On we go.

Literally everywhere

Do you have to be a writer to wince at the worst misuses of language?

Yesterday, Paula Radcliffe, an intelligent, highly educated woman and considerate commentator, remarked that "the goalposts have literally just moved for marathon running”. Wait, there’s more.

Through much of this past winter, BBC Radio 3—previously widely-regarded as a reliable platform of cultural focus—repeatedly ran one of its painfully tacky self-promoting adverts in which a familiar broadcasting voice referred to music in which “you can literally hear angels”. (That's probably the worst example I’ve ever come across, not least because several people in 'professional' roles will have sanctioned the soundbite and signed it off).

You don’t have to be particular about language to find the effect problematic. First, if we consistently use words for different meanings, so that the misuse becomes embedded in everyday language, it reduces the accuracy of what we try to articulate. (Use of the word ‘sophisticated’ is a good example). Secondly, we are disempowered by the vagueness of our own speech and that of others. A build-up of misuse of fashionable unthinking terms such as ‘like’ and ‘100%’ and ‘oh my god’ confirms and endorses careless communication, increasing the challenges of understanding.

Obviously human interaction can and has to absorb a degree of flexibility, otherwise creativity could be constrained disastrously across whole societies. In particular, humour and literature would be vulnerable, with puns, metaphors and deliberate ambiguity at risk of suppression and self-censorship. Attempts in the 20^th century by east European regimes to control cultural output offer chilling lessons: Stalinism in post-war Hungary resulted in the banning and pulping of Winnie-the-Pooh.[1] That’s funny-peculiar, but it’s not funny-ha-ha.

Cultural freedom, like all freedoms, comes with responsibility. As it has so far evolved, language is still demonstrably inadequate for expressing our feelings and explaining our experiences. It’s irresponsible to contribute to its erosion. We can't allow ourselves to stop paying close attention to what is said and written, and reflect critically on it. Perhaps there’s a fine line to be drawn. Metaphorically.

(Talking of puns, I saw a new-born lamb starting to try to run the other day. It was a bit if a gambol, to be fair).

[1] Steinitz, R. György Ligeti, 2003, p26.