Mindy Kronenberg

Where and when were you born?

I’m a Brooklyn native, Borough Park, born 1954.

Could you tell us something about your background?

My parents were (and are, in their Golden years) two literate, culturally-attuned people who had educations but never achieved careers in writing or intellectual pursuits but exposed my sister and me to museums, concerts, theatre, and film. I grew up in an environment filled with music and an enthusiasm for all of the arts. Our home was filled with art books, an eclectic collection of literature (Shakespeare and Henry Miller were shoulder-to-shoulder on one shelf, e.e. cummings and Ogden Nash shared space on another), and record albums--Stan Kenton, Harry Belafonte, and the Kingston Trio, opera, Leonard Bernstein, the Beatles… there were frequent, spontaneous bursts of song and humming, and my father whistled while he worked.

As a kid, I could flip open any book, on any subject or genre, on the shelf without restriction; I also read MAD Magazine and Highlights, and comic books. I learned the joys of eclectic experiences early on. As for formal education, I earned as Associate’s Degree from Suffolk Community College, a Bachelor’s from SUNY Empire State College, and am currently pursuing an MFA from Stony Brook-Southampton. All throughout my college career I was involved with school literary journals, editing, doing layout, distributing, etc.

Were either of your parents or grandparents (or any other relatives) writers? If not, were any of your relatives actively interested in literature?

My parents and other relatives were certainly creative, and as mentioned earlier, have always been fans of literature. My parents would recite Shakespeare to each other and read poetry aloud—Poe’s “the Raven,” and Alfred Noye’s “The Highwayman.” I still adore those works for their haunting rhythms and sense of drama. I have a cousin who’s a novelist and poet and have quite a few artists and musicians on both sides of my family. What always impressed me was the level of knowledge and appreciation my great-aunts and uncles and distant cousins had for literary works. Few of them were college-educated, though my grandfather was a Columbia University graduate.

Are any of your siblings writers or involved in a creative profession?

My sister teaches grade school and sometimes writes reviews of children’s books for my publication (Book/Mark Quarterly Review). I know she’s written poetry occasionally, and tries to encourage her students to write. I sometimes share with her writings and exercises I use when I go into the school districts to conduct poetry workshops.

What was the first poem (or who was the first poet) that turned you on to poetry?

I am not sure if you’d consider Dr. Suess (author Theodore Geisel) a “poet,” but his whimsy with language and astute storytelling turned me on as a young reader. I was subsequently drawn to Emily Dickinson, Poe, Whitman, Ogden Nash, e.e. cummings, John Donne; in college (in the 1970s) I found solace in Wordsworth, Keats, Eliot, Pound, Dylan Thomas, Plath, Sexton, Wallace Stevens, A.R. Ammons, Robert Bly, Kunitz. The names continued to come at me fast and furious. I loved to “wander” through anthologies to find new voices and messages, discovering a kindred spirit or enriching my cache of personal longing.

It’s actually hard to pinpoint a poetic “moment” that started it all, but I had always been drawn to the look and arrangement of poetry. Even when I was too young to fully understand the poems I read in my parents’ book collection, I sensed there was something special going on to be discovered in a different way than with the words in novels or stories. As I got older and read and wrote more, I exposed myself to poets through reading and contributing to literary journals and by attending readings.

What age were you when you first began writing poetry, and did you receive any encouragement?

I remember writing poems when I was five. I got some positive feedback from my parents, and as I continued to write poems in grade school and beyond, my teachers encouraged me. I did this mostly in isolation and it felt like a natural extension of who I was—I loved to draw and sketch and write poems, mostly for myself (if not as a result of a school assignment or group project, or at the request of relatives). I got the bulk of serious encouragement in college, where my writing adventures took hold.

When you started writing poetry did you have dreams about becoming a "professional" poet? If so, did anyone advise you against this course of action?

At the beginning, I don’t think I ever considered anything beyond what urged me to write. I was just a kid with an imagination and a need to express myself. As I went through high school and into college though, I grew concerned with the aspect of craft and whether or not my poetry had literary quality and would mean anything to an objective reader. I was advised, by professors and fellow writers (lit journal staff members & friends), to scrutinize my work for form and content, keep things from becoming subjective and confessional, and avoid becoming so attached to my work that I couldn’t see how it might not succeed with an audience of strangers. I wanted my work to gain respect, so in that aspect, I wanted to be considered “professional.”

I was asked something similar recently in an interview on cable television, (conducted by the North Sea Poetry Scene, an active Long Island poetry organization) about whether I identified my self as a “poet,’ when greeting people on business or recreational occasions. I’ve always considered it a serious artistic practice, and it’s part of my identity along with other things. It might not automatically spill out after I say my name as I shake hands with people, but it certainly comes up in conversation. If it’s a literary event, it could be relevant to share upfront (especially to set a distinction from those prose people, as Billy Collins amusedly expressed this past summer at the Southampton Writers Conference).

Did you ever get a poem published in your school magazine? (If so, please tell us the title and the year of publication).

