Poetry

In the world of commercial publishing there’s only one thing guaranteed to turn even fewer bucks than  a collection of short stories, and that’s a collection of poems.

The novel is the most popular  and therefore the most lucrative medium for the written word. People like a good story, a substantial story, something they can lose themselves in for days, something they can take on holiday with them. When I’m picking a novel myself I go for the writers I’ve enjoyed and engaged with in the past, but I also feel the thickness of the book. There’s no sense paying £6.99 for a thin volume that’s only going to last you an evening, when for the same money you can get a thick wedge of a book that’ll keep you going for a week. But it’s hard producing novels. And when they’re finally written, they leave the muse gasping for breath.

Write too many of them and the block sets in. Suddenly your favourite author’s gone quiet for  a bit and then out pops a collection of short stories –  after that the poetical sketches, and you know things have gone sour.

I’m being a little cynical here. You can make a bit of money with poetry – publishing it, criticising it, teaching people how to do it, even reading it aloud at public gatherings, but the one thing you cannot do is make any money by the soul baring, gut wrenching business of actually writing it.

These are my more recent poems, self published and hosted from my public Dropbox folder –  a poetical sketchbook, a view on the world through my window. Click on the cover to get the book – epub version only.

The need to write is a mystery.

The need to write poetry the biggest mystery of them all.