the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 500, May 24, 2004
Five hundred since
March 27, 2001
“It
had claimed so much of me that it stopped being a trip. It was another part of
my life; and ending the travel was not a return but a kind of departure, which
I regretted.”
—Paul
Theroux, Riding the Iron Rooster: By Train Through China
Many thanks
Most of
the time, passages don’t mean that much to me. I have problems keeping track of
the date. I intend to go to parties, make appointments, and meet people but let
the events slip by without it ever occurring that I should be somewhere—unless
reminded shortly before.
It
occurs to me, however, looking at the top of the page, that something quite
miraculous has happened. Five hundred editions of the poetrysheet. That’s a nice thing.
I can’t take credit,
really. For over three years now, this small endeavor has been more of a favor
to me than to anyone who’s read or contributed, complimented, complained, or
criticized. It’s kept me sane, sound, and writing—particularly when I didn’t
want to or didn’t think I had anything left. Many people have submitted their
work, some of it didn’t make it, and it seemed some material came when I could
find nothing inside to make my own.
It’s been satisfying,
embarrassing (I’m not the best proofreader), frustrating, and, now, something I
can’t live without.
Since
the start of the sheet, the
discipline and responsibility of putting together a regular publication has led
me to write two books, a play, a score of short stories, many dozens of poems,
and many more dozens of editorials, opinion pieces, and news and feature
articles.
I used
to tell my wife every night before I went to sleep that someday I would be a
writer. She would tell me I was. Now I know I am.
Other
publications are slicker, nicer, and maybe someday this one will be as well.
But for now, it is what it is. Simple. Mostly short. Mostly good.
I have no one to thank
but you, the small core of readers who keep coming back to look at what I’ve
put together two or three times a week.
Without
that, as Truman Capote said to Gore Vidal one night on the Tonight Show with
Johnny Carson, “It’s just typing.”
trash
day
bones
of family life
spread
on the curb
good things, some of them
household wares, lumber
radio with a cord, vaccum
hide-a-bed, couch, armchairs
broken pool cues,
water-stained magazines—
these get left behind—
baby pictures, panoramas
of the grand canyon vacation, 1959
send
short poems, short thoughts, fictions, or nonfictions to the poetrysheet, where whimsy, subversion, juggling lit sticks of
dynamite are our highest values
submit/identity/www.patrickdobson.com/red hot
links
all
material copyright poetrysheet and
personally recommended press, unless otherwise arranged with the authors. for
information, contact rev. patrick dobson,
1132 e. 65th st., kansas city, mo, 64131, 816-333-7303.