Ink

I finished my first volume of poetry, Ink, this weekend.

Though I would like to say here that it was published, I can claim only to have assembled fifteen of my most recent poems and printed them in a hand-made book. There was a time, I suppose, in the history of books and book-making, when what I have done would qualify as 'publication', but even that broad categorisation requires some qualification. I think that, besides simply making the first copy, in order for it to be published, I have to a) make more copies, and b) disseminate them.

My goal in writing poetry is expression; my goal in publishing poetry is permanence.

I would be lying if I said that I don't care what happens to my work. I don't think I would even write if I thought it wasn't going to last; if I had no desire for it to represent me in the world after I am gone. It's not fame but persistence that I seek. There is ambition in my work, arrogance in the assumption of genius, hubris after all. But why not? Without the folly would anything ever emerge from this chaotic dance? Who among us creates but those without the sense to know better or the humilty to refrain from the desire to be God?

To the poet belong the spoils, for no greater act of courage won a battle nor a war averted. If, that is, said poet can manage to get published.