Silence, My Sister

I wanted to share this beautiful and deeply felt poem from the literary artist and activist, Roxanne Ivey.  She is the founder of Poets for Positive Change: Transforming Life through language, a LinkedIn group of which I’m a grateful member. Roxanne and Poets for Positive Change keep alive the spirit in a cynical world that words can make a difference, even if it is only one syllable at a time. Thanks Roxanne for letting me feature your poem.

 

For every secret sealed in flame,
Each grief engraved without a name,
I’ll summon tender truths from shame,
With tears my talisman.

I’ll shred the shroud of disbelief
And scatter ashes of relief,
Then weave these words into a wreath
No season can upbraid.

I’ll lift the earth into the sky
So fallen stars again will rise;
Your suffering is my battle cry—
You did not die alone.

Which Author Do You Write Like?

Just for fun, I’m sharing this link to a statistical analysis tool that will determine which author you write like. The tool – I Write Like – created by Dmitry Chestnykh, a Russian software developer, may not be the most accurate, but as he mentions in an interview, it can help you to discover or rediscover a writer. It includes 50 writers, which is not a lot, but get this too – it is actually based on a program similar to the one that helps to fight pesky and annoying spam. I Write Like has become quite popular, and the creator, very smartly is trying to keep that momentum and interest going by turning his focus into providing a destination where people can learn how to be a better writer. Best of luck to him!

Of course I tried it out myself, and plugged in several pieces of my writing. The novel I’m currently working on came up with a bunch of authors for almost each chapter including, Issac Asimov, Mark Twain, Raymond Chandler, Dan Brown, Chuck Palahniuk, and Neil Gaiman. There is no way that I write like Mark Twain or Raymond Chandler whom I admire greatly – but like I said this is for fun. With all these authors, I don’t know if this means my writing is disjointed or what, but even more appaling is when I plugged in one of my poems and came up with James Joyce! Yikes! Yeah, I know, like one of the greatest writers, had one of the greatest novels, but that doesn’t matter because I can’t digest his work! I couldn’t even get through one of his novels. Hmmm…I Write Like may help you to discover new writers or it just may leave you with some interesting questions and a new look at your writing which may be a good thing after all.

Eliot and the Extinction of the Poet’s Personality

I’ll go on the record to say that I have never read through the entire poem of The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot, considered one of the most influential poems of the 20th century. Before the eyes start rolling, I did read some of it at least. In no way is my laziness some sign that the poem is not good or worthy. In fact, when I read why Eliot wrote the poem, I admired it right away.

Yet, even without having completed the Waste Land,  T. S. Eliot is one of my favorite poets. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? Need I say more. Not really a love song but really a look at the chaotic and lonely existence of the inhabitants of our out of control planet.

I’m drawn to Eliot’s work because he examines the modern world we find ourselves in and looks towards the past as the ideal we left behind.  He longed for the spiritual, which we are completely bankrupt of today.

Eliot was probably someone who was always looking over his shoulder at the past, and I feel that I’m that same person. I have a serious case of nostalgia, an old soul in a young body. Most of the writers I love and read died a long time ago. When it was movies or music, most of the time it was always the old ones. I think I would do just fine riding in a horse-drawn carriage, walking on the moors with the Bronte sisters, observing society with Jane Austen, and writing along with Dickens on the social injustices of the times.

Recently, I read that Eliot believed in a form of poetry where the poet is extinct from the poem. I guess this definitely goes against confessional poetry although I do like Sylvia Plath and Theodore Roethke.

Eliot says: “Progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.”

Very interesting, especially after engaging in a conversation about how much of the writer goes into a story. Sure, I definitely get into whatever I’m writing at the moment, whether a poem or story. My characters generally live in my head a long time before they ever make it on paper. When I write scenes, they play out before my eyes. While cleaning, a character will start a conversation with me. Then it can get really surreal, when I’m writing, and I feel someone else has taken over and is writing for me. However, there is a fine line between me getting into my stories and me actually being in them.

When people read my work, and tell me these must be my experiences, this must be my personality, I get somewhat uncomfortable. The job of a writer may be in some ways like that of an actress. The actress takes on a role to tell a story to the audience. The actress inhabits the character she is playing for a period of time, taking on a personality that may be completely opposite of her, an assassin for example. It is the same for the writer, or at least for me most of the time. Maybe I’m just a different writer from most others.

