Publish and be dammed.
quote by Duke of Wellington
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Send it to someone who can publish it. And if they won't publish it, send it to someone else who can publish it! And keep sending it! Of course, if no one will publish it, at that point you might want to think about doing something other than writing.
quote by Robert B. Parker
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The day my heart dammed me
The day my heart dammed me
~
You asked me to speak a truth
I told you that you were beautiful
How you really made me smile
That I wanted to be with you
You remained silent, grew distant
I knew that those words I spoke
Those feelings I wrote in clear view
Were as true as I could ever admit
How I wished you had not asked
For what I revealed to you became
The day my heart dammed me
How I could have stayed silent
Kept my feeling as a wistful dream
As I have done so often before
I felt as though I could confide in you
That the was no fear left to feel
I knew I was falling badly for you
And so wanted you to feel for me
So I said that you were beautiful
That you could make me smile
I asked to spend time with you
You remained silent, grew distant
The day my heart dammed me
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Michael Crichton
Michael Crichton would be dismayed
to read about his pirate days.
Poor Michael, there is worse in store.
They plan to publish at least one more.
When living, Michael published much
and proved to have the Midas touch.
No matter, Michael, that you’re gone
Your bibliography still goes on.
When Authors pay the boatman’s fee
Their fans crave more, quite naturally.
No Shakespeare lover could refuse
To give “Cardenio” rave reviews.
And when Jim Croce breathed no more
He “sang” on for a decade more.
But stuff that Authors didn’t publish
could prove to be unworthy rubbish.
(And some that sees the light of day
Might have been better hid away)
So if there’s work on your hard drive
You wouldn’t publish if alive
Dear Authors I do you entreat
When in extremis, press “delete”
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Workin For A Livin
Chris hayes / huey lewis
Somedays wont end ever and somedays pass on by,
Ill be working here forever, at least until I die.
Dammed if you do, dammed if you dont
Im supposed to get a raise week, you know damn well I wont.
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin, livin and workin
Im taking what they giving cause Im working for a livin.
Hey Im not complaining cause I really need the work
Hitting up my buddys got me feeling like a jerk
Hundred dollar car note, two hundred rent.
I get a check on friday, but its all ready spent.
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin, livin and workin
Im taking what they giving cause Im working for a livin.
Ooh, workin for a livin
Ooh, taking what they giving
Ooh, workin for a livin
Ooh, ooh
Bus boy, bartender, ladies of the night
Grease monkey, ex-junky, winner of the fight
Walking on the streets its really all the same
Selling souls, rock n roll, any other day
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin (workin)
Workin for a livin, livin and workin
Im taking what they giving cause Im working for a livin.
Workin for a livin, livin and workin
Im taking what they giving cause Im working for a livin.
Workin for a livin, livin and workin
song performed by Huey Lewis And The News
Added by Lucian Velea
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Love Or Lust
When will i not feel what i feel
Cause we take whats not ours
We take we steal
I want no i dont but i do
Do i want you
We want what we cant have
But when we have do we really want
Love lust
Is it a need a want or a must
I feel free without love
I feel free without lust
But we can never be free without trust
We are dammed if we do
Dammed if we dont
Are we here for love, lust
Or just here to vote
Vote for what we desire more
Do we even know what we are voting for
Who will win
Who will come out on top
One thing we can be sure of both cant be stopped
poem by GJC boyle
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The Sleeping Dammed
the sleeping dammed
miss the mornings dawn
in all its beauty
a time of the day
good for the soul
birdsong, sunshine, peace
underline serenity
who would wish to miss this
a time to gather thoughts
missed by the sleeping dammed
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Bad Blood Of Satan Soul Spat
with her hag spite voice of hate
bad blood of Satan soul spat
at a passing sublime woman pure hearted
“your fat” her repetitive curse crowed
but this good woman with pity turned
thought “fat may diet thin your soul is dammed”
dark soul glorified her hero Satan worshipped
destined to be ever ugly through eternity dammed
beauty looked upon worm heart soul sins shivered
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Live After Death
Past beyond the light
Lays those evil deeds
Lost my love
Lost my life
In this garden of fear
Holy love is nomore
Make no sense of it all
Judas before his fall
What you see is not real
But simply an illusion
It a whole new world
Where the chaos prevails
Abominations beyond your imagination
Dont care for this world no more
Who cares now what right or wrong
Its reality
Lost my love
Lost my dreams
Had every promise broken
There anger in my heart
Drown in the sins of all those years
No mercy
No more tears
Killing time is about to begin
Lost my love
Lost my fear
If there a home
Then its far away
Must mean that i am lost
Stray away from the path of holiness
What a shame
That I am dammed
Will my soul burn in the lake of fire
Or freeze beneath the artic tire
Dammed from the start that I was born
Going to the land of nevermore
poem by Diego Trejo
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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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If you want to write, write it. That's the first rule. And send it in, and send it in to someone who can publish it or get it published. Don't send it to me. Don't show it to your spouse, or your significant other, or your parents, or somebody. They're not going to publish it.
