Process of self-publication of "The Poor Knight"

The first part of the self-publication consisted of posting around lamp posts around the neighbourhood.

It is not for certain, but having posted them on the ones where there are stop lights and people must stop, I would expect around ten or 15 people to read the ones I posted.
The next part was quite similar except that I posted the poem on the post office boxes. Here once again I would expect around ten or 15 people to read it while they are leaving letters. (The contrast between the poem and the graffitti may very well attract more people to the poem.)

Afterwards I went to the community centre near my place and asked the office where I could post it. They took and said that I could post it on th bullettin. There is a pool ath the centre and they also have lots of different types of classes like dancing, martial arts, or badminton classes. Thus, lots of people visit the centre which has a central bullettin they pass by. Many stop by and I would then expect around 30 people to see it over the next 3 days.

The following step took part in two quite crowded places: A pizza place and Starbucks. I came into the pizza place (Little Ceasers) and asked them if I could post it somewhere around the restaurant to which they replied that I could posted anywhere and that I should rather post it in a visible place. There are individual seats that looked out to the window. I posted the poem on the window:

At Starbucks I was also allowed to put it on the bullettin they have at the entrance. As I was posting it, the manager proposed I put my contact information on the poem if someone was to be interested in it and wanted to ask me any questions. 

The final destination was the public library at Renfrew. The starting part was to post it on the wall there. They allowed me to, however, it was removed by the next day. The second part was to try to get on the intercom and read it out to the people. Once again, this wasn't succesful and I wasn't allowed to do so. Anyhow, the third part (and in my opinion the most important one) worked out perfectly. I printed 30 copies of the poem and folded them into smaller squares. At the library I asked if I could put these folded sheets of paper into books expecting people to take them and read them as they came upon them on their read. I was allowed to ad put the poems into the books. I cannot check back on them, but I do expect most of them to be read especially since I put them in fiction and more well known books. 

Overall, I believe it was a fairly successfull process and I expect about a hundred people to have read the poem. On top of this, of course, is the views the blog would get.

The Poor Knight

The lionly Mouse

 (an original poem concerning Prince Myshkin in Fyodor M. Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot)

Can one march into Victory

with the soul of this poor knight;

will one stand in grand blasphemy

 or have a superfluously joyous night?

The battlefield is filled with creatures

each one with ready to kill claws

all innocent fall in painful seizures

while the monsters strike at all flaws.

And alone our poor mously knight stands

in the cloudy midst of the bloody sands

wrapped in bright white and purple armour

dancing among tigers like a dove with glamour.

Suddenly with the sharpest sword there appears

a beauty with no armour but a shining red dress

and our poor lionly knight towards her steers

as he falls passionately into her sensual caress.

The crying battlefield keeps alive with striking swords

still more magnanimousler beasts and heavenlier beauties

they all fight ravenously around the poor knight as he roars

filled with insurmountable pity towards all he thinks rubies.

In the end with this thought our poor mously knight

without drawing his sword, the Pitiful’s feet he kisses

Yet at the smell of danger this same poor lionly knight

Will stand next to the Pitiful as his armour glistens.

Thus:

Can one march into Victory

With the soul of this poor knight?

will one stand in grand blasphemy

 or have a superfluously joyous night?

To Rhyme or To Poezime

Is it not a delight to the drum
the simplest grace or strum,
beating strikingly rhythmically
as river's waters do perfectly?

Or, mind you:

Is it the needle-lilke penetration
of the mind and of the soul
bridging the self to the rest
thro-ugh full jagged, rhythmic-
less. Cu  
t out sentences from book?

And I answer you,
with the most formal and indeed necessary courteousness of the sentences from a reputable book:
It is a poem!:

The melodieless music from words
that fly and dance as divinely as Gods
wandering through enlightened Heavens
reaching the soul as it hears and awakens.

Fine like a Mockingbird's feather

Your earrings look like hair falling
to the bottom of your ears
like a hawk too plump to fly
like wood punched about
like eyelashes of a giraffe stuck on the leg of a spider
each shorter than the last, weak to the air,
a sleeping bat
a warriors' wing
a leaf dangling on a branch alone.
Like a nightmare being caught before the ear,
like a sad dog's ear
like a stingray swimming down headfirst,
an upside down candle's light, half a heart
with its twin across the head
like a rain droplet
like a flattened sea shell
a smile reaching to the eyes, like a miniature
whirlwind seen from the sky, like someone's
lonely tear on their dry cheek,
the pupil on a snake's eye when it's dark,
a single spade upside down falling from your ear,
the queen's hand when waving at her subjects
like the stain on Saturn's surface
like a light bulb torn in half
like a baton's carton grip
and a half of an hour glass, letting the brown sand fall in
one by one fine and uncountable, like a twinned seed
like a Raven's rounded chest
like a furry rabbit's ear
like the feather of a brown-backed mockingbird
hanging from the tip of your ear.