The old line: write what you know doesn’t really mesh with me. That is not to say that I never write about my experiences, I do sometimes, but I’m completely aware when I make a decision to write about something I know. Most of the time, my writing is an exploration of those things I don’t know about. My writing is an experiment of sorts, or rather a lesson in trying to understand what I can’t perhaps ever understand. It is trying to come to terms with where God placed me in this moment, in this time.

I just recently completed two poems about Mubarak and Gaddafi. I’m definitely not writing from experience when I write about these two men. I was devastated by what I read in the news and found myself in a state of confusion, and I felt I had to write about it. The poems are an experiment in exploring the minds of dictators. The final product may or may not be successful, but it was an important journey for me, and while I may never completely understand dictators, I feel at the end of the poems I may understand more about their motivations.

My ultimate goal as a writer is to give voice to those people whose experiences may be different from my own. I’m especially concerned with the effects of war, but I have never been in the middle of a war myself, although I’ve lived so far to see many already happen, which brings me to the question of how advanced is the human race, if writers can still tell stories of war ( which I’m doing at the moment with the novel I’m working on) and the writer doesn’t even have to look far into the past to get material from but just 10 years ago.

How I got from Eliot to the question of war is beyond me, but I’d like to think Eliot would also find that question of concern and at the heart of why he wrote too.

What Happened to My Lebanon? by Harriet Leach

Leach’s haunting and sad, yet beautiful poem employs only two rhymes throughout, but perhaps that is why it is the more powerful for the reader. Some writers argue that writing a poem in form actually makes the poem stronger because it is more tight and in control, and I think there is a good argument for it here with this poem.

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY LEBANON?

By Harriet Leach

After an Article by Anwa Damon of CNN

The journalist writes down her city’s face—
Beirut, who’s seen more than her share of war.
The cease fire trembles in the hands of grace.

The smell of rotting bodies wrecks the place.
A girl snaps cell phone photos of the gore.
The journalist writes down the tear-stained face.

A chandelier still hangs in blackened space—
no children play and laugh here anymore.
The cease fire trembles in the hands of grace.

A building’s stone façade blown off—no trace
of life but green—a couch on the tenth floor.
She notes the bleakness of the city’s face.

The shell-shocked people value each embrace;
the call to prayer seems louder than before.
The cease fire trembles in the hands of grace.

Beirut’s ten years of progress are erased,
though people smile, depression gnaws their core.
The journalist laments her city’s face.
The cease fire twists the gnarled hands of grace.

The Poetry of T. S. Eliot

THE LOVE-SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK

By T. S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

PRELUDES

By T. S. Eliot

I

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimneypots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

LA FIGLIA CHE PIANGE

(WEEPING GIRL)

By T. S. Eliot

 O quam te memorem Virgo …

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair–

Lean on a garden urn–

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair–

Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise–

Fling them to the ground and turn

With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:

But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,

So I would have had her stand and grieve,

So he would have left

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,

As the mind deserts the body it has used.

I should find

Some way incomparably light and deft,

Some way we both should understand,

Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather

Compelled my imagination many days,

Many days and many hours:

Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.

And I wonder how they should have been together!

I should have lost a gesture and a pose.

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze

The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

MORNING AT THE WINDOW

By T. S. Eliot

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,

And along the trampled edges of the street

I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids

Sprouting despondently at area gates.

The brown waves of fog toss up to me

Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,

And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts

An aimless smile that hovers in the air

And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

 

Publishing Your Poetry – What are My Options?

From ahapoetry

The article is pretty old, but I found much of it still current and useful. I’m slowly looking into my options about getting my poems published in a book. With e-books on the rise, I’m still trying to decide whether to go traditional or not. It’s a hard choice and definitely requires lots of research. This answers several questions no doubt, while still leaving many others unanswered, but it is a start. The best part of the article comes at the end and for me, really expresses what I feel about poetry:

Occasionally I get e-mail from people saying they have written a poem and are wondering how they can sell the poem or begin making money from the poem or even from a book of their poetry. Recently in the magazine Feelings, (Anderie Poetry Press, POB 85, Easton, PA, USA), the editor Carole J. Heffley, wrote her editorial on just this subject. I thought it might be helpful for those of you who have thoughts of ‘getting rich’ with your poetry to read her words:

Dear Friends,

… It’s been a long time since I’ve received one of these gems. In my nearly nine years as a poetry editor, I’ve never quite gotten used to letters like this. The letters I am referring to go more or less like this:

“Dear Editor, Here is my wonderful poem; how much will you pay me for it?” Believe it or not, some letters simply say: “Send my check to ______.”

