Somebody Hand Me a Shotgun, They’s a Fox in My Hen House
Published September 4th, 2005 | 
On the evening of March 17th, I was contacted by Valerie Stevenson, the editor of nth position, informing me that a poem I’d published in the recent issue of the 13th Warrior Review had been plagiarized. My intial reaction was disbelief. I didn’t like the idea of being hoodwinked. I take pride in the fact that I do a pretty thorough job of checking out the material before accepting it. As such, I was initially skeptical.
I spent the next twenty-four hours investigating the matter and discovered that not only had Amari Hamadene, the poet in question, purloined the poem I published, but at least two dozen others.
The plagiarism was originally uncovered by A.T. van ‘t Hof of Poeziepamflet, who came across Hamadene’s plagiarism while working on a translation of Irish poet, Robin Tierney. Word spread quickly after that. My own investigation has left me with as many questions as answers. In recent days the “real” Amari Hamadene has come forth to deny his part in the plagiarism, claiming, instead, that an English-speaking imposter must have stolen his identity. Yet, I noticed that an email by the “real” Hamadene posted by R.D. Armstrong of Lummox Press fame, was an awful lot like an email the “fake” Hamadene had sent me at the time I accepted his poetry. The syntax and certain phrases were, in fact, identical. Even the sign-off was the same.
It’s difficult to say what the ultimate truth is in this matter. Whether Hamadene is a plagiarist or whether someone pretending to be Hamadene is a plagiarist. Or, a more sinister possibility — that there is no Hamadene, that this is all part of some larger bit of intrigue and skullduggery.
What I can tell you is that the following poems have been verified as being plagiarized:
‘An Instant of Love’ is ‘The Wineglass’ by Maurice Riordan.
‘Apheresis’ is ‘Time’ by Alice Oswald.
‘Apocalypse’ is ‘Hollow Ones’ by Su’Ratt.
‘As A Lover’ is ‘A Farewell To Friends / I. Paul Celan’ by Ilya Kaminsky.
‘Books’ is ‘Hidden Door’ by Jared Carter.
‘Cloning’ is ‘Gene Genie’ by Emily Hinshelwood.
‘Humanity’ is ‘Tuatara’ by Nola Borrell.
‘Middle-Age’ is ‘Protect and Survive’ by Michael Symmonds Roberts.
‘Mythological Decisions’ is ‘A Simple Tale’ by Stephen Oliver.
‘Paris Follie’s’ is ‘24, rue de Cotte’ by Nessa O’Mahony.
‘Prehistoric Presence’ is ‘Becoming’ by Roisin Tierney.
‘Reporters’ is ‘Depth of Field’ by Stephanie de Montalk.
‘Revolutionary Women’ is ‘Movie – part 7′ by Alan Brunton.
‘Sylvan Exoticism’ is ‘The orientalist’ by Ranjit Hoskote.
‘Taboo Frontlines’ (from line 9 downwards) is ‘A Siberian Cold Front Takes Over the Last Week of April’ by Pamela Uschuk.
‘The Big Burst’ is ‘Alchemy’ by Jules Webster.
‘The Dark Angel’ is ‘The boredom Artist’ by Jeet Thayil.
‘The Freedom Song’ is ‘London Pastoral’ by Tobias Hill.
‘The Golden Cupolas’ is ‘Dome’ by Ranjit Hoskote.
‘The Hanging Gardens’ is ‘The Locust’s Vocabularies. A Sequence. 2. To Yasin Taha Hafiz’ by Robert Bohm.
‘The Logic’ is ‘Not Art’ by Kate Clanchy.
‘The Plastic Eden’ is ‘Afternoon Nap’ by David Shumate.
‘Today’ is ‘This Morning’ by Sarah James.
‘Yellow Sparrowhawk’ is ‘Golden orioles’ by Ranjit Hoskote.
It is difficult enough to convince many writers that the Internet is a safe place to publish. This scandal plays into that feeling of insecurity and makes things harder on those of us who publish online. It doesn’t matter that this scandal has also affected several print publishers or that this mess was brought to light because of the interconnectedness of the Internet. People will only consider that for a time Hamadene got away with it.
I don’t know which I find more shocking — that the plagiarism occured in the first place, or that despite ample proof that a plagiarism has occured and despite an organized effort to inform the duped publishers, Hamadene’s offerings are still included on a number of websites and there are people willing to sweep the whole matter under the rug or even defend the crime. There was a time when we would have formed a posse and escorted this guy out of town at the point of a shotgun! Ah, but how times have changed.
