Some phrases appear to be lost somewhere in the bleak back alleys of etymology. The phrase, “up and running,” seems to be utterly untraceable, aside from an association with machinery that is running optimally.
At the moment, following decades of moderate isolation, my poetry sphere seems to be running at a nice click. I am now getting tangible feedback on my work, and I’ve become more involved in poetry circles.
Residing, as I am, in a relatively small community is a huge help in this, and there are myriad poets here who share my passion. Moderating a small monthly poetry circle in a cozy cafe isn’t hurting, either.
The huge lucrative conventions, of which I have attended many at my author table, are either no longer available to me or are too far away. Instead, I am signing and selling my poetry books locally.
A few bookshops, libraries, and cafes now carry my work, minus the table fees, hotel costs, and other traveling expenses of those bygone conventions, and the heady frenetic pace of selling has calmed down.
Here, poets are invited to post their work in poetry boxes: window boxes that have been mounted on the exterior walls of local merchant shops so that someone walking by can chance to read a poem.
A local newspaper has asked for Autumn poems for their upcoming edition. An annual author fair welcomes writers of all ilks to sign and sell their books in a nearby hotel. These days, I am pleasantly busy.
Reading my poetry, along with other poets, from a podium in a comfy library setting was a gentle affair, as I imagine will be the case at the Fiber Festival next month. So many invitations in such a short time.
It’s been easier here to find a community of readers and writers who appreciate the written word. After more than 50 years my poetry sphere is finally up and running, and I am loving this small town feel.
Image: worldarchitecture.org
At the moment, following decades of moderate isolation, my poetry sphere seems to be running at a nice click. I am now getting tangible feedback on my work, and I’ve become more involved in poetry circles.
Residing, as I am, in a relatively small community is a huge help in this, and there are myriad poets here who share my passion. Moderating a small monthly poetry circle in a cozy cafe isn’t hurting, either.
The huge lucrative conventions, of which I have attended many at my author table, are either no longer available to me or are too far away. Instead, I am signing and selling my poetry books locally.
A few bookshops, libraries, and cafes now carry my work, minus the table fees, hotel costs, and other traveling expenses of those bygone conventions, and the heady frenetic pace of selling has calmed down.
Here, poets are invited to post their work in poetry boxes: window boxes that have been mounted on the exterior walls of local merchant shops so that someone walking by can chance to read a poem.
A local newspaper has asked for Autumn poems for their upcoming edition. An annual author fair welcomes writers of all ilks to sign and sell their books in a nearby hotel. These days, I am pleasantly busy.
Reading my poetry, along with other poets, from a podium in a comfy library setting was a gentle affair, as I imagine will be the case at the Fiber Festival next month. So many invitations in such a short time.
It’s been easier here to find a community of readers and writers who appreciate the written word. After more than 50 years my poetry sphere is finally up and running, and I am loving this small town feel.
Image: worldarchitecture.org
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