Poetry Self-Publication Project

For English class, we were challenged to "self-publish" our own original poetry by putting it out in the world in the most creative ways we could come up with. This wasn't easy, as previous years had already taken most of the cool ideas. The following video is of myself documenting my self-publication process. 

Some of the ways I self-published (if it wasn't clear in the video) were:

• printing out 35 sheets of card stock paper at Staples and cutting them into 100+ individual bookmark-sized copies
• leaving copies in the pamphlet holders in buses/in map holders in Granville Island
• sharing and discussing it with friends 
• posting it on bus stops/benches/bulletin boards/signs/poles in UBC, Kits, Granville Island, and by Canada Place downtown
• giving copies to store owners (Banyan Books and Signed Sealed Delivered Stationery on W4th) to leave for customers
• hiding copies inside of classic literature books in public libraries
• putting copies in the baskets of locked bikes
• posting it on an online forum and receiving feedback (https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/37jq89/fishermans_tale/)
• submitting it to a poetry contest (TeenInk)

I tried to vary the methods in which I self published with keeping a few factors in mind. I tried to leave it in places where many demographics could access it (such as in touristy areas such as Canada Place and Granville Island and busier commercial areas such as W4th Ave), in thoughtful locations where people would be interested and willing to read it (in a book/stationery store, in a library), and in places where people wouldn't generally expect to see poetry (on the bus, in their bicycle basket). In addition, I shared it in ways where I could receive feedback from readers (on Reddit, and by sharing it with friends), and on sites that were meant for the self-publication of poetry (TeenInk contest and Reddit Original Content forum). By posting it online and leaving it in books at a library, it gives my self-publication more of a lasting affect. Even after the poems come down off of the signs and bulletins, people will still be able to find it online, and will be able to stumble across it in a library book for years to come.

Poem: "Fisherman's Tale" (Original Poem) *See previous post*
Music: "Thunder" and "Patient Love" by Passenger

Fisherman's Tale (Original Poem)

we come from a long line of fisherman
generations and generations before

we wake in the angry dawn
emerging from humble cabins
like periwinkles caught in the tide

we wake as the first hazy evidence
of time moving forward

we are a wharf with no ships
just a makeshift rod and a rusty reel

we surrender to the emerald sea
jeweled with celestial constilations
of seastars clinging to rock but

we challenge the sky
that burns tentatively orange
between indigo and stone white

we cast to whip the wind
to reprimand the temperamental storms
to leave scars that fade into soft thin clouds

we cast to offer our gentlest favour
to the deep churning current

we pray for the gracious alms
to fill our mended nets
with merciful marlin and kingfish
a courtly school of herring

we reel in heartstrings lost at sea
generations and generations before
torn away by the damned winds
claimed by the ocean
ready to be hoisted ashore

Strong like a Fish

Inspired by Michael Ondaatje's "Sweet like a Crow"

Your voice sounds like the national anthem

sung in an empty stadium

like water filling an empty jug

like a baby’s first breath

like a take-out dinner, like someone tying their shoes

before the big race, like a clean tee-shirt,

a pot of boiling water

a roaring crowd

a bus pulling away from the stop.

Like the bells on a jester’s hat,

like a trumpet solo

like a father’s dancing

like the second pancake from the batch,

rain on a sunny day, a hyacinth macaw

stuck on a perch

like a mariachi band on a cruise ship

like a lottery ticket,

a heated game of ping-pong, like a thousand

wedding days, like someone

being bounced on a trampoline,

the slap of a baseball as it reaches the first baseman's glove,

an echo in a cave of lost travellers,

the sound of a cash register popping open,

like pizza being sliced to share among friends

like opening a package in front of the mailman

like finding your car keys in your pocket

just in time to make your appointment, like an older brother

teaching his sister to read, like a secondhand tennis racket,

like 7 bungee cords snapping in unison

like 83 toddlers taking their first steps

like the television left on to ESPN

and someone on their way down from the diving board.   

The Tire Swing

A poetic response to William Carlos William's "Red Wheelbarrow"

so much depends
upon

a broken tire
swing

hidden in tall
grasses

under the dying
oak. 

Children

A Poetic Response to "The Metaphor" by Budge Wilson

Children are humans in the purest form
Unscathed by superficial masses
Who are judging always judging
They stay intact in an instinctive state
Genuine in thought and desires

Some remain this way
Child-like in spirit
A conscious choice to counter the current
Subject to ridicule totally exposed
But pushing on moving upstream
To higher ground

She was one of those people
More mindful than most
An adult with a child-like truth
An acceptance an excitement
A genuineness of being

But intolerable
By those who are swept by the current
Who cannot see clearly
Because they are moving too fast
Trying trying trying to keep up

She reflects the light
But hatred is blinding
And only those like herself
Can interpret her colours

Patient

A Poetic Response to "Sound of the Hollyhocks" by Hugh Garner

I can hear the doors
Their creaks are tales older than the trees they're made from
The wind doesn't whisper, it shouts,
Carrying the conversations of strangers lifetimes away
But footsteps are the worst
Telling fabricated stories of lands never reached
Just enough to make me discontent with where I am.

I am my diagnosis
A number on a chart
A pinpoint on a graph
So they can understand why they can't
I'm crazy delusional mentally impaired
Never been the same since that one day
But the doors they tell me otherwise
And I listen to the doors, not the doctors
The doors are louder.

How to Decide

A Poetic Response to "Gentlemen Your Verdict" by Michael Bruce

the value of life

is not determined until

it is all over 

sometimes its greater 

to make the wrong decision

than make none at all

what is bravery

but taking the harder path

as all the rest end

it's more heroic

to live with murder and guilt

than to die with it