Most of the work I do involves narrative
publications such as novels, biographies, and such. Unfortunately, today's
publishing world is all about money. In order to publish, the work has to be
marketable. For poets, that isn't very good news. I've said this before. Poetry
is a dying art. Sure, there are people who still enjoy poetry, but the hoards of
people rushing out to buy books of poetry is slowly diminishing. That isn't to
say that no publising companies publish books of poems. Some do. However, if you
think it's difficult to publish a novel, then publishing a book of poetry is
torture.
I'm a big proponent having patience and
using the system. I tell my clients to polish their manuscripts and send query
letters to agents and publishing companies. I tell my clients to 'keep at it.' I
tell them to self-publish as a last resort. However, with poetry, I have
different advice. I think it's very prudent to self-publish poetry. Your work
can be distributed to those who know you best, and if you're work is good
enough, friends will give your book to friends. It's a great way to get you name
out there and have your words live on 'forever.'
I suppose I need to take my own advice.
My grandmother was a talented poet. Though she never published her work, she did
have her poems printed into booklets that she distributed to family and friends.
Her poems are magical. I've been told that I need to publish them, but I fully
know the daunting task that comes with publishing poetry. I have been thinking,
however, about self-publishing her poetry. I think that's a great idea.
What are your thoughts on the art of
poetry? Do you think it's difficult to publish poetry? Do you believe that self
publishing poetry is a good idea?
In honor of today's blog, I'll post some
of my grandmother's spring poetry .
In after days when Im
no more may one recall the days before and say, 'With love, she penned her
lines in memory of another time.' And may that one go on to say, what satisfies
my soul today, 'In God she chose to put her trust, thus penned not lines of shame
or lust but lovely thoughts and
lovely lines in memory of another time.' Virginia P.
Carlisle Hallelujah it is
Spring The gardeners with their
plows Are turning over the
earth Preparing beds for little
seed That soon will sprout in birth.
The children of
yesterday Felt the earth between their
toes As they followed Daddys
plow Up and down the garden
rows. When his plow overturned the wiggle
Of a redworm twas a
signal, Then and now, to shout and sing,
Hallelujah, it is
spring! Oh Herald the Spring With the coming of
springtime There are songbirds and
flowers But when I was a
child We spent many
hours Down on the creek
bank With old tin pails Dipping for
tadpoles We found without
fail; Where a fall in the
water From a crossing
log Was just part of the
price For capturing a frog.
Our captives were carried
In fruit jars to
school Where they swam round and
round Like fish in a pool.
Fascination grew
daily Throughout the
classroom As tadpoles lost tails,
Growing legs very soon.
O herald the
spring Songbirds and bright
flowers But when tadpoles compete,
Try not to look sour.
The Merry Month of May Spring is calling my
attention To the merry month of
May Where out in the rural
areas Wild daises have their day.
Clusters of pink
roses Climb old fences here and
there And white magnolia
blossoms Are seen most everywhere.
The woods are lush and
green Where wild life romps and plays.
I think of Sherwood
Forest Featuring Robin Hoods day.
The songbirds are a
twitter, Each sings a different way.
Queen Annes lace blooms in
meadows. What a lovely display.
Yet theres something that I
miss In the merry month of May.
Could it be the bare-foot
children Playing games of yesterday? |