I’ve been published in school journals (going back to 1970). My first college publication was Evolution magazine (1972-4; and it’s still going strong). My involvement with a literary journal proved to be an invaluable experience on many levels. I was exposed to peers’ various literary styles and viewpoints, the steps and aesthetics of doing layout, the pragmatic and artistic challenges in putting together a cohesive, attractive package of diverse voices and accompanying artwork. At Stony Brook University, I had poems published in Soundings magazine (mid-seventies).

I highly recommend the experience to any student who wants to cut their teeth on the collaborative publishing process.

Did you go to university, and if so, which subject(s) did you study?

As an undergraduate I focused on literature and writing, but also immersed myself in the liberal arts curricula. I studied art history, music appreciation, political science, philosophy, and film. I felt, and still feel, that when one is exposed to various cultural stimuli, the better informed one’s outlook and work will be.

When did you first start submitting to poetry magazines? And can you tell us how many rejections you received before having something accepted for publication? (And if you received many rejections, was this off-putting?)

Ah! The rejection slip—nature’s way of telling you that you’re seriously in the game…. I started submitting my work “seriously” (meaning: regularly, in an organized way—noting date/ poems/magazine/source of market on a note pad I kept for that purpose only) in the early 1980s. I had pretty good luck early on, but that meant that I was, on average, crossing out the names of two-to-three journals to each one that accepted me. No one likes rejection slips, but I braced myself and had an envelope and SASE and back-up market ready for when anything came winging back to me. This was, after all, in the days before PCs and email. If my manuscripts were still clean enough and didn’t have clues of being manhandled by an editorial staff when returned, I sent them right out again.

I once saved my rejection slips to show my students so that they may learn (and laugh) from my own experience. The collection got a bit out of hand over the years, a near-ream of paper curled and yellowed at the edges, so I only saved a handful of the nicer or coldest among them. The rejections were as varied in style and message as the acceptance letters. Many were in the form of dignified letterhead; others were sloppy, scribbled notes marring the surface of the query letter accompanying the submission, or worse, a poem in the batch. Mostly, they were apologetic in tone (“Sorry!”), or simply cold and detached (“We thank you for sharing your work… unfortunately, we will not be able to publish it in [Their Esteemed Title Here] and wish you luck in placing it elsewhere.”).

Out of frustration and a twisted sense of humour, a friend and I came up with a rejection slip for rejection slips, stating something to the effect that “We have received your rejection slip and must inform you that we can not accept it for one or more of the following reasons:…” and then cited several things in a list, including “it lacks originality,” and it “ignores our thematic emphasis,” which were checked-off by hand next to each selected reason. The rejection slip-rejection ended with “Because of the enormous number of rejection slips received by this office, we regret we can not respond personally. We wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.” Interestingly, an editor or two responded with “Send more,” and I found a home for some poems in magazines that might not have engaged me if not for this bit of good-natured sarcasm.

What was the worst rejection you ever received?

“No thanks” is bad enough, and I never received anything truly nasty, though it irked me to receive rejections from editors who had asked me for specific work. I actually had a series of hostile responses many years ago from someone who had accepted work for an anthology and then kept changing the rules—including ultimately requiring contributors to go out and sell copies of the magazine.

What was your first published poem? Which poetry magazine published it? And what year was it published?

One of the first poems I published, “Patchwork,” appeared in an independent journal in 1982, Zephyr magazine [long defunct].

Round about the time that you started seriously writing poetry, who were your literary heroes? And would you say they had an influence on your writing style?

I’d say there were influences everywhere. I absorbed a sense of drama from Eliot and Pound, a rite-of-passage indignation and affirmation from Plath and Sexton, a sense of beauty from Haines and Bly. Sharon Olds, Billy Collins, Louise Gluck, and Ted Kooser would continue to present extraordinary ideas in familiar vernacular.

Eventually, I think the visions and styles of other poets got synthesized and integrated into my own, free verse, mostly stanza-driven approach. My heroes ranged greatly and influenced me differently. What Marianne Moore had suggested in her poem, “Poetry,”—to find “a place for the genuine,” became an important part of my process.

Also, part of the challenge is to take the inspired energies and language of a diverse selection of inspiring poets (my own early canon included Alfred Noyle, Dickinson, Whitman, Edward Arlington Robinson, Archibald MacLeach, Denise Levertov, William Stafford, Ginsberg, and Bukowski, among others), but to write in one’s own idiom and sensibility. I think poets should give consideration to an audience even as they break new ground and play with the rules of convention. Wallace Stevens, in “Of Modern poetry,” asks us to consider “What will suffice” and states that poetry “… has to be living, to learn the speech of the place./ It has to face the men of the time and the to meet/ The women of the time.”

Have you ever attended a creative writing course or been involved in a writers' group? If so, did you find it useful?

I have attended community programs and more formal writers’ workshops, some for college credit, some for enrichment. I’ve been affiliated with several writing groups—it can be an opportunity for creative discussion, feedback, networking, and to take one out of the isolation that writing can encourage.

