on (y)our own

after squeaking out the poem i posted online last night i found myself reading some aussie poets in various online pubs and blogs. i don't know, i feel an affinity for writers down under, whether that feeling is warranted or not. what have you. there's some astonishing writing coming from australia and new zealand. and i've even tried to copy the style of one or two younger oz poets. just don't tell them that, okay. i claim myself, as thom gunn did of his own work, a derivative poet and delight in that.

that was last night. after a long day at the office i dragged my sorry ass home, made dinner for us, then afterward managed to burn my left pointer finger with battery acid. don't ask. recall we have a 5-year-old and this house is awash in batteries, old and new. i'd invite you to my pity party but i'm fresh out of invitations.

one thing led to another and this being friday night and all. i set up nicholas to watch a few episodes of scooby-doo while anna did her own thing and i pulled off the shelf the tiny #2 because i remembered jonathan mayhew published a couple of poems there. damn! what a fine mag this is. i think there was also a #3 but i don't have that issue.

what i do have is a relative sure sense of my commitment to poetry. however, every writer is in possession of a fairly steady sense of insecurity. it comes with the territory like alcoholism and depression, or for some mysticism and ecstasy. i emailed a poet friend this morning about my ideas of self-publishing and pointed to a younger british poet, rob stanton, who self-published some chaps that are available here at lulu.com. last month i told some local poets my intention to do my next chap on my own and utilize probably multiple formats, such as posting it here on my blog, email the pdf to friends and anyone who would like a copy and also fetishizing it in paper.

i got the feeling from my friends that while self-publishing is probably a worthy endeavour it might not be the most professional of habits. well, phooey on that. poetry is the least professional, if you want to define profession as in getting paid $$$$, of the arts or of any human undertaking. boo hoo.

back to the self-pity. we all sometimes, by varying degrees, suffer from oh-woe-is-me. my d.i.y. ethos sounds great on paper or the pixels but how can i be a real poet if i don't have a book from some trade publisher. oh shit. now i'm on a slippery slope. not that nobody cares so much. least of all me. still, there it is, the pity. i told myself to do myself a favor, and forget it. do your own thang, and fuck all the rest.

but then, i began thumbing thru the tiny #2 and rediscovered shanna compton's wonderful essay, 'Why DIY? On Vanity, Legitimacy, & Other Nonsense'. a breath of air, finally. i don't know if this essay is available online but it should be. compton puts things in perspective with a healthy dose of earthy humor. here she is on our own gumptiousness.

If you're a writer at all you're probably a megalomaniac. Just calling yourself a poet is to admit your vanity. You may seem the insecure, shy, self-depracating creative-type at parties, but you believe you're a genius, at least on occassion. It's all right, really -- you're in great company.

compton continues with a list of poets who not only self-published but also self-reviewed their own work. you know the names, whitman, blake, dickinson etc. etc.

compton's essay is essentially a primer to creating alternative distribution channels by opening up the eyes of poets that if you are waiting around for some one(s) to recognize your genius then you are on the wrong track. poetry is not a career. it is not a hobby. it is, if we are lucky, a life. she skewers attitudes and contemporary publishing myths. compton lays it down. do it yourself. her essay evaporated my self-pity and was just what i needed after a very long day.