Writers, Bloggers and Translators

On Amazon do you publish under your own name. What are the titles of your books?

Love the poems, particularly Bonfire Night.

Glyn

And this was inspired by a walk with the dog, as sometimes happens...

Dying For A Change

Flip a coin; play Pooh sticks
Trick or treat; throw a six
Chances are you're getting older
Pick a moment; get a fix
and this one by the end of the world - thank god we got through that one, eh?
Kingdom Come

It's the end of the world, tomorrow won't come
I'm sitting here thinking, chewing this gum
Should I stroke the dog or scratch my bum
Maybe throw up a verse or just shred some
It's coming

It's the end of the world, and then I'll be gone
No more this old seat that I'm slouching upon
Should I e-mail a friend, maybe call up Jon
Tell Angie I'm sorry, tell Léo he shone
It's coming

It's the end of the world, and I've ordered my things
The bills have been paid, the phone no longer rings
I'll shout Dasco! once more just to see what he brings
Give my parents my keys, hear my mum saying 'jings'
It's coming

It's the end of the world, and I'd better say bye
You stood by me always, I never did try
Your eyes fill with tears, mine are tired and dry
You'll never know how much I cared, no lie
It's coming

It's the end of the world, it's really time to go
I'll carry on through Mist and Léo, I know
There's no shining light, there's not even snow
Just a feeling of peace, and the music playing low
It's here

Appreciated your 'New Year' poem Glyn - nice and cynical just how I like 'em.

Here's what it inspired in me:

Bonfire Night

It's bonfire night in la banlieue
Boys play with matches
Molotov cocktails
Penny for a guy
Time's run out
Down in one
A light?
And
We might
Damn the sun
And flics about
Let's write the sky
We're of nightingales
Joy's singing in snatches
Remember the fin Décembre

Thanks for your comments. I have written most of the book and edited and proofed 2/3s. I'd like to try the traditional approach first, hence the need to have a super-duper proposal. My original question was how to promote a book in English when I live in France? The marketing plan is essential in my proposal and I need a broad range of activities. I need a few more features than what is already available on my blog so that's why the website seems to be essential (expected by publishers and agents these days?). The amount of work required is daunting. But I chip away when I can so need advice on the language issue.

Hi Frances - good luck with the book marketing. I saw elsewhere you were thinking about a website. These days, whenever I have a new idea or theme I just start a new blog - it’s about as good / far better than a website if you have limited time and resources.

And as Vanessa said, have you considered self-publishing. You can get it out there in about half a day flat! I've got a few volumes of poetry on Amazon Kindle, some volumes of Paris Photo Chronicles and a book on Paris curiosities with a lot more to come. It's fun and fast. The downside is I haven't sold anything. Hmm - let me know how you get on with your marketing!!! And happy new year ~ Sab

Frances, this may sound obvious, but what about amazon marketplace/kindle?

Regards

Vanessa

http://www.ideas4weddingflowers.com

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Essential-Buying-Wedding-Flowers-ebook/dp/B005P78ZLY/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1356908966&sr=8-4

Have you written the book, Frances?

Regards Glyn

I'm writing my book proposal. How does one market a book in France when it's written in English. This would seem to severely limit what I can do. Can members suggest what i can do to market this book about my adventures getting to and surviving in France.

Hello,

I'm the co-author of a new comedy tv series we're trying to get made about how to become French - all those cultural differences you didn't expect - and that you love to hate or hate to love...

Here are some links to our project and a teaser:

Paris I Hate to Love You

http://www.facebook.com/ParisJeTaimeNonPlus

Feedback welcome and ideas/stories on funny problems you've run into in France...

Translation, you really got to understand the poem. For a good poet every word counts. Imagine translating TS Eliot's Wasteland to his satisfaction!

Glyn

There's probably about 50 translators out there on this list right now thinking: What the @*¡#?

Hey, so what about translating poetry? Can it be done? Should you translate word for word, or image by image. Tricky, no? What do you do with metaphors..?

I thought about getting into translation once but most of the stuff was very techy - computer manuals and stuff. It's a fascinating discipline though. Very exacting. Like writing poetry. Every word counts. Talking of which...

Going Grey

Like a comfy chair
Like a favourite sweater

I'll wear you
Take this skin
These bones

And put them on
And call them me

Like a cozy café
Like a favourite walk

I'll bear you
Take this weight
These stones

And cast them off
And call them he

Like a precious song
Like a favourite book

I'll share you
Take this hand
These thoughts

And wrap them up
And call them thee

Thank you for the comment, Holly. The poem wasn't about me. My wife reminded me that it was Poetry Day, so I thought I ought to write a poem. I was listening to Bach. I had a house in mind that belongs to friends and the poem just grew out of that. I don't write poetry, or any of my novels because of inspiration, but self discipline.

Glyn

We're here for you Glyn on this November day!

We do have some good writers here. I particuarly like, Holly Hill's poem, Jim Archiladl's about his Dad, Crusaders by Sab and Garry's 'Beating Time'. Suppose I'd better offer something as you've all been so brave:

Bach

Somber joy

Sitting obsession

in an airless room

half closed shutters

Somewhere far off

a harpsichord plays

Bach

Drops a forth

here and there

But who am I to care?

