Everything I write lately is getting curated — except my poetry.
For my most precious words — crickets. No reads, claps, comments, highlights, shares…just, crickets. As a poet, this is heartbreaking. I feel invisible. But for my newsletters, prompts encouraging others to write, writers’ lift posts I’ve been writing for other poets, even a quick celebration of how many books I have sold is all getting selected, distributed, seen.
But my poems, my carefully constructed, deep and emotive, metaphorical or storytelling poems, poems about birds and nature and my own intense vision of this earth and all that move upon it — gather dust here on Medium. As a poet and poetry publication owner, it’s rather embarrassing for my own poetry to go unread.
Perhaps I should write an epitaph for my poetry. Let’s hope my second poetry collection, due to be published very soon, gets a warmer reception.
Hugs to all the poets out there — just trying to be seen.
But I am a chrysalis.
In my mind
I have 26 letters
I can churn into words
and fold into butterflies.