On Amazon do you publish under your own name. What are the titles of your books?
Love the poems, particularly Bonfire Night.
Glyn
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
Appreciated your 'New Year' poem Glyn - nice and cynical just how I like 'em.
Here's what it inspired in me:
Bonfire Night
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
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:
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...
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
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
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