I got my MFA from an Ivy League school and that's where I learned about class.
I thought I knew about class, but as a young person whose family had a rural, aspiring-to-middle-class background, and having earned a mediocre public education, I felt very different from my classmates. Example: I was told—and I know it sounds unkind, but it really wasn't—that I had no "leisure skills," meaning, I didn't ski, or play tennis or racquetball. Someone else asked what camp I went to every summer when I was growing up, and I said I didn't go to camp—the shock on her face! It was priceless! And here's my last example, though I could go on: I went to Europe with a lover. I spent my life's savings. She spent her allowance.
Talent is a great equalizer, though—and while a good education enhances it, there is a point where talent is either there or it isn't.
I learned to keep putting my work in places where people who could support me in some way, would see it. Every fellowship, award and publication I received for a very long time, were through the sadly but aptly named "slush pile." In other words, I was completely anonymous to the people at the gate. Eventually, I started meeting people and relating to them as friends, and we bonded around our work, and became a support for each other. It happened very slowly, though, because I let my ridiculous life get in the way.
My advice to poets feeling shut out—and I've been there—is this:
If you want to be heard, start listening. Go to as many readings as you can. Find the poets you admire in your city, and read them—not because you're kissing ass, but because you love the work and it fuels you. Also, go to as many open readings as you can, to practice reading your work in front of strangers, and let your mutual love of poetry connect you with people. As you begin to find your community, you'll find your audience, and maybe even your voice.
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