I have published only one book of poems but I have literally hundreds of poems, hundreds of pages of poems carefully stored away in my basement. I write poetry silently, constantly, in my head while I am doing other things. Some of these mind-poems I write down and work with. Over the years this process has given me quite a collection, which I rarely show to anyone and have never wanted to publish. Still, I type them up, copy them, put them in well marked boxes and wait. For what am I waiting? The right moment? The right reader? The right feeling of readiness inside myself? Poems are the self speaking in its own strange language. Perhaps, in me, in spite of having so many published books, this deep, peculiar, eloquent self prefers to stay hidden? Or perhaps I haven't wanted to pass the poems through the hands of the traditional publishing industry. Perhaps the medium for poetry should be more direct, from writer to reader, as if one were speaking or sending an Instant Message, poem by poem. Maybe the Internet, with its odd mixture of immediacy and anonymity will turn out to be the perfect medium to call out of the darkness my hidden poems?
 The Hunger Song (Poems) |