quote by Robert B. Parker
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In matters of truth the fact that you don't want to publish something is, nine times out of ten, a proof that you ought to publish it.
quote by Gilbert K. Chesterton
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In France we have a law which doesn't allow the press to publish a photo that you didn't approve. It lets the paparazzi take the picture, but if they publish this picture, you have the choice to sue the newspaper. So me, I always sued them.
quote by Audrey Tautou
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It is a good idea to know which publishers publish which stories. For example, there is no sense in sending a picture book text to a publisher who does not publish picture books.
quote by Margaret Mahy
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Goading the Muse
this man used to be an
interesting writer,
he was able to say brisk and
refreshing things.
at the time
I suggested to the editors and
the critics that he was one to
be watched
and also that he had hardly yet been
noticed
and that he certainly should now be
noticed.
this writer used some of my
remarks as blurbs for his
books, which I didn't
mind.
all of his publications were little
chapbooks, 16 to 32
pages,
mimeographed.
they came out at a
rapid rate,
perhaps three or four a
year.
the problem was that each
chapbook seemed a little weaker
than the one that preceded
it
but he continued to use my old
blurbs.
my wife noticed the change
in his writing
too.
'what's happened to his
writing?' she asked me.
'he's doing too much of it, he's
pushing it out, forcing it.'
'this stuff is bad, you ought to
tell him to stop using your
blurbs.'
'I can't do that, I just wish he
wouldn't publish so much.'
'well, you publish all the
time too.'
'with me,' I told her, 'it's
different.'
yesterday I received another of his
little chapbooks
with his delicate dedication scrawled
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Bukowski
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The Rosciad
Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.
Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
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When I cried eagerly for the crescent Moon
I was a toddler
And still I remember
My deceased poor Mom
Gave me a big slice of Papaya.
Now I realized her unlimited love
When I count the black seeds of the fruit.
* To my dearest Mom! Sorry, I am a pauper and there is no way to publish my dream book of poetry, recently I tried few publishers in the Hell.They like to publish the anthology without a Red cent, but the only problem they say not a single head fond of reading poetry and still they struggle to fill their holey pockets with the dirty currency notes.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Will I Still Write Poems When I Can No Longer Publish Or Post Them?
Will I still write poems when I can no longer publish or post them?
Of course I will-
I wrote poetry for years
when I knew their only readers were hoped- for ones-
I will write my poems
because they are my soul
my confessiion
my expression of deepest feeling
because they give meaning to my life-
I will write poemw as long as I can-
publish or post or not-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Paths Untrodden
IN paths untrodden,
In the growth by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish'd--from the pleasures,
profits, eruditions, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul;
Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish'd--clear to me that my
Soul,
That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in
comrades;
Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash'd--for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would
not dare elsewhere, 10
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains
all the rest,
Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,
Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year,
I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.
poem by Walt Whitman
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What we call happiness in the strictest sense comes from the (preferably sudden) satisfaction of needs which have been dammed up to a high degree.
quote by Bernard le Bovier de Fontenelle
Added by Lucian Velea
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