The life of a published poet may sound romantic to outsiders, with the exquisite sensitivity, the marginal fame, and the enhanced dating prospects those things entail. But for all but the most successful poets, the submission process is a thankless grind. Poets send their children into the cruel unknown to face almost certain rejection and occasional ridicule. It’s not much fun for publishers, either—they churn through an endless supply of work, most of which isn’t what they want, some of which would be hilarious if it weren’t so horrifying. It’s a humiliating, miserable racket. Thus, it’s newsworthy.

Exclusivity is power, and some publications frown on simultaneous submissions. That didn’t stop this one-hit wonder from milking his only good poem like it was “Thong Song.”

Do you submit your work through Duotrope? From now on, it’s going to cost you.

Tired of getting your poetry rejected and want to move into the burgeoning genre of critical binary? You just missed a solid opportunity to appear in Boston Review.

Do you take refuge from December doldrums in poetry? Got any recommendations?

Want to get your name in the hat and possibly piss off Southern California tax protestors by becoming LA’s first poet laureate? Too late.

Inspired by John Lundberg, and because everyone in Hollywood wants us to think they read anything besides smog warnings, we’ve started an informal collection of embarrassing film scenes of poetry abuse. You’re welcome to send us your favorite clips, although that won’t make them go away.

If you can’t get your writing published any other way, there’s always the internet. Despite what you’ve heard, some people on the internet do actually read.

And if your comments section is flooded with syntactically crippled hatefulness and penis-pill spam? Don’t feel too bad about giving up entirely. Poetry is for fascists, anyway.

Originally Published: December 7th, 2012