Since then I’ve worked exclusively in publishing, first for game companies, now in education. I also continue to write, study, and promote poetry. It’s my opinion that poetry used to belong to the people, until academics stole it. It’s high time to steal it back from them.
It’s an irreverent collection, somewhat in the tradition of Charles Bukowski. When the manuscript arrived, the very first poem, “These Poems Are Potentially Offensive” made me laugh out loud with its delightful word play.…
These Poems Are
So, if your eyes are delicate,
read about sailboats. So stern
and solid, made of aged wood.
So different from the strong
rigidity of a feisty ignorant boner.
And the rest of the collection is every bit as skillful in its badinage, as in its Bukowski-like honesty. I’m thrilled to have it included in the Popcorn Press catalog.
If you’ve been following my posts the past several days, you’ll know that I’ve been working on a Valentine’s Day sonnet, prompted by ideas suggested from my Georgian buddy John Cochrane. I’ve also been using the project as an opportunity to discuss the writing process: 1. Prewriting, 2. Drafting, 3. Revising, 4. Editing, and 5. Publishing.
Note the repeated use of the word “draft.” It’s too early to call this a completed poem. I’m still too close to it myself and have had very little critique from other people. So, despite the fact that it’s had some revision (the couplet, for example has changed from “They’ve left us here, caretakers of a time / that’s past, but still preserved in this, our rhyme” to “caretakers of an age / that’s past, but still preserved here on this page” to its current incarnation), and I’ve edited pretty carefully (spelling, punctuation, correct word usage), I remain suspicious of a few things.
(from ideas suggested by John Cochrane)
The kids have left us. All the rooms upstairs
are empty of their noise. All that remains
are boxes in the attic—clothes, toy trains,
some picture books and dolls, old teddy bears.
Our friends are leaving. Some retiring south;
others taking jobs too far away
to visit much. A few, I’m sad to say,
divorced, or dead—the words twist in my mouth.
Our youth is gone: my hair, your girlish waist.
We’ve garnered wrinkles with the passing years,
the lines beside your eyes more laughs than tears—
your beauty’s changed, but it can still be traced.
They’ve left us here, two old caretakers of
a different time—but one no better, Love.