I have developed a form letter in reply that goes something like this: “Dear Would-Be Poet, If you are expecting to be paid for poetry, you are sadly misinformed about the genre. You are wasting your time writing poetry because you have missed the point of the entire effort. You have failed to understand that poetry doesn’t pay, it costs. Writing poetry costs your heart and soul. It costs years of study, of reading, and of listening. Poetry costs going to readings not only to read your own work but to truly hear the work of others. Poetry isn’t a paying job; it is a way of life. If you expect to get paid for your work, dear poet, look elsewhere. Poetry pays infinite intrinsic rewards and few, if any, external ones. Sincerely, the Editor.”

SO YOU WANT TO HAVE YOUR POEMS PUBLISHED?

Several times a week I get mail from poets saying, “I have some poems my friends tell me are great and I want to have them published in a book. What do I do?” The answer would be easy to give if everyone were exactly alike, but, thank goodness, we aren’t, so each person truly needs an individual answer, or even more correctly, several answers. Thus, I am putting here some options to let you at least know some of your possible avenues. Which method you will choose, or combination of methods, is part of your work as a poet. And it is all work. But the very best kind.

1. The dream of a big-name publisher doing your book.

A. This is not an impossible dream because you see it happens. But the normal way to accomplish this is to first read the books being currently published by poets now teaching in universities. Then you enroll in that school, and attend that person’s classes. Your goal will be to impress that teacher of the worth of your poetry, your future as a poet and your commitment to being a poet. This will not bring you your book contract, but, if you are lucky and the teacher likes you, may bring you a grant or a poetry prize. Most big-name publishers, and even smaller ones, have no idea of whether anyone’s poetry is any good or not (they are business people, not arbitrators of taste) so they depend on the decisions of the poetry community which are manifest in winning the grants and honors given by the academic world. The people you study with will be the ones to carry you into these realms of dreams or maybe not. If not, you will, by then, be qualified to get a teaching job in a school or university as you will have, on the side, gotten your degree.

Do not think that if you send a really neatly written letter to W.W. Norton that they will be so overwhelmed by your charm and the greatness of your poetry that they will ignore the methods above and sign you on. Unless you are having an affair with the publisher, this is a dream very unlikely to come true.

B. Another way to get a big-name publisher for your poetry is to write other books: either translation, novels, how-to-books, cookbooks. Not just one, but several. If a publisher makes enough money on your books, he (usually they are male) may decide to humor you by also printing a book of your poems. Don’t ignore this method as I know it works but also understand that it takes as long to accomplish as the plan above. Publishers all know poetry books by single authors (unless they are already famous) will not sell enough to pay the printer. 

C. You win a large grant or poetry prize that offers big-name publisher publication. Yes, this sounds great but be aware that the judge may already know the person who will get the grant. This is the way her/his students are helped to get ahead and that is what is happening. This is not a search for the best poetry being written. And this method, which often charges a hefty ‘reading’ fee is counting on so many hopefuls sending in money that they pay the printer’s bill. Thus you are paying for a book you will never see with minimal chance of helping yourself. Unless you personally know the judges of the contest, these ‘contests’ are a waste of your money, your time, your poems and your dreams. The acceptance of these scams is scandalous but continues because the sponsors know they can count on the unrealistic dreams and desires of every poet to be published.

2. Okay, maybe a smaller, poetry publisher will do my book?

First you have to find one. The best method is to read and buy poetry books. Find authors you admire, find out who has published their books, and find out who else that company has published. It is often helpful to go to readings of these poets, get to know them, and get to know, through them, their publisher. Don’t think you are too good to skip any of the above steps.

A. If you happen to find a new publisher, just building a stable of writers, someone eager to enter the field, your chances of them publishing your book is very good. Yes, they will be learning with you and your work, but hopefully there will be, in the end, your poems between the covers of a book.