I Beg Your Pardon
Published August 14th, 2005 | In the review of Indecision, the author misuses the term “beg the question,” which has a precise rhetorical meaning: to employ circular reasoning.
What the reviewer meant was “raise” or “prompt” the question. This mistake is becoming more common, but that does not mean it is not a mistake. It makes the author sound pretentious and ignorant, which is ironic considering his criticism of Kunkel. Oh, and I am American, not British.
Take care.
Chris Thomas
Dear Mr. Thomas
Well, I’m not really sure what that last bit was all about, but it really doesn’t surprise me that you are an American — only a smartass American would feel the overwhelming need to correct my usage of the phrase “begs the question.”
However, allow me to correct you on two counts. First, I am very well aware of the formal meaning of the phrase. It comes from the Greek meaning “at the beginning to assume.” Secondly, my own use of the phrase was not from ignorance, but from the recognition that the commonly accepted meaning has changed.
And, by the way, Who is being pretentious? What you call a “mistake” is nothing of the sort. How can the commonly understood meaning of a phrase be wrong simply because it isn’t yet acknowledged by those who write the style and usage manuals? Such authoritative sources are usually slow to acknowledge such evolutions in the language. People will continue to “misuse” the phrase and sooner or later the Oxford-American and other such sources will have no choice but to recognize the fact. English is a living and very democratic language. In other words, the people ultimately decide what the language is, not the scholars.
I noticed that you didn’t take issue with my actual comments about the novel in question.
yours with kisses,
John C. Erianne
Dear Mr. Sunshine
Published January 15th, 2005 | “Sorry, no. BTW — I don’t think Davison’s alleged comment that your poetry is “disturbing” was intended as a compliment.” — JCE, 12/15/03
I included in that little scrap of a response to my original submission because I figured that someone like you would probably scarcely remember even writing it (You’re absolutely right, I don’t remember, but give me a moment. . . Okay, gotcha! Never been published. Seemed to have me confused with the editor of another literary magazine. Bloated cover letter full of cherry-picked blurbs of “praise” from poetry editors who have never actually published anything you’ve ever sent them. Paper smelled of candy-scented perfume and nicotine. Poems full of saccharine and whine.) your life being so busy and important and all. I wish I could forget it as well, But I’m not that kind of person. I’d considered reporting you to the Poet’s Market publishers, if you’re even still included in it. (“This is the Poet’s Market — Put down your pen and come out with your hands up!”) It doesn’t seem like you’d be interested in being a part of it any longer anyway since you are apparently so very exasperated by the submissions you receive. Or maybe just the ones by female poets who write about annoying “girl things” or by those who don’t write in that oh-so-popular, rambling, modernist style devoid of any rhythm or punch (Hate to break it to you, babe, but Modernism hasn’t been popular for quite some time; I’m sure Modernism is quite dead. Although, “rambling” could easily be used to describe your letter). I only considered reporting you for a moment and simply because I figured I could hardly be the only person who has been treated so shamefully by you, but, I decided it would be silly anyway because someone like you will always cause his own demise with no help from anyone but himself (I know, isn’t it tragic? But, now I see that I had it all wrong. I’m gonna go straight now, Ma. I promise). It’s a fluke that jerks like you amount to anything in the first place, so even if you manage to, you can’t hold on to it for very long (Have to admit it, sometimes, I do feel like I’m making a last stand at the Alamo ). You can’t treat people like shit as much as you choose to and expect to have anyone on your side in the end. A bad attitude will always turn everything to shit eventually (You really don’t see the irony in this statement, do you?). It’s a matter of time. It doesn’t matter anyway because it sounds like you are the self-proclaimed king of your own pathetic, little kingdom anyway (I state almost exactly this in my submission guidelines. Pity you didn’t read them). Bet your throne has even been fashioned from a trash heap (Hey now, not everything in the slush pile is trash ). Like any real editor would ever so abuse his position to go so far out of his way to make another human being feel like dirt (I scribbled a pen two inches or so across a sticky note — not so very far out of my way at all). I can hardly imagine the likes of Peter Davison doing such a nasty, purile (Gee, I’d hate to go up against you in spelling bee) thing. That is the most hideously low class thing I have ever heard of. Look out, poets! He has a post office box, a stack of Post-it Notes, and he’s not afraid to use them! (You would, of