When did you put together your first collection of poetry?

I had practiced putting together small groupings of my poetry through submissions to contests and granting agencies, good practice for poetry “arrangement” and seeing trends in topic/style in your own work. My poetry chapbook, Dismantling the Playground, was published in 1994 by Birnham Wood Graphics and was a scaled-down version of a larger manuscript that was to be published by a press that went bankrupt.

How long did it take to get it accepted for publication? And, if appropriate, how many times was it rejected?

The manuscript was rejected, in various forms, (poems were added, removed here and there) for a year or two. I can’t remember by whom—probably presses advertised in Poets & Writers Magazine or Writers Digest, two resources I used heavily to submit my work.

I was actually approached by the publisher who was starting a series of chapbooks of Long Island poets, and it took a few months from our earliest conversation to printing for the book to come out.

How long did you have to wait between acceptance and final publication?

(See above)

What sort of critical response did you receive?

I got nice blurbs for the back cover from notable poets Molly Peacock, Diane Wakoski, and David Shevin. Poet/critic Tom Fink gave it a nice write-up. Comments have been positive, especially at reading I did where I’ve had the book available.

Would you say that your publisher actively promoted the book?

I think he promoted it along with his other books, but I tried to help plug the book with publicity notices (flyers, releases to the media) and by doing readings at bookstores, schools, and arts councils. In the small press literary arena, the author has to get involved on some level—it helps to have the internet for publicizing books and literary events.

How many copies of the book sold?

These were in a limited print run (300). The book is out of print, but available from Amazon, Borders, and can be found in book stores here and there.

At the beginning of your writing career did you enter any poetry competitions? Did you enter a lot or just a few? Did you have any success? And, with hindsight, what are your thoughts about the relative merits or demerits of poetry competitions?

I did enter contests, aiming at those that seemed credible (taken from reliable literary resources). I won the Chester H. Jones Foundation National Poetry Competition in 1986 (the judges were William Stafford, Joel Oppenheimer, and Diane Wakoski), and some smaller prizes through lit journals. Over the years my work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. I think competitions can be useful to force you to consider the merits of your work, the overall nature of the body of work you’ve produced, and to pay attention to who’s out there winning prizes and attention. It may not be a full barometer of a poet’s success, but it’s food for thought. I would only caution anyone about contests attached to phone-book sized anthologies that cram nine to twelve poems on a page and includes an author’s picture and bio, charging money for the privilege. There are numerous contests held by literary journals, presses, and poetry organizations that require a small or reasonable fee and have notable literary figures as judges.

Do you make a living out of poetry?

I do earn money for appearances (readings/workshops) and for teaching writing workshops. Occasionally, I get paid for reviewing poetry books and for work included in magazines (those fortunate enough to have a budget to support author payment). As for making a living, it depends on how you define “living.” I teach at a university (including, but not limited to, poetry) and have been paid for my writing in other arenas (advertising, broadcast, film), which takes care of the mortgage.

With the benefit of hindsight, are you glad that you pursued your dream of being a poet? Also, if you could turn the clock back, would you do anything different?

I am always glad to be writing. I am only unhappy if I don’t write poetry. Like anyone else who pursues an artistic practice, I wish I had more time and had spent more time, perhaps, in earlier years, but life can be unpredictable and ultimately, experience in all guises can serve one’s creative impulses.

Which poetry magazines would you recommend him or her to subscribe to?

There are many. Go to the bookstore, library, book fairs, the Geraldine Dodge Poetry Festival—a marvel of poetry luminaries, readings, workshops, and a gathering of poetry publishers and presses-- expose yourself to everything, and narrow down your preferences. Reading Poetry Magazine and The New Yorker will certainly bring you face-to-face with quality work, but there’s a universe of poetry to be discovered and explored, especially in university magazines and independent monographs. Familiarize yourself with titles from reading Poets & Writers Magazine, do searches in the CLMP website, Poetry.org, Poets House. Go to the book store and seek out recent anthologies (Garrison Keiller, Billy Collins, and others have put together “best poem” collections that present a wide variety of quality poetry).

Assuming that this would-be poet showed some promise, would you advise him or her to pursue a "career" in poetry?

I would advise anyone who had a passion for an art form (literary, visual, musical) to pursue it. I would also suggest that you immerse yourself and read as great a variety of poetry as you can to get a fuller flavour of what’s out there. Keep in mind that the “career” you might find is in the success of your poetry in literary circles and publications, and perhaps in your involvement as a teacher.

Finally (and extremely hypothetically), you are selected to appear on the hit reality TV show, "Desert Island Poets", where you are marooned on a tropical island for three months with a typewriter and several reams of paper. You are provided with all necessary provisions, but you are only allowed to take three books with you. Your appearance fee is more than you could hope to earn in a decade and the show is so popular that all previous participants have become best-selling poets. So, would you participate? And if so, which three books would you take with you?

I need to stay out of the sun, so I would, alas, have to decline. Also—three books? Surely they jest!

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