Clouds move grey

on this October day

I might tread out

by the river

into trees beyond

where roam ghosts

Far away from a chateau

a figure at a window

stands watching

He doesn’t see

listening as notes

are picked one by one

Carefully now

as though

Life mattered

when it is

Death that bears ignorance

like Birth

What does any of it mean?

Music echoes

drifting along

passageways

In and out of

empty rooms

I search for the player

There is nothing

Only the sound

I am alone

I am alone

No one is here for me

on this chilly

October day

holding onto figures

disappearing

Poetry Day 2012

c. Glyn Pope

(see amazon for my novel The Doctor and The Dipsomaniac)

Love that last image Holly - someone else's birthday cake - perfect!

The tangled clutter of daily essentials,
The ethical and logical diatribes
subconsciously hummed through life
leave little room
for thought.


The monotonous responsibilities,
The devotion and dedication allotted
To others begs the question
whether
the wishes
are purely personal
Or if one is merely
Blowing out the candles
On someone else’s birthday cake.

Love this too Jim. Love the way the rhymes shuffle down the lines and the gentle pathos of it all.

Here's my one before the one before the last one (see what I'm doing here people?)... don't get upset, all you snail lovers, it's only words! ;~S

(Just Say N...) Ode to French Cuisine

The French eat anything that moves it's said
When on a pleasant night out on the town
Yet it's the sordid snail that I most dread
Like chewing gum soiling the sodding bread
And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn thing down

Frogs legs leap up to number two methinks
In three litres of oil the victims drown
Now there they are a-sitting midst the drinks
All spindly limbs like some weird kind of jinx
And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn things down

The awkward oyster ends this list of crime
With a consistency to make you frown
Let me offer you one mouthful of slime
An experience that's far from sublime
And a glass of rouge to gulp the damn thing down

These days I never chase the sun.
Truth told I can't chase anyone.
I sit and let the sun find me,
drink tea and wine, read, write, recline.
Declare or swear the world's gone mad.
It's sad, but Dad it seems, was right.
Each night I find more we'd agree on.
A reason why I find I miss him
For we could sit and share a bottle,
Alexander to his Aristotle.
We'd feel the sun upon our skin,
These days I would I were with him.

Wow, Garry, your piece is so rich, it's like poetry in prose. Great. I'll need to read again to appreciate it fully. Thanks, here's my piece before the short one...

Crusaders

Teetering on faith's shaky stilts they come
Heralding the one God, no fake lord of course
What they can't get by coersion, they'll pilfer by force
Crusaders of the bugle, cross bearers of the drum

A little piece on a Spanish town: Belorado.

Beating Time

On the Rioja’s dry plain, Belorado forever inhales the hot breath of summer, and exhales the sombre, grey mists of sinking autumn, in the splish-splash of a Spanish winter, reflecting on its dark millennia when once its duke challenged the mighty House of Burgos. The duke lost, and for centuries after, the village was stripped of its fine clothing. Without protective walls and grand castle, its enemies seemed everywhere. It knew no spring.

The village still coughs and splutters in irregular health, rubbing its wrinkled skin in leather and onions. Both churches have crumbling walls, the town’s narrow streets clinging to tattered charm, begging for new life, but hears only rumbling trucks, tastes only diesel fumes.

For consolation, it has an annual festival of burning meat, beating drums, insistent trumpets and ritual sacrifice of the onion. The village heart beats faster. Wild men and women pump through the narrow streets by night, beating, blowing, blasting their instruments, pounding the crumbling walls with raucous tunes. What’s television? The irrepressible rhythms insist- Ghosts out! Ghosts. Ghost! Ring the bells. Bells! Bells! Ring the bells. Without peace, riotous exclamation must suffice. We all fear silence. Silencio. And the wounded Duke is heard, saying ‘Do not bow to the silence. Never!

In the town square next morning, the week-long festival over, council’s men and women sweep away cigarette butts, coke cans, wine bottles, cardboard, cracker wrappings and cast-off clothing; the streets in mighty disarray, anathema to the Western mind.

As mid-day approaches, youngsters abandon their brief slumbers to inhabit the streets again, though spent, bare-buttocked and bewildered. Hours earlier they had blasted out a mighty tune, waking men and mice, mothers and masons. What a racket! You awake, sit erect in your bed, clasping the clock.

-It’s 4am.

Everyone hears the call: ‘Hear ye! Hear ye.’ For we announce to you… the day’s festivities are over. Ghosts are vanquished. Time to sleep.’

This Belorado is a hard place: hard pillows, hard earth, sharp corners, surrounded by treeless farmland, decorations at a minimum. Crops fail. Tools turn against you. The smart one betrays you. Some will block your path. History has a bitter heart in Spain. Stirred by the agony winds, ghostly semblances still roam the village by night, dusty kings, dictators, bishops and republicans wrestling in its laneways and apartment blocks.

The stranger best linger in a bar, bent before the vino-tinto shrine, settling into a darkened corner, watching life and football, nursing bocadillos and sharing exclamations. Thirty clocks surround you, collected over fifty years, all beating time.

The owner grunts. Let the stray dogs and big ideas fight over the bones behind the Calle Mayor. Let the three-legged mongrels, thin, weak and weary, gaze into today’s windows with uncomprehending eyes before merging into diablo walls.

You, Belorado. Never-subdued Belorado. Fond Belorado.

History extracts a price.

G McDougall © 2012 Highly Commended, Cowan Short Story Competition, 2012