course prefer that I used carrier pigeons?) What a Big man! What the hell is wrong with you? (Inner ear infection, maybe?) What kind of person does that kind of thing? Did you forget to take your Midol that day? (Did you?) Did your smog-choked, idiot, Jersey mind make you feel like that would be a good thing to do? Why in the world would anyone want to threaten a very young woman’s chance to evolve as a writer? Even if my work was crap, why do I need to know that? Why rob me of my journey? (Well, if you were taking a trip cross-country, you’d want to know if you had four flat tires, right?) Why not just let the act of writing make me happy, even if that’s all it would ever be? Why does that matter so much to you? (It doesn’t matter to me. However, might I point out that you sent your poems to me soliciting my opinion — you didn’t leave them home in a drawer. ) If it sucks so much, why not just toss it aside like the crap that it is? It Just doesn’t make sense.that’s why I’m so confused about it. Do only frustrated writers become editors or make themselves editors, in your case in the first place? (Well, it’s true that I did, once upon a time, make myself an editor, but he kept chewing on the furniture and pissing on carpet, so I had to send him away.) What kind of sad, sad, insecure, little brat would scribble a bunch of heartless bullshit like that and send it to another human being? It’s the senselessness of it that so baffles me. Maybe I am only a lump of clay as of now. So what? Why be so outraged by that? If I am such a joke of a poet, why bother wasting one of those precious sticky notes in your office supply arsenal to tell me so? Something about me must have greatly annoyed you. As if that would be difficult to do! (No, I don’t suppose. . .)
I just wish I could go back to thinking I lived in a world where people like you didn’t exist — those who walk around wanting to make other people feel worse so that they may feel better about themselves for a second or two. Other people mean so tragically little to you. The ironic part is what you told the Poet’s Market people. It’s really amusing to me now. It is almost like you aren’t even the same person. Maybe you’re not. Maybe personality #9 or 10 was at the helm. Who knows! You were actually quoted as saying to “not take rejection personally.” That’s cute! You also said to “not let anyone stop you” — also, very, very cute in hindsight. What if a rejection was personal? In this case, very personal. (And I stand by those words. My rejection of your poetry wasn’t personal. I don’t even know you so how could it be personal? Did I call you nasty names? Did I attack your character? Did I, for example, call you an “anorexic psycho cunt who’s dosing on laxatives and the best diet pill you can find?” You presume to know me based on a one-line rejection note. I don’t presume to know you based on the contents of this letter. I can give you the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to a temporary case of diarrhea of the mind. You might also recall some other words from that PM listing: “Write from love; don’t expect love in return.” ) There was nothing constructive or professional about that. It’s like a child wrote it. I am all for constructive criticism. I have evolved by leaps and bounds because of it.(hmm . . . but evolved into what?) I have received praise and very helpful suggestions from true editors-of important magazines across the country, including the Atlantic Monthly, dickhead. (And that’s supposed to mean exactly what to me?) From what I’m told, it’s almost impossible to get anything handwritten from publications at that level. The goal of constructive criticism is to better serve one’s evolution, not to damage it.
I know I should just be content to personally know, that you are an idiot. (Is it possible to know something impersonally?) That should be enough. But, I’m Italian, and Sicilian at that, so I need you to also very clearly know and understand how enormous a fool you indeed are. I can’t be happy just knowing this on my own. Though, honestly, you probably already know this. Why else would you feel the need to be such a tremendous ass except to momentarily calm the screams of self doubt in your own head! Maybe you should tell your shrink to up your dosage instead of immediately picking up a pen next time you are so irritated by someone who is so undeserving of your brainless nastiness. (Are we still talking about me? Sorry, I nodded off for a moment.) If all 21-year-old artists or writers were told their work was crap, there would be no writers, no poets, no books, no art, no anything anywhere. If,anyone was ever insecure enough to listen to revolting jerks like you, the world would be very still and very quiet. Why not tell me something useful?’ Or just shut the fuck up altogether, which would be my suggestion because you obviously have nothing positive to offer to the world. Why don’t you keep your unnecessary negativity to yourself? Here’s to hoping that you will take my advice and save the next person from squandering any energy or postage on your dumb ass.
