poetry • Samantha Hund

I’ve been elbow deep in my garden, which became so overgrown I’ve had to take drastic measures. It’s a little bit meditative, and a little bit cleansing, to uproot the sprawly woody lavender, and tug out the encroaching weeds until they give with a satisfying little pop.

My roses, like my brain, need breathing space.

Mental clutter, just like dirty dishes, or persistent weeds, always accumulates when you aren’t paying attention. And the work of untangling it is a lifelong chore.

Still–these cyclical, brief respites are a pleasant place to sit and reflect in.

I’ve had a few new acceptances for poetry (my first micro poem!!) and short fiction, so I’m looking forward to having five (I think it’s five, anyway) new pieces published in June.

I’ve also been doing weekly chapter swaps of The Patron with my CP – which has been extremely motivating and really helped focus the story. I was doing something while writing this one that I don’t normally do; hopscotching around to write my favorite scenes first and skipping the ones I was less enthused about.

Now- I am dealing with the consequences of my actions. Having gaps in my story is unreasonably painful to bridge, and I am never indulging this again. I regret everything and from now on I’m forcing myself to be disciplined and finish this draft linearly like a good writer.

But it did make me notice something structurally that I might have otherwise overlooked- and I’m going to try a little experiment. I do so love a little experiment.

It’s been pointed out to me that I categorically struggle with my male characters. There is this inevitable phase where I realize I’ve been restraining them too much—and in doing so the reader fails to truly connect with them.

Case in point: Silnan originally had six lines of dialogue in my first draft of The Last Dawn. That’s it. Kind of hard for a reader to empathize with a character who has the charisma of a sentient rock.

I’m learning, and trying to allow them more space. Since The Patron is quintessentially a romance, I really can’t have the dynamic feel like a one-sided conversation—as entertaining as Toby can be. So, I’m going to experiment a little with my narrative structure, and see if we can’t give dear Bastien a bit more stage.

Doing the damned thing –SMH

Currently Reading:

Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch

This deserves more credit than pop culture would have you believe. I was expecting some sort of bloated male-centric fantasy, but instead I found it to be a compelling examination of power dynamics as well as masculine and feminine archetypes.

Also, I’d have to say that Sacher-Masoch presents one of the most empathetic depictions of female psychology I’ve ever seen. Bravo sir.

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind

I think what I found the most compelling about this story, was that while Grenouille is ostensibly the main character, the narrative is structured to orbit him like dark matter. He is unknowable, and presented so supernaturally, that the story only becomes truly understandable through the perspectives of the supporting characters.

There is also a movie from the 90s, which while enjoyable enough, wasn’t nearly strange enough to do credit to the source material.

Flying High by Cletus Crow

A new release from one of my favorite current poets, I can’t say enough about how blunt yet prescient, crass, and utterly honest his poems are. Pick up a copy- you will not be disappointed: https://newritualpress.com/flyinghigh/

Disquieting Levels of Egg by James Donald Forbes McCann

I’ve always been interested in the intersection between comedy and poetry, and I really did not expect this to work so well, but of course it does. As a comedian and poet, McCann delivers a clever mix of satire, observation, and dry humor.

Poetry was my first love.

Poetry to me was dream speak. Where you have the freedom to say what you are thinking, without the burden of explanation. Where a dream could become a memory could become a poem could become a spell. You could haunt people with words. The ghost of a moment lingering long past the reality.

I fell in love with that blurry vision at a young age, and found there the truth I so longed for. I read Plath and felt like I was home. I devoured Sexton, Snodgrass, Whitman, Dickinson, Poe, Shelley, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Sappho like they all had something to teach me about the strangeness of being alive.

So, despite the disapproving looks my childhood English teachers lavished on me during our ‘creative writing’ lessons— I have always written poetry. Terrible teenage confessionals, petty depressives, half-remembered nostalgia.

Poetry must be bad, at first.

So must everything, if I’m being honest. If you mean to be good at anything you must first be terrible, accept that you are terrible, and keep going anyway.

Yes, my early poetry was bad. But it was honest. And if I didn’t learn how to be honest through those trite confessionals first, I wouldn’t have written a face full of flowers.

I am equal parts horrified and proud to announce that Bottlecap Press has published my debut poetry chapbook, a face full of flowers, which spans poems from the past ten years.

I’ve included 19 poems, under the themes of ROOTS, FEVER, and BLOOD, which explore motifs of detachment, manic obsession, and renewal of spirit. These poems are my tiny offerings, fragments of truth. The dregs of a dream you just woke up from.

This is my first work to be published in print, and it brings me so much joy that these poems are made tangible by sacred ink and paper. I’ve been criticized for my romanticism, but I will forever support the flesh and blood / paper and ink of printed books.

As a final note: to claim oneself as a poet in the current state of society feels anachronistic at best, and like the butt of someone’s starving artist joke at worst. But I think even with the current state of the world, despite it even, we owe it to ourselves to pursue art.

We deserve a world with poetry, both great and terrible, and I’m very lucky to be able to make my own small contribution.

Oh, What a world—SMH

a face full of flowers

This 36-page collection features 19 poems that explore grief, inheritance, myth, and the uncomfortable beauty of decay. Fusing confessional voice with surreal imagery, a face full of flowers maps emotional wreckage with a sharp, intimate edge.

Bottlecap Press, based in Los Angeles, is known for championing bold new voices in contemporary poetry. Hund joins a growing roster of emerging authors whose work is reshaping the boundaries of small press literature.

The chapbook is available for purchase online in both print and digital formats.

Tag: poetry

Weeding the Garden