Poem : a heart at peace gives life to his body, but envy rots the bones.

A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.



The man will stand
While the other struggles to keep his legs stable.
The man will stay still,
While the other dances as in the water.
The man will be quiet,
While the other unleashes sounds from his throat.

I dance, I sing, I envy what I cannot achieve
I dream and dream
I keep dancing and dancing while dreaming,
But will I trip? Who cares!?

The man still jumped and screamed
And I worried
Will he trip?
I shouldn't care.

The man was standing still,
Tranquility radiated from his body,
He could stand still,
He would not fall, he could do whatever he wanted.
While the other man did whatever he wanted.

I was at peace.
I was dancing.
I will not trip and let life escape.
Will I trip, as I dance?
Not one of them cared.

Deciding or Reacting?

It was a sunny, but freezing day; and walking though that street would mark the biggest separation I had from my parents. Only one road, just a few steps. This was when I was about two years old. Maybe older, maybe younger, I don't remember. The weather is probably the only thing I remember that didn't have anything to do with what I was thinking about. But now, what was I thinking about? Was what was going on really a separation, was it some twisted idea of mine that after that road I'd be by myself completely, and that by only that age I had to take life-changing decisions. Meaning this separation was only in my mind, but truly was a joke I was playing on myself. Or was I indeed conscious that the separation was only in my mind, and that my parents didn't believe in this separation either. This resulting in me wanting to prove some sort of separation to them. Or maybe I was just trying out something new, something I had never done before, and interested me greatly. It was not the separation of course (what I was interested in), but rather the steps I would take across the road without someone holding my hand.
It was very early in the morning, that's what it felt like at least. I couldn't see the sun, but there was light, which meant I had to be awake and doing things. Sitting at home doing whatever I might come to think of, was definitely not an option. That's what I thought about when my mother woke me. But what was I thinking? I had to go to school! I disliked the fact that I had to call it, "going to school"; yet when I was there, I enjoyed it. Yet before actually being at school, I had to get there. It was pleasing to walk outside the house in the morning. It was during that little distance that I thought of disliking school, but knowing I would eventually enjoy it. The distance I had to walk was probably about 50 meters or so. Everyday I walked, and everyday there would be someone next to me, holding my hand. Most of the times holding my hand, it was my dad who always walked beside me. He was always happy, and I couldn't understand why. Inside my head, it was like a storm. I couldn't decide wether I should be happy by the fact that I had to go to school, or sad, by the very same reason. The storm wouldn't stop until I got to school, and maybe even there, it'd go on. But he, my dad, was standing beside me, smiling. Unaware of the storm in my head. I didn't understand it, how could he be happy while I was having this argument in my head? Everything I felt, he had to feel, he's my father. Even when I looked at him with, my face full of doubt; he'd still be smiling. With him beside me smiling I'd usually end up deciding that going to school should be something I should be happy about. This then made me wonder, what would I end up deciding if I walked by myself? I didn't know.
It was a little town in Germany, where I was living at the time. Many of the people I saw, walked by themselves. And what I thought at that time, was that everyone was equal. If I saw people walking by thmesleves, it meant everyone had to walk by themselves. I thought it to be a standard everyone had to follow. Everyone had to do this, everyone from a crying little baby (that couldn't even walk, yet he had to follow the standard according to my logic back then), to a grown man (that needed the company of someone, since he was too old to take care of himself), to a dog. If everyone had to follow this standard, then I had to, too. I had to walk that distance by myself. I had to get out of the house, walk on the side walk; and cross the street. I could be killed if I wasn't careful, I could even be embarassed if I wasn't careful and a car stopped right in front of me, a few centimeters before hitting me. Meaning I couldn't follow the "walk by yourself" standard. Yet I had to proove that I was able to follow the "walk by yourself" standard. I had to be torn away from my parents when I was walking. I had to be a proper citizen. And the separation had to be extremely clear to my parents. But what if they thought it wasn't a separation and didn't take me seriously? I didn't know.
Whenever I crossed the street with my dad, a feeling of power would embrace me as I looked up at him. Crossing the street meant being powerful. That's what I felt whenever we crossed the street. This then meant, that if he had to be powerful to cross the street, I was weak, walking beside him. Besides being weak about that, I had to be brave too. I had to walk all the way to school! Without bravery, how was I supposed to even get out of the house? These type of decisions were definitely life-changing! I needed to be separate from my father in order to be brave and powerful. But could I? I didn't know.
It was a sunny, but freezing day; and walking the distnace would mark the biggest separation I had from my parents. It was on that day I decided to go to school by myself, being brave and powerful, having the strenght to decide wether I was happy by the fact that I was going to school, having what it takes to be a citizen and follow the "walk by yourself" standard. Yet when I left the house, I onlt experienced fear, after deciding everything else, maybe it was only fear I could feel, or maybe it was everything together, that caused me to be afraid of something new (of all the new things I did). I was indeed full of fear, but my dad was watching me from right outside the house. He'd see me until I got to school. I wasn't sure if that should make me feel better since I knew there was someone partly beside me, or dissappointed, by the fact that I wouldn't be able to prove a separation. That doubt dissappeared immediately, I was full of fear. Still, when I came up to the street, trying to tell my dad that everything was going to be okay (even when I was full of fear), I crossed it. It was a very exciting thing to do, crossing the street. Nothing happened, and the fear didn't go away. Which was probably the best part. This meant that whenever I did that again the rush of feelings would come back fresh. And yet again, I'd be full of fear as I crossed the street. I had completely forgotten about the separation, I think. I was onlt afraid, I was alive, full of fear. But now you, dear reader, tell me, did all the feelings about the separatioin drive me to do this, or was it fear (when I actually faced the situation) that drove me; and isn't fear the very thing that drives us all?