B. A small publisher may agree to publish your book if  you help pay to have your book printed. I know there was this stigma of self-publishing or vanity publishing. It has largely been advanced to cover up the  publishing industry’s dirty little secret. You know, now, what the publisher learns sooner or later – that poetry books by single, unknown authors will not pay, let alone make money. Someone has to pay the printer. Often to keep publishing, a publisher will agree to do a book if you pay the printer. This process has several guises. The publisher can ask that you get a grant for the publication of your book. The publisher can ask that you buy a number of your books from the company at a certain agreed upon price. This is not so bad as you get your book done, you get enough copies to give to your friends and those you wish to impress and sell the rest at readings. But you must be realistic about the finances. Most of these deals will require about $2,000 – $3,000, depending on the book style, cover, and print run.

3. Even a small publisher may have experience you lack and already has at least a small readership to whom you may wish to be introduced. They have some practice in handling printers (a chapter for itself!), and the business ends of publishing already in place. They also have the power of a name — which has been earned and maybe worthwhile for you to acquire. If you have this kind of money to donate to the arts and yourself, this is definitely a possibility. 

3. Maybe I can publish my book myself?

Don’t believe the myth that self-published books are not ‘good’ or that doing a book yourself is new. So many of the truly great writers have had, in the beginning of their careers, to either pay to have someone publish their books (Gertrude Stein is a case in point) or do it themselves by establishing a press (Virginia Woolf and her husband, Leonard). With the introduction of computers and desk-top publishing the opportunities spread out like a colorful fan before you.

A. Establish your own publishing company your self. Give your company a name, register yourself with your local small business associations, apply for an ISBN (International System of Book Numbering) run by the Bowker Co. Get a Library of Congress number for your book and you are on your way. Or if you are brave and self-confident, you can simply get a name and do your book and let the business world get lost in your dust. Do not worry about having to file taxes on your earnings! But you might be able to declare your losses; check with your tax advisor as all the legal claims say!

4. If I make my book myself, what are my options?

These are limited only by three things: your time, your money and your inventiveness. This has little or no relationship to your skill as poet. Remember to keep the two jobs in separate sides of your brain.

A. Broadsides

Let us start with the basic premise of why you wish to have a book of your poems. You want to show them to other people, right? The simplest form is a broadsheet. A broadsheet, not all that popular these days, is a large piece of heavy weight paper or cardboard containing (usually) a poem and an illustration. These were hung on the wall as pictures and used as posters are. With computers and copy machines this option is within the reach of anyone.

B. A chapbook

Supposedly, the name came from the idea of English publishers who published books in serials so that each chapter was available as a small, paper covered booklet. Even Emily Dickinson put together her poems into little hand-sewn chapbooks. So the idea is not without precedence and value. If you have been a poet for any length of time you will already have a collection of these from  friends, brothers and sisters of the art. Look them over carefully. What do you admire and what bothers you? Which booklet would you be proud to put your name on? Which booklet could you make? Find the one closest to your dream and leap off from there! Make the book as interesting and as well as you can with your capabilities. It is your book. Again, with computers and copy machines and even Kinko’s, you can turn out a darn nice book. Don’t expect to get the local bookstore to stock it (unless your independent bookseller is really independent) or to get a review in the city newspaper (they will not even look at a book unless it is hardcover) and if it is poetry, probably not even then unless you are on their staff. But you will have a memento to give your friends so they can enjoy your poems on their bookshelf.

If this method interests you, please check out the Minimal Press site. More help is on its way to you.

C. A Paperback Book

In this age of desk-top publishing this option is open to everyone with a modicum of skills, time to learn typesetting, the money to pay the printer, and a joy in selling books. Again, find a book you admire and begin with that for your dreams. Instead of running off copies on your laser printer or copy machine, you will prepare the book to be camera ready to send to a printer. Printers are not the easiest persons to work with (unless you are greatly blessed). Many have no sense of time (the book promised in 6 weeks can come any time after that date). Most have their own ways of expecting the material and you will have to accommodate their wishes down to the letter. And some are a disaster, especially if they do not guarantee their work and even if they do, deciding who is at fault when a problem occurs is an even bigger battle. Your local printer is probably easier for you to work with as you learn how to present a book as they wish it, but they can and probably will cost you more.

