Poets, tied together in time, bound by page and pen, a sealed covenant?
Time does it take to deliver yourself to a poem. Deep rooted are the words, that tangle us up in thread of paper, that weave us in and out of the world. Drowned by ink, we sit within it, as others may yet come to do.
Poetry is hard to publish, it simply is. Mixed collections of collections are what we will begin with printing. Twelve poems per poet, does that sound like a fair and reasonable starting point? A collection of twelve poems published between twelve poets? With an optional mini-essay or short story to accompany?
We can start something new, together…
To submit to a collection of collections, we ask for 12 poems from every contributor, but you are only required to submit the first 6.
By publishing poetry together, you gain a better chance of exposure.
Poetry community collections call on a person to sit with themselves, we do not call on a theme, nor a pre-existing community, although you may arrive as one. Twelve individuals, twelve collections to a book. Alternatively, individuals may publish via the semi-self-publishing pathway.
Poetry by, Marie R. Summers:
Growing up.
A full grown woman does not envy,
What is not hers to own.
And in owning a yearning,
One might seek the word, inspiration,
Instead of pained grievous momentary glimpses,
Of what they might be, could be.
She admires those who stand with,
Something unique to their particular quality;
Something earned and refined.
Perhaps mastered one day.
A full grown woman has not claimed her womanhood,
Her worth, until she claims such a mindset.
For she is not whole and still seeks,
Something of herself.
Don’t hide. Go seek. Envy nothing.
Man on a Bridge.
He was sitting,
Not standing.
Perhaps meditating,
On the sound of the ocean,
Of traffic.
Is he a traveller too?
Taking in the stranger’s place?
Is he a traveller too?
His skin of origin unknown.
Is he foreign,
Or my kin?
Today, are both the same thing?
Sun & Moon.
A moon stole my shine,
Borrowed it for a night.
Come morning, it was mine,
And I realised there was no fight.
Spun & Hung.
Tying web to catch fly.
A darkened tunnel,
Spun out of rage and blood.
To crawl out of,
To crawl into.
Depends on the karma.
Black widow, she watches,
All who were behind, catch up.
Caught are they,
In a web of time,
That cannot be unspun.
“You know nothing, John Snow.“
You do not know the shape of my hell.
The depths of darkness I have wandered alone.
You know not the gaping void I filled with gentleness,
With compassion for pain.
You know not who I am.
You know nothing.
The Painted Face.
Painted faces still worn,
In slender made up garb,
Skin coloured skin.
My eyes are not colour enough?
You need more of me?
Lips unkissed,
Beneath loaded led.
Are not these lips?
These lips belong to feeling,
Sensual passing of flavourous scent.
Of moderation.
Free breathing skin,
A finer thing than dust.
It’s time to write, while we prepare to publish.
You might yet prepare a collection of twelve collections as a writer’s group, or set up themes among newly budding poetry workshops. Please, do this without a reliance on us, it would be wonderful to simply inspire community publications and to print them with you later down the way.
Otherwise, do write while sat beneath a tree, on a train, or over a cup of tea at 3am. We know the drill, wherever and whenever inspiration strikes. Poetry is a present before it becomes a pastime. With much going on, perhaps the poets have much to express and say? Time will tell. Poet autonomy will always be encouraged and supported, we will never force you into a collection you do not feel wholly devoted to and a part of.