Sedentary or physical?

I'd be standing there, looking out the window, waiting for the sun to

be covered by clouds. At that time, when it was sunny and warm, people
would go out and play, run in the park, hangout with friends. Yet at
those times I'd be on the other side of the window, on my desk,
observing the people, wondering why they enjoyed the sunlight so much
(which I hated, since it made me sweat at times, and everything seemed
so normal). I would pretend I was busy when people asked me to go
hangout with them. It was dreadful, the idea itself, going outside
when we are supposed to. What's the point of going out then? If
everything's in your favour, people seem happier, there's no rain
falling, but most importantly, everything you saw was just as you
would expect it to be like in a dream. In that case, you as well just
stay inside your room and imagine a much more vivid story about
yourself; instead of trying to live one. Now that was my problem I believe. Everything besides myself was so
perfect. The weather, the people, everything simply seemed happier.
Because of that, I usually had this urge to live as in a dream. To be,
as if I was indeed living in a dream.
But I couldn't, but of course I couldn't. In dreams I'd do things
because of an instinct. I wouldn't think about what I did for a single
second. I would just do it. Then, back in real life, I'd have my
consciousness haunting me. Every movement, every word I uttered, even
anything I would lay my eyes upon. I'd be conscious of everything.
Maybe at times I'd almost do something because I simply felt it was
the right thing to do at the time, but just a fraction of a second
later, a voice in my mind would tell me not to do it. To refrain from
whatever I was going to do, because other people might think of me
differently. They'd be an audience for that simple, insignificant
action of mine. At least, that's what I thought.
And of course none of that was real! No one would care for that,
probably not even the person (whom I would probably be talking to)
walking beside me.
Yet I would imagine all these things. And on those sunny, dreamlike
days, I'd prefer to stay on the other side of the window. I would be
by myself, listening to music, or playing piano, or just reading (for
which time I'd definitely enjoy sunlight since I didn't have to turn
the lights on to read). At least Vancouver is not such a city for
quite an important part of the year (which I am still waiting for).
There'd be those beautiful days, when there's very little light in the
outside. It wouldn't be bright, no! It'd be gloomy, gray light. Fewer
people would be outside their shelters, only busy people would be
outside. And those people don't even have time to say sorry if they
were to accidentaly bump into you. If I was to go outside on those
gray days, I could even do some things out of instinct. And in the
end, after I get used to it, I'd even be myself. Yes, on the other
side of the window, I'd be myslef! And now I wouldn't be expecting
anything, I wouldn't be expecting any dreamlike experience. Then, just
then, the moment will actually be dreamlike. Maybe not because it
actually was, but because I didn't have the urge to live up to any
dreamlike expectations.
It was on one of those days, a few water droplets were racing down my
window, when I went out. Not because I had to do something, but
because I might actually be myself right then. On that day, and
probably many of the other, dark, days.
I was in my house to get money for lunch since I had just played
tennis. I didn't sweat, my serve wasn't agravated by the sun, it was a
beautiful practice!
Still, I was tired and I had to eat something. My friend and I went to
get lunch, and at that time I wasn't myself. Well, I had to treat him
in a different way from anyone else, everyone's different. There might
be people with whom I can be myself, yet he was not one of them. After
lunch he had to go because of some activity of his. I don't recall a
single thing he said, neither do I remember what I said. None of what
was said was important anyway. The important thing is we talked and
played tennis, regardless of the details, it was enjoyable. It was the
time to do things, as many as you could, because it was as if you were
to give random people you saw cookies, but they never ate them. They
were glad they received the cookie of course, but they weren't
interested in eating it, they were already glad enough they had gotten
