I printed out the unconscionably ragged/telltale efforts of the last few months. There are fours poem types. 3 I am calling word listy impressionable types; 3 sonnety ones - out of 6 drafted, having disposed of the ones where I was trying to say something, apparently, which of course never works; 2 quatrain strophe types that purport to an effect, and; a five pages of short-line quatrains that appears to draw across the lines of the other 3 types.
The interesting part is, I can't see these working together except by doing drawings that bridge them. I mean, of course they will be interspersed and all that, but it is new to me to assemble prospective poems and sense drawings are needed for specific bridgings, ass opposed to saying, Well, this MS needs drawings, period. Then fitting them in, usually in a kind of pattern, such as 3 poems: drawing; 3 poems: drawing, etc. I feel that some credit for this situation (I hesitate to call anything in art a development) should be accorded the fine individuals who contribute to the Concrete Formalist Poetry website. The effect of all their visual art/poetry must be felt and responded to. No, art is not merely on our walls. It is in our blood, or coursing through one's mind. Formed as perceived, or realized in reaction and perception.
I think the title will be "Show a Monsters" which pulls from a line - but I want to credit Ike Eisenhower, who is fond of posting images on face book where a puppy is always referred to as "a puppies." But there's more to that and this, as one should expect.
Anyway, I sure love writing. I love how each book is different. The process, etc. varies, always. This work will be produced and published in, I would say, about 6 weeks, and be my 25th book I use book and MS interchangeably). It is always new, and I am in a good place where I can recognize that this is a sign of a species of mental and perhaps emotional health. I may not be read much; I may never be reviewed; but then I know I can't flap my arms and fly to the moon. Or, so what. So what. Why on earth should I compare my life to others' lives? It just doesn't make sense to do that, certainly, not in terms of creative production. When assailed by doubts and self-loathing, it would be more to the point to ask God for his advice; to which He might respond, I could care less. Just be nice. Well, I can do that, most days anyway.
Other notions touching on collateral. I have looked at other Print-On-Demand sites, and lulu.com is still the best for me. I have been working on cleaning up the books to make them more regular in terms of which pages have numbers, etc. Oh God this sounds stupid, doesn't it? I mean, can you imagine anyone caring? I'll ask God. Lord, I am concerned at title pages and such having header lines or numbers. Guide me. Tchya! Right!
Once this puppy is in the book, I might go to life in the clouds - buy a Chromebook, etc. I have to say, I am quite excited about the Cloud Life. In the end, I will still create a pdf and publish via Lulu.com - I mean, I don't see changing my more-or-less incredible intractability. Or collaborating. HaHaHaHa! But, who knows. If someone asked I would twist myself into a Southern Belle's curls to oblige and impress. God forbid.
Finally, I have done good work in cleansing my bookshelf of all but three feet of work, constituting only that which I am reading or want to read, or is a lively hinge-point. So, I have concrete works, a couple friends' books - all my religious literature - Bishop Percy's three volumes (that's poetry - 17th Cent.) - Dante, The Aeneid. A few others. But I am selling off the majority of the litter of dead white men. Gee. I hope God approves.
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