THE INSULT OF A POETRY PLAGIARIST

Writing poetry is not supposed to be easy. The point is to investigate what we are, find the words that matter most, put them down in some kind of order and make some kind of connection to whoever might come across them.

There is a fundamental honesty in this. And when a poem is sent to an editor, or for a competition judge to assess, there has to be an element of trust – that the poem is the work of the sender. All right, we all echo what we’ve read, written, heard in conversations, in songs, seen on advertising hoardings… nobody is entirely original and we react to the world around us, sifting out the pieces that seem relevant. I dare say it’s possible that in the couple of hundred poems I’ve included on this blog site, aside from deliberate references, there will be phrases or a line that echoes or even replicates something I’ve read somewhere else.

The only point in creating writing, however, is that the end-product of all these influences is our own.

It was, therefore, with an increasing sense of anger that I read a lengthy statement this week by the editor and founder of Spelt magazine, Wendy Pratt, and the judge of a Spelt competition, Polly Atkin, revealing that they had been deceived by a person they described as a serial plagiarist. He had been awarded second prize in the competition, only for the truth about him to be laid before them some time later. I feel so sorry for these two people, neither of whom I know, and for anyone else associated with Spelt. They will feel demoralised, upset, and may even be questioning whether being so deeply involved in poetry is worthwhile.

Small magazines struggle on largely because of the commitment and dedication of those who run them. Sure, some get grants, but many do not – and for them in particular, the additional funds supplied by a competition are a real help. Maybe it’s because Janet Murch and I ran iota for six years and Ragged Raven Press for, from memory, fourteen, with no external funding that I feel so strongly about it. We took every poem that came in to us on trust – and to my knowledge never had to put up with a charlatan like this. If we had, I would have driven the length of the country to tap on their door and suggest it might be discussed over a cup of tea… and I rarely drink tea.

I think it’s the pettiness of the act that has annoyed me so much. In other words, if you’re going to deceive someone, do it properly, for real recognition or financial reward not for a prize in a small, honest, unfunded magazine. I had a grudging admiration for Charles Wilson, who claimed to have dug up the skull and body bits that became known as The Piltdown Man in Sussex in 1912. His claim that he had discovered the missing link between apes and humans was about as big as it gets. Subsequent investigations have revealed that other stuff he dug up earlier were also fakes – a Roman statuette, a Chinese vase, a strange toad encased in flint. I guess he was building up to the big job. People believed him. Of course, they did. Even today, The Piltdown Man (which apparently was made up of bits of human, bits of orangutan) is celebrated by the existence of a pub in his name.

And the art world is full of legendary fakers, who have tried, with varying degrees of success, to pass off new Van Goghs and Da Vincis in order to make their fortune. (I wrote a poem about this that’s on this site somewhere.)

On a very small level, I had personal experience of this when I was working in Los Angeles twenty-odd years ago. I turned up at a press conference for a world championship boxing bout and the promoter had allowed a local artist to display a large-scale photograph and accompanying text of a great fight in history. I recognised it immediately as a blown-up copy of a double-page spread from a book I’d written. The words were mine. A colleague said I should confront the man and expose him. I just found it so ridiculous and funny I couldn’t do it. In a weird way I admired his audacity. I think he was trying to flog it for $50. The difference between this incident and the deception of the people at Spelt was fairly simple: my book was non-fiction, written for money, of which I’d already made a reasonable amount. The words had not come from a deep search for something meaningful, were not a response to the mysteries of the world.

I’ve never really seen the stuff I’ve written in journalism as my own property. Anybody can nick it and rework it, or use the quotes. I really don’t mind. It used to happen all the time anyway.

Does that extend to my poetry? No, because it diminishes my effort in trying to create something that’s a truthful response to the experience of being alive. At one point I didn’t think I’d mind if anyone did do this. I still don’t, if they want to keep it on a shelf and pass it off to their children or grandchildren as their own – I wouldn’t know anyway, so why worry about it? But if they want to pass it off in public as their own, and deceive editors and competition judges, that’s another matter.

I’ve worked in places where dishonesty and deception is normal behaviour. I think I held fast to poetry because it is a place where honesty and truth do – must -exist. And when someone attempts to deceive in this way, then they defile that.

I haven’t bothered to name this individual because, although I have no reason to doubt it, I’m taking the story as relayed by the editor of Spelt and the competition judge – and also because this rather pathetic person’s already had enough publicity.

For the record Spelt has a blog, speltpoetry.wordpress.com and @MagazineSpelt on twitter, or at speltmagazine.com. It’s available either as a physical issue, £9 an issue, including postage, or £34 subscription for four, or as a PDF download for £4 an issue.