How dare you treat me like just another faceless pain in the ass with bullshit aspirations that has come knocking on your door! (But you ARE a faceless pain in the ass and, like it or not, your aspirations ARE bullshit until you actually accomplish something. The goal of constructive criticism for YOU is to help YOU evolve as a writer, but helping you evolve is not MY goal or MY responsibility. And what do feelings have to do with it? I’m not running a 12-step therapy session for failed poets- and I’m not proctoring a fucking workshop. I’m just a guy trying to fill white pages in a few publications. It’s not that I am completely indifferent to you in a broader humanitarian sense. I certainly bear you no ill will, I do not wish you disease, rape, torture, get hit by a bus, or what-have-you, but as a writer, you were simply trying to sell me something in your cover letter that you couldn’t deliver in your manuscript, so to that end, what do you want, a biscuit? Get over yourself.) How dare you treat me like nothing, like I have no feelings, no willingness to learn and grow! How dare you treat me like I don’t matter! I am a person. My name is Sidney. (Hey, somebody fetch me a violin and a box of tissues!) I am not just another anonymous link in the same old chain that you are apparently so sick of dealing with. How dare you spew your venom so ignobly! Do you honestly feel that you are that important? Like you are such hot shit? Like you deserve to say things like that to people? Like it’s okay? Who the fuck do you think you are! Maybe you should turn that ridiculously harsh judgment upon yourself once and a while. It amazes me how the path to success is always paved with the corpses of hateful assholes like yourself. You make me sick. Everybody just like you makes me sick. Everything I would ever need to know about you is all in that one chicken-scratched sentence. And to think that such an act could occur to you at all, But especially during the holidays for Christ’s sake! That makes me even sicker. I received that God damn thing on New Year’s Eve for fuck’s sake! Thanks so much! (And I received this letter three weeks later, the day the doctors cracked open my elderly father’s chest for a quintuple bypass and he nearly died on the table. Your letter didn’t exactly make my day either. So on that point, you can just go fuck yourself. We all have our little crosses to bear.)You just don’t give a shit about anything, or anybody. And you couldn’t even bother to sign your name, you fucking coward. everything about you is so gut-wrenchingly vile.
The funny thing is that I am not left contemplating the “quality” of my own work as you would hope, at least any more than one normally would, but only how microscopic your penis must be (So my rejection slip makes you think about my penis? Well, all right!) for you to ever desire to trample the potential of a young and hopeful individual who poses no threat to you whatsoever. I could eat glass I feel so sickened by you. Tiny, little man who belittles little girls for his own amusement. What a great life you have made for yourself. Congratulations. Your life must be very rich and full. As if anyone could give one shit about your opinion. One could hardly respect the ignorant, knee-jerk opinion of an immature, catty, dickless piece of shit like yourself. I must admit that it is a large comfort to me that your little “publication” is only printed once a year or so, then is probably very promptly tossed and recycled, which means, that more people end up wiping their asses with it than actually reading it. But, hey, if nothing else., you certainly did remind me why I despise the east coast, especially the Northeast, and all the bitter, cynical, old fucks who populate it. You people make great comedians, but that’s about it. You have nothing to offer the world except sarcasm and mocking, judgments. So, on that note, perhaps you should look in the mirror once and a while instead of tactlessly attacking other people who did nothing to offend you in the first place, maybe search high and low for a little dignity, God, most importantly,get a fucking life. if I had a dick, I would tell you to suck it. Thanks for giving me a glimpse of how horrible a person can be to another person. Oh, and I can even sign my name!!( No, I don’t suppose my response was especially kind, but I doubt that it’s the unkindest thing anyone has ever said about a person’s writing — Hell, I’ve said worse things about my own writing. And while my brief reply may not have been constructive, it was instructive after a fashion. Did I tell you to give up writing? Did I to stop submitting your poetry to literary journals? Was my note not also handwritten? Did I not take the time to read your poems despite their obvious deficiencies? Did I not reply to your submission in a timely fashion? What greater courtesy should I have extended to you? Fact is, chick, I don’t really know of too many 21 year-olds who haven’t been told their work is crap at some point. Fact is, I don’t know that many older, published writers who don’t, from time to time, get told their work is crap. Even John Updike, that paragon of American Literature, has been told he’s not all he’s cracked-up to be, most recently by a writer not fit to scrape gum off the man’s shoes with his teeth. If memory serves, I think I read this criticism in the Atlantic Monthly, Davison’s rag. I doubt Updike responded as you did. He probably just smiled, looked at his bank statement and his body of work sitting on the shelf, walked into his bathroom and took a hideously low-class Northeastern dump.)
(signed) Sidney Elle Testa