a cookie.
I could be myself, and people would be happy with it, they wouldn't
care, maybe, but they wouldn't want to eat me.
I was in downtown after an hour or so, I had taken the bus, or the
skytrain, or both? Whatever I had done, I was in downtwon already. The
glass buildings were shining in the gray light. The breeze would often
come, and it wouldn't wave or say hi before it embraced me in its
coldness. She was nice to me, the breeze. Even if she wasn't very
polite, she was like a puppy that just wanted to play, and on those
days, I'd gladly welcome her. After she hugged me, she'd walk beside
me for almost the whole day. She was always jealous, whenever I met
someone during my walk she'd run away. That's what I thought at least,
maybe I simply forgot about her and didn't notice she was actually
still beside me. Still, I liked to think of her as jealous. She might
not be a very important friend to me, yet she was always there,
walking, flying, floating beside me. I think I was even talking to her
on that day, I could be myself. I hadn't ever talked to her I believe,
this time I was myself though. And she does deserve it. Talking to her, of course.
I was interrupted though, I knew this didn't happen a lot in these days since it would be more of a special lonely day. But I was, in the end, interrupted. I don't remember where I was at the time, but I remember it was close to the shore, between a few buildings, the breeze was leaving me for every step I took, I could tell. That s the only reason I knew I was going away from the shore, and into the maze of buildings. It was then when I'd see her. She was one of my friends at school. At any other time I'd probably not talk to her, I'd just say hi and walk away. That was on one of those sunny days. This one was different though. It was like the weather itself was inviting me to speak. It was indeed when I could, perhaps not only could, but should be. Or perhaps still not only that, but that I would even want to actually talk. That I was was not even a bit conscious about what I was blurting out of my mouth. So unconscious was I about it, that would only hours later, when I was on the other side of the window, when I'd realize what effect her or my words would have on me, or her.
It'd be short before we started a random conversation and went somewhere, maybe walk to Stanley park, or just walk around. Maybe we didn't even do anything, I wouldn't remember any if it, on these days, maybe what I'd remember would be what we talked about. And that just maybe. What I would definitely remember would be that I was myself. That I didn't have to stay in a certain place to talk, that we could walk, run, see things; and I wouldn't be thinking about it.
That glorious time didn't last for long though. It was when we entered a Starbucks that everything I was, was gone. Now my consciousness would come back. It was a closed place full of people, and after we ordered something to drink, the only thing we did was just sit there. Talk, drink coffee; and that was probably everything. We wouldn't move from our seats. It was as if the seats were full of chains holding us down. For me, at least.
She seemed to be calm, talking. She was probably being driven by instinct, rather than being fully conscious of the consequences of what she said might be on other people. She just talked. Yet I would not be able to speak a word without being fully conscious of what it could or would mean to her and the people around us. I wasn't moving anything but my mouth. My legs would be still, my arms too. And my mind would, and could only be focussed on one thing, what she was saying, and what I was.

It was a nightmare, not moving and having to talk. I had nothing else to look at, but her. I couldn't get a glimpse at the mountains, or the sea, anything, but her. It was troubling. Neither could I make any mistakes. If we were walking, I could trip and fall, or maybe I could walk in the wrong direction and get lost. But while we were sitting at the table, I could only think about one thing, what I was saying. 

Fortunately, that situation didn't last for long. I was soon freed off the chains, and we walked outside. 

We had to get home, and the bus we had to take was about to leave; so we ran. We caught the bus, and I was talking to her, by instinct, and I remember, not what we were talking about, but that I was unconscious about it.