I’m toying with the idea of putting a few poems together in another kindle publishing project. Still, I know that the number of poetry readers is few, I’ve been on both ends of it, working for Cutaway Magazine I saw just how many people wanted to submit poetry to us, and how few wanted to purchase and read those poems. I know Kindle won’t be any different. Still if it does nothing more than give me motivation to write a bit more often it’s maybe worth it. I listened to Richard Burton read Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk wood on Youtube last night and ended up pausing it occasionally to write a few lines of my own. It’s not my most loved work of that kind, but Richard Burton’s voice certainly lends it charm, my favorite passage is:
Alone until she dies, Bessie Bighead, hired help, born in
the workhouse, smelling of the cowshed, snores bass and
gruff on a couch of straw in a loft in Salt Lake Farm and
picks a posy of daisies in Sunday Meadow to put on the grave
of Gomer Owen who kissed her once by the pig-sty when she
wasn’t looking and never kissed her again although she was
looking all the time.
I love the sadness to Bessie’s life waiting for that second kiss. A few nights before I wrote a poem after visiting with family and spending an hour with my little niece who is a whirlwind of movement and noise aged two. It isn’t inspired by Thomas, but its a very recent poem (I always regret posting very recent things online, but old things seem of the past and not sufficient sometimes.)
You unite us with your joy and sorrow
Your each cry of emotion makes us rise and fall
like a wave around the room, so vividly.
Your displeasure at vegetables – your inability
to say ‘princess’ your oration, you vocalize our names so beautifully
at each moment are alert to everything.
You are a transition between two people
constantly changing now, aged two.
Between your parents, each static,
and between your baby-self and an adult
we do not know yet, who isn’t finished or ready.
How can we also care so little about the world we leave you?
You select human functions, some you excel at
we line up for your goodbyes, cheek-kisses and whispers
You cannot negotiate steps. You cannot write
but already skim across touch-screen tablets with finger tips
You eat a mouthful between games, between
inventories of toys, outfit changes for dolls.
Eva soon to be three, and changing faster.
You look nothing like me thankfully
you have nothing of my worries and greyness
we are more mirrors of you, smiling when you smile
Your name is Hebrew for life
and Gaelic for radiance.
Anybody with any tips or experiences with Kindle publishing do leave your advice in the comments!