Most printers will not consider printing a book with a run smaller than 300 copies. And most professional binderies will not guarantee their work on books smaller than 90 pages. One thing you will surely do is to get job quotes from various printers. Always try a local one and one of the big ones where you can often get online quotes. Before asking for a job quote you will have to know how many pages your book will be; the weight of paper (60 pound is normal but print can show through, 70 pound is more opaque and costs more); the kind of paper (the house paper for text is the best deal in white or ivory); illustrations, yes or no; cover (coated on one side – CS1 in 10 pt which is fine, or 12 pt if you wish a heavier cover); cover colors or black ink on white; and the number of copies in the run. Any other wishes can be tried as options so you can decide what you can afford to do or not. Do consider a hardcover book without a dust jacket. Surprisingly these cost only about 15% more than paper back, but if you wish for a dust jacket you will find that this doubles the cost of your book.

Naturally the more books you have printed the lower your per-book cost will be. But also, the printer’s bill increases too. And think of where you will store those many books. They need to be dry, warm, worm and mouse safe. You can use them for insulation by building interior walls on the north side of the room or making furniture out of the heavy boxes. I kid you not.

D. An On-line Book

In just the past five years this possibility has emerged and will, I feel, in the future be the way to go for poets. Since our books don’t usually make money, and printing costs money, putting a book online even saves storing all those boxes. And, this is most important to me, people who never would have gotten a book of your poems in their hands, can access your poetry. I know there is this dream of paper, ink and cardboard in your hands, but once that you have gotten over this thrill, the greater excitement is having your book available to the widest possible audience. Here are several options again:

1. Put your book up on your web page. Many have done this and you can, too. One of the challenges of this, after you get the book online, is getting people come to read your book. You can do this by offering a service or something that people want enough to come to find your site and stay long enough to find the book. Whole books could be written on this subject, but look around the web, see which sites you go to often, what you look for on the web, what unique information can your offer? Do it.

2. Put your book on the web where other books are. Here on AHAPOETRY are two options. For books of haiku, tanka or renga my AHA Books offers online version of books. Check out AHA Books Online to see what is being done and all the various methods and styles of what we are trying. This costs you nothing, but neither does it earn any money for any of us.

3. Make an online book of your poems and have it placed in the Brautigan Virtual Library Bookshelf, also here on AHAPOETRY. Thus, you can benefit from the traffic generated by some of the other features of this site. Read some of the books in the  Brautigan Virtual Library. My goal is to earn money for poets’ book by offering the download of a book for a small sum. At this point I have not found a secure method of making small payments, but I am investigating this constantly. I do feel poets should be paid for their work as we do perform a service to humankind. The only problem is over-supply and under-demand.

4. A. J. Tedesco of “ Dreamspace ” who offers to put up books of poetry without cost on his site. I checked the site and it looks good to me. But you must decide for yourself if this is the proper place for your book of poems. ** 7/28/98

5. Rocket e-Books offers a library of books to be downloaded to be read with their palm-sized machines. I have one of these *books* and love it. You can upload your book of poetry to their site if you are a registered owner of an e-book. E-books are of two kinds: books sold online for downloading into e-books and ones for free like books out of copyright or books given by their authors (a boom for beginning poets).

6. The latest word (summer of 2000) is that big-name publishers who are interested in entering the e-book market are looking for books that they can offer free in e-editions to pull in interest for their other titles which are sold. You might get lucky when offering your poems to such a company for this purpose. You might even chip off some of their advertising dollars as they will be using your material to promote their company. Think about it. Investigate. 

7. Now we have Stephen King who is offering a pay-per-chapter option for his readers as he by-passes the publishers. I doubt one could do this with poetry, but it shows you where the book is flipping open. Hopefully, someday we will have a easy method of paying small amounts online so we can sell the right to download a book of poems.

So you wish to retire on the profits
made from selling your poetry? Please read farther.

UPDATE SEPTEMBER 18, 1997

Occasionally I get e-mail from people saying they have written a poem and are wondering how they can sell the poem or begin making money from the poem or even from a book of their poetry. Recently in the magazine Feelings, (Anderie Poetry Press, POB 85, Easton, PA, USA), the editor Carole J. Heffley, wrote her editorial on just this subject. I thought it might be helpful for those of you who have thoughts of ‘getting rich’ with your poetry to read her words:

Dear Friends,

… It’s been a long time since I’ve received one of these gems. In my nearly nine years as a poetry editor, I’ve never quite gotten used to letters like this. The letters I am referring to go more or less like this:

“Dear Editor, Here is my wonderful poem; how much will you pay me for it?” Believe it or not, some letters simply say: “Send my check to ______.”

