The Poet Left at the Altar - Chapter 2
It seems Gods of Water and Air won't published this November after all. Kitsune Books is closing its doors shortly thereafter and the situation would orphan my book, taking it out of print after only a month and a half. So I have to accept this loss and move on. Here's another poem from the book that almost was -- maybe the once-and-future book? Thanks to Georgetown Review, which first published the poem.
Squabble
We squabble over a word’s meaningand history’s precedents while outside, contained in tidy pots, golden roses open their blouses. Daisies spin aroundbright wheels, each petal uniqueas a last exclamation.
Squabble with lifewhen we could descend like Monet into its round dot, open a doorand find a tiny gray feather whose shaft is the perfect arc.
Squabble, when we could arch like that? Be a tiny, shining spine’scatenary curve.I used to gather weedsfrom the fields, their disordera squabble of vowels, but now see wisdom in roundness, a floating truthlike a lily on a pond.
The fragility of the small press poetry community is on my mind in a new way after this experience. How many poets are publishing with operations that leave them buying their own books to sell, with chain bookstores emperiling the indepedents, many of whom won't carry poetry anymore because it doesn't sell. We live in a fragile poetry world, sustained, though by the sense of community that increases as the economic uncertainties close presses and booksellers down. What will save poetry? because it has survived throughout history and surely will never die. I think this medium in which you're reading, is poetry's new frontier. I hate to say it, but print is really dying. Perhaps to arise in a new form -- downloadable, printable eBooks of poetry? I have one on my phone already.
Squabble
We squabble over a word’s meaningand history’s precedents while outside, contained in tidy pots, golden roses open their blouses. Daisies spin aroundbright wheels, each petal uniqueas a last exclamation.
Squabble with lifewhen we could descend like Monet into its round dot, open a doorand find a tiny gray feather whose shaft is the perfect arc.
Squabble, when we could arch like that? Be a tiny, shining spine’scatenary curve.I used to gather weedsfrom the fields, their disordera squabble of vowels, but now see wisdom in roundness, a floating truthlike a lily on a pond.
The fragility of the small press poetry community is on my mind in a new way after this experience. How many poets are publishing with operations that leave them buying their own books to sell, with chain bookstores emperiling the indepedents, many of whom won't carry poetry anymore because it doesn't sell. We live in a fragile poetry world, sustained, though by the sense of community that increases as the economic uncertainties close presses and booksellers down. What will save poetry? because it has survived throughout history and surely will never die. I think this medium in which you're reading, is poetry's new frontier. I hate to say it, but print is really dying. Perhaps to arise in a new form -- downloadable, printable eBooks of poetry? I have one on my phone already.
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