novels – Mick Canning

I know. It’s been a while.

I’ve been thinking about how I publish my poetry and stories, and concluded that the simple way is the best way. I don’t wish to spend a lot of time and money submitting them to competitions and magazines, putting them to one side where they may end up forgotten or just unpublished while I decide to submit them ‘just one more time.’ I’m not interested in putting a lot of time and energy into chasing the best deal or the most prestigious publications.

The whole purpose of writing is firstly for myself, and secondly because (naturally) I’d like to be read. It doesn’t have to be a large audience, I’m quite chuffed when anyone let’s me know they’ve read something of mine and enjoyed it. In which case I might as well just write some more zines and publish work on this blog. It feels like far less pressure. And the novel I’ve finished (Long Shadows) and which is still being edited I might submit to an agent or two, but I’ve no intention of spending months and years trying. If I’ve no luck I will quite quickly just self-publish it.

Anyway, putting my writing where my mouth is, here’s a poem.

Inspiration, writers’ block, ideas…I could write about all or any of these topics. Instead, I thought I’d simply post another poem – plus, of course, a picture (with far better weather than we’re having here) – and let it do the job instead.

337a

I’m a collector of images long stored in my memory,

A desert inferno of razor-sharp rocks.

A mountain breeze rippling an icy cold puddle,

Thick mists and thin soups, flowers, trains, and old shoes.

I’m a collector of memories, both mine and ones borrowed,

The harrowing journey, the lovers’ first kiss.

There’s betrayal and loyalty, flatulence, hope,

There’s a child being born, and a wolf at the door.

I’m a collector of stories, the stranger the better,

Believable, odd, and ridiculous too.

Close to home or historical, alien, fanciful,

Some to keep secret and some I can tell.

I’m a collector of moonbeams and of chance reflections,

A collector of sadness and bittersweet pain.

A collector of strangely shaped stones in a circle,

And dreams that tell stories I don’t understand.