|Nude Bruce Review issue 5 cover|
Anyway, this poem is part of a very short collection of poems, Fandango, I am going to try to (self?) publish as a chapbook in-print or online some time in the future.
Tamed Dracaenae has not found a place yet though I submitted it to dozens of publishers. Some have already rejected it, others will probably do the same as this collection is so multi-layered and certainly hard to access, abstruse really, and wouldn't sell much I suppose. If the publishers I submitted it to read this post they will reject it without even reading the manuscript, I have never been a really good seller of my own work.
Anyway, to have this poem published in issue 5 of Nude Bruce Review (p.87) and to have forgotten about it is somehow both encouraging and depressing; no, not depressing, I think I have come to the point that all this fandango (see the point) in the small-press and writing poetry or fiction, editing and publishing and socializing online mostly is pointless and a waste of energy I have to save for more important things in life, in my private life.
I really like this poem and tried to craft it as best as I could. It is a poem that should have been the start of a new project, but really I have so much to do and so little energy to do it that I abandoned the projects, and all the others I have had as regard writing since the summer of 2014.
I used to be a chain-smoker as well as a chain-writer, that was in the 1990s. Then I had 5 years of fallow land to cross. Dry sheet, dry muse, dry brain. It slowly came back and in the first half of the 2010s, it took me only 3 years to have 5 collections published: Maore (Lapwing), Carmine Carnival at Lazarus Media (Danse Macabre), The Loss (Flutter Press), Twelve Times Thirteen (Kind of Hurricane Press), and the latest Crossing Puddles (Robocup Press). Those and the two collections in French I (self-)published through mgv2>publishing: Etranges anges anglais and Post Mayotte Trauma. But Etranges anges anglais is a collection of poems written in England in the mid-1990s, so that doesn't really count, does it?
I have appeared (only) in seven journals or anthologies this year, (only) twelve poems published in total, and Crossing Puddles of course. I know I should not complain, I am being a spoiled-child to whom one would have taken his toy away. I know that accountancy and poetry won't match pretty well. I'm just worried that this fallow land of writing is back, for good. And if not for good, for a long time. And what worries me the most is that if it [writing] ever comes back, I know what could make it come back, and that is scaring me a lot.
Time will tell I suppose. Meanwhile, I'll enjoy the publication of this poem that was actually published over 2 months ago.
"Sapiens Sucks" in Nude Bruce Review issue 5