I have developed a form letter in reply that goes something like this: “Dear Would-Be Poet, If you are expecting to be paid for poetry, you are sadly misinformed about the genre. You are wasting your time writing poetry because you have missed the point of the entire effort. You have failed to understand that poetry doesn’t pay, it costs. Writing poetry costs your heart and soul. It costs years of study, of reading, and of listening. Poetry costs going to readings not only to read your own work but to truly hear the work of others. Poetry isn’t a paying job; it is a way of life. If you expect to get paid for your work, dear poet, look elsewhere. Poetry pays infinite intrinsic rewards and few, if any, external ones. Sincerely, the Editor.”

Friends, you’ve got to love poetry to be a part of it. What else but a love of the art (and make no mistake about it, poetry is art) could explain endless hours spent on one poem — or even one line — squeezing it, rolling it, shaping it, into something that makes the connection between heart and paper via pen? Or driving an hour to stand with shaking knees behind a podium (or worse yet, just standing up in front of a group with no “prop”), to read one two-minute-or-less long poem? Or sending out submission after submission in hopes of publication; not in payment, but in publication.

You’ve got to love something that gives such small repayment for devotion: the ink on a sheet of printed paper that spells out your heart with your name attached. And yet, friends, I’ve got to tell you that after more than 30 years of writing poetry, just seeing a poem of mine in print, with my byline, is worth everything, nothing more required. Funny, isn’t it?

Carole J. Heffley

The Poetry of Catherine Chandler

It was through a mistake that I discovered the poetry of Catherine Chandler. I mistakenly attributed her touching poem 66 to the poet, Timothy Steele. Thank goodness for the mistake however as it has led me to search for more of her work on the Internet, and I was glad to find these other wonderful poems below. You must read the very last poem, Supernova – absolutely beautiful!

 

66

By Catherine Chandler

For K

Along route 66, connected by

a six-mile stretch of road, two towns align,

one bears your family name, the other mine.

A simple geographic fact. Yet I,

who’ve had enough of yellow woods, embrace

this synchronicity, this gracious scrap

of happenstance: two dots upon a map

inextricably linked in time and space.

A dog-eared yearbook often fails to quell

the might-have-beens haunting these forty years;

and so this U.S. atlas, opened to

the State of Oklahoma, helps me through

divergent latitudes and hemispheres,

and universes spinning parallel.

 

Writ

“Foole,” said my Muse to me, “Looke in thy heart and write.”
–Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella

And so I searched, but all that I could see
to write about was this: a vacant room
whose occupants once held a tenancy
of woodstream orchids, where an old perfume
clings in its quiet corners, knows my key
will turn, a frequent caller to a tomb
already ransacked, sifting through debris
only a fool like me would dare exhume.
I’ve served my warrant, Sir, and I am pleased
to tell you that, at last, I’ve found the clues,
the evidence you knew was there. I’ve seized
them, tagged and bagged them. Licensed by the Muse,
I have excised them from a body part—
iambics salvaged from a sundered heart.

O

The moon is full again. A latticed frost
clings to my window, while the crystal crust
of Lac St-Louis glows as if embossed
with pearls this February night. It must
be twenty-five below. I search for words
of warmth the Guaraní alone must know
to trace their land of butterflies and birds
I made my own a mere four weeks ago.
Meanwhile, the customary moon goes on,
through human inconsistency and pride,
to reverence the rising sun each dawn
and keep her promise to the ocean tide.
My question, this indifferent night, is how
I’ll muddle through to spring, one month from now.

Supernova

A burnished afternoon. Why dull it with
a lapse to metaphor
or scientific fact, or myth,
or say there’s more

to life than what the naked eye perceives
or what the ear can hear?
Why paraphrase the shhhhing leaves,
the swoosh of deer?

Why try to parse the chirrup of the birds
or posit love’s a stew
of enzymes? Why resort to words
when hush will do?

As afternoon declines to dusk I stand
uncertain and perplexed,
your ashes in my trembling hand.
I ask, What next?

