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Showing posts from June, 2014

About Publishers Marketplace

Publishing professionals should know about Publishers Marketplace. This helps you find critical information and unique databases, find each other, and to do business better electronically.

You will especially enjoy the Publishers Lunch daily newsletter. Publishers Lunch is the industry's "daily essential read," now shared with more than 40,000 publishing people every day. Each report gathers together stories from all over the web and print of interest to the professional trade book community, along with original reporting, plus a little perspective and the occasional wisecrack added in.

The full version, Publishers Lunch Deluxe, is e-mailed every business day to members of PublishersMarketplace.com. It contains 5 to 10 stories a links a day (or more), plus different standing weekly features (Bestseller Radar and The Most Reviewed).

Members can search a multi-year archive of previous Lunch newsletters, receive an optional nightly e-mail reporting 10 to 50 deal transactions…

30 British Poets

Here you may listen to 30 British poets reading their own work! The majority of the recordings are taken from BBC broadcasts and are published here for the first time.

From Alfred, Lord Tennyson to Ted Hughes, this three CD compilation offers a survey of some of the greatest British poets of a century and more. The selection includes historic recordings by Tennyson and Robert Browning; poet laureates John Masefield, Cecil Day Lewis, John Betjeman and Ted Hughes; unforgettable voices, such as Edith Sitwell and Dylan Thomas; and rare recordings by Philip Larkin and Edwin Morgan.


Ed Pacht on Poetry as a Calling

Ed Pacht, a frequent contributor to this blog, has written:

Poetry is a calling. As a Christian, I consider it a sacred calling, an expression of something other than earthly. I consider this true even when, as is the case in most of these poems, the subject matter is not religious at all.

A poem represents a stepping aside from ordinariness, a suspension of the usual way of thinking, an entrance into a realm of words that point to what is beyond words. I find this to be true even in the most trivial of my poems. Even when I am making a bad pun, I find that I am not seeing as I usually see, nor thinking as I usually think. And then there are poems that speak of deep things I can barely imagine, and these too arise from extraordinary ways of thinking.



Ed Pacht's poems

Go Ye Into the City
Fire Screaming in the Sky
Pain Like Broken Bones
A Really Big Party
Mass of the Visitation
Lament for the Hills
Reflections on Screaming Fire
The Rose
Spoiled Milk
Why Do I Write?
Acrostic for Hannah Mulliken
L…

Each in his own Tongue

by William Herbert Carruth (1859-1924)
 Each in his own Tongue A fire-mist and a planet,   A crystal and a cell,   A jelly-fish and a saurian,   And caves where the cave-men dwell;   Then a sense of law and beauty   And a face turned from the clod, -- Some call it Evolution,   And others call it God.
A haze on the far horizon,  The infinite, tender sky,  The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,  And the wild geese sailing high;  And all over upland and lowland  The charm of the golden-rod, -- Some of us call it Autumn,  And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,  When the moon is new and thin,  Into our hearts high yearnings  Come welling and surging in:  Come from the mystic ocean,  Whose rim no foot has trod, -- Some of us call it Longing,  And others call it God.
A picket frozen on duty,  A mother starved for her brood,  Socrates drinking the hemlock,  And Jesus on the rood;  And millions who, humble and nameless,  The straight, hard pathway plod, -- Some call it C…

A Tale of Fallen Cities

Two Cities
By Peter Mullen


The ruins of Athens are cast up by the Thames;
These fallen cities the graveyards of their gods.
Similar in hubris, whether to blaspheme the oracle
Or second-guess the futures in commodities.

A yellow light arpeggio in the stream
Reflecting haunted buildings
Given over to Cronus and Aphrodite
It is past lunchtime so
The priests sleep and the traders carouse;
Only the ferryman still exacts his fare.

We are alike in our demise,
Cynics cursing the polis;
Sophisticates despising civic pride
When a people forgets its manners, it has died.



The Blind Men and the Elephant

by John Godfrey Saxe

It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind

The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl: God bless me!
but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!

The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!

The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
I see, quoth he, the Elephant
Is very like a snake!

The Fourth reached out an eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain, quoth he;
'Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!

The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: Even the blindest man
Can tell what this resemb…

Thumbs Mightier Than Fear

I attend have an annual Teen reading with multiple students from local high schools, and there is some really good writing being brought forward. I’m attaching a piece I wrote at one of those events that should be encouraging to kids with stage fright. (I was one for sure – so very long ago – terrified to stand up before my peers – so I ended up as a preacher and performance poet. Go figure.) Anyhow, all the scheduled readers had read and the moderator was just about to close the meeting when one lad, urged by his girlfriend, raised his hand and asked to read. He’d been thumbing madly into his phone all during the evening, and bravely stood up to read a compelling piece about being afraid to read, but yet wanting to write and be heard. That grabbed me and I had to write as soon as I got home. I think you’ll like this one.

ed pacht


Thumbs Mightier Than Fear

Afraid,
afraid of speaking out,
afraid of what they’ll think,
afraid of what I’ll say,
just afraid –
I don’t trust myself,

Mount Athos

Athos Tabernacle
by Alice C. Linsley

Gaunt man in black monkish garb
beside his hermit house sits
in contemplation of the headstone moon
streaming light on his bearded face.

From gnarled fingers flow whispered prayers,
waterfall beads on a black cord.
At prayer often distracted, though not hearing impaired.
In sunlit stillness, he is a semi-transparent icon.

He watches high soaring hawks and lithe lizards,
Breathes pollen of black pine and salt of the sea.
He too is a visible sign of Heaven’s peace offering,
His soul a tinderbox for the Divine Fire.

E.E. Cummings on Spring

[in Just-] BY E. E. CUMMINGS
in Just- spring          when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman
whistles          far          and wee
and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer old balloonman whistles far          and             wee and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's spring and
         the
                  goat-footed
balloonMan          whistles far and wee

Swift's Meditation Upon a Broomstick

ACCORDING TO THE STYLE AND MANNER OF THE HONOURABLE ROBERT BOYLE'S MEDITATIONS


This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest; it was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs; but now, in vain does the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk; 'tis now at best but the reverse of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth, and the root in the air; 'tis now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other things clean, and be nasty itself: at length, worn to the stumps in the service of the maids, 'tis either thrown out of doors, or condemned to its last use, of kindling a fire. When I beheld this I sighed, and said within myself, Surely mortal man is a Broomstick! Nature sent him into the world strong and lusty, in a thriving …