Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Arlene Corwin writes

I Celebrate Self-Publishing

Whitman wrote “I Celebrate Myself”
And I took note of what he wrote.
I’ve celebrated selves for years;
Selves a salve to heal, but now
I celebrate the self that prints, the self that dares, 
That puts it out to air
For all the world to share in.

Whether throwing pearls to swine
Or tasters of the finest wine,
One writes willing to pay the price -
No publisher for huge advances
To build bank accounts and confidences.

With one part fantasy,
One part ambition, 
One part vanity -
Whatever motive,
Publishing itself is votive;
Concentrated vibrancy,
Sacrifice the price.  

The prize? Who knows?  
It’s simply nice to share and know
Your work’s on show
And maybe, just perhaps there will be those who ponder,
Thinking twice about to reconsider
Life and all that it consists of:
Bad, good, hate, love…
So much you’ve conceived
That he or she perhaps received
Where you have been the catalyst. 
This the gist that justifies.
The reason, point and feeling
Behind publishing
Yourself. 

1 comment:

  1. Walt Whitman published "Leaves of Grass" at his own expense in 1855. It included "Song of Myself," the 1st of 12 as-yet untitled poems. In the 2nd edition (1856) he called it "Poem of Walt Whitman, an American," which he shortened to "Walt Whitman" for the 3rd edition (1860). in the 4th edition (1867) he divided the poem into 52 numbered but untitled sections. It was not until the book's last edition (1891-1892) that he named it "Song of Myself." The opening section, and therefore the beginning of "Leaves of Grass," is among the best-known passages in American poetry:

    I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
    And what I assume you shall assume,
    For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

    I loafe and invite my soul,
    I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

    My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
    Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
    I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
    Hoping to cease not till death.

    Creeds and schools in abeyance,
    Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
    I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
    Nature without check with original energy.

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