Then grant the constancy of truths and laws,
of motive, meaning, mind;
of logic, reason, purpose, cause;
because I find

it’s easier to release you, as I must,
less harrowing by far,
knowing that all human dust
was once a star.

Books are Dead, Now What About Our Libraries?

From Blogcritics

By Noora Chahine

We’ve all heard it before; printed books are dying a slow, agonizing death and ebooks are the wave of the future. The Sony eReader and Amazon’s Kindle were at the forefront of the revolutionary wave and now every tech company seems to be jumping in on the act.

Despite those old purists stopping their ears and clinging to their dog-eared, yellowed tomes of yore, the end of the printed word is nearing. It may take a few decades, it may take a few years, but the inevitable will happen (barring some doomsday scenario of worldwide economic crash that cuts off all electricity).

But one subject that hasn’t been as widely talked about as the end of the brick-and-mortar bookstores will have wide implications across the country: the fate of our libraries.

Personally, I stopped using libraries years ago, once I discovered the joys and conveniences of ebooks. I’m just as certain that quite a few people won’t even bat an eyelash as libraries will be forced to close both state and nationwide, as they lose funding and fall under the dominance of the digitized world. But this isn’t happy news for everyone.

Unknown to a large number of people, libraries are more than just a collection of dusty books that patrons check in and out and old geezers frequent. Libraries have become community gathering places, free Internet access for the poor and the only source of intellectual knowledge for those living in the outer fringes of society who can’t afford even the cost of an ebook. Losing our culture of libraries will be an enormous blow to a large portion of our population.

But it’s happening.

Martha Nichols of Salon recently wrote about the increasing irrelevancy of libraries. “What’s the purpose of libraries — really? To be a community gathering place? To promote lifelong learning? To help users navigate the information flow?”

Read more: http://blogcritics.org/books/article/books-are-dead-now-what-about/#ixzz1T6Wr0uNk

 

Poem Shorts

Here are some really short poems I’ve written over the years.

Like a Train

Life

rushing through me

like a train

never stopping

and on it goes.

I’m the passenger

in the back row

looking at fleeting whims

and hidden parades

where I’m blowing

a horn contented.

A Star Disappeared

A star disappeared

and so I fell

into a bottomless well

until I reached its center

and looked at the world

All of a Sudden

All of a sudden it is dark.

It swallows me

and I am nothing

except eternity.

Release Me

Release me from the eyes of being seen

undo this sewn pattern

give me shelter in a thread

cut it and strip it

leave it please to be shapeless

the glass breaks

leave the pieces

Days Go By Like Cars

He did not come home today

from life

and so I looked out the

window to see

only myself within me,

blinking, hesitant, so quiet

never there except now

a remembrance

passing through my window,

too tired to look any more,

my silence waits

and the days go

by like cars.

The Wind

The wind says it is time to go,

and I fall from the tree

onto the pile of other leaves.

Then the wind blows us away.

Shadows

Shadows are being sewn

in the closets of my home

rattling the door.

To the End of the World

Please take me to the end

of the world.

Show me where it all began.

Make me a home on the sun.

Don’t you think it is a bit

too cold here?

The Wound

The wound

its been cleaned all right

in the dark hall.

Its been tended fine

with a sharpened knife.

Blisters

Blisters

soaring in my eyes

reaching to lie in the

floor of my head

to sleep

shouting at the

traffic I’ve made there.

Blind

Trickles of the night

falling between the cuts

of your skin

soaking you inside

now you cannot see.

Come Softly

Come softly from over there.

Be careful not to touch me too deeply.

I may fall away from this pattern.

Ignore the wind which never knew

where it came

kidnapping all our names.

I Had Been Delayed

The birds went,

he came,

its when I knew

I had been delayed.

A moment more

sufficed for the wind to pray,

calling forth shadows

of old origins,

it creaked shapes.

A little army

was left here

beside the window.

Candle

A candle flickered

bare in the window

without a friend to

encourage its lonely task,

a bitter wind that hurt it slowly

with untruths and insincerity

but it only burned

more firm in tireless

devotion

in an awareness of

something more

brighter than it.

Puddle

A puddle makes an ocean

I want to be there

capturing the sway

free

Suheir Hammad Performs First Writing Since

Here is another great one from Suheir Hammad! This is the very first poem of hers that I heard on YouTube some years ago, and I’ve been hooked ever since.