I know a bartender who can relay a message, who can smoothly slide a folded note across a bar wet from the slosh of many drinks. His causal manner suggests nothing unusual, everything ordinary to the noisy crowd, but the delivery seems to touch in each recipient the waiting hope that she or he may, by carefully unfolding the note, conclude this particular evening  somewhere other than the expected return to solitary rooms.

I deliver these posts to you with that same casualness.

Unfold.james paynter

(It is considered necessary today, as it has in times past, for poets to aggrandize themselves, to toot their own trumpets. I suppose in an imperial, capitalist, consumer economy this is to be expected. One’s work competes for attention, as I’m confident that Vergil and Chaucer, Villon and Pound, et.al. found to be true.

On the other hand, what do lists of degrees, prizes and publications actually tell you?  That I possessed just enoiugh discipline to endure the monotony of formal education?  That I persist in writing against self doubts, expectations and even good sense? 

I was born in 1943, live in an old house in a small, undistinguised city in western Illinois, and I rather enjoy living, the alternative unwelcomed.  The rest is deciphered for you in this blog and in the poems.)

 You may contact me at  jameswpaynter@gmail.com

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