I published, privately, a collection of my serious poetry I had
I published, privately, a collection of my serious poetry I had written over the years. I only published 50 copies, which I gave to friends, in a special deluxe edition. It was ridiculously expensive but I'm glad that I did it.
In the world of art, there is a sacred truth that has been passed down through the ages: the true creator does not simply craft for the masses, but for the soul. Tom Glazer, in his reflection on his own creative journey, shares a profound insight when he says, “I published, privately, a collection of my serious poetry I had written over the years. I only published 50 copies, which I gave to friends, in a special deluxe edition. It was ridiculously expensive but I’m glad that I did it.” In this statement, Glazer reveals not only the privilege of creating but the sacrifice involved in the process of sharing that creation with the world. He chose not the path of mass recognition, but the more intimate, more personal route, offering his work to a select few, those who would truly appreciate the depth of his labor.
Consider the ancient poets—the creators of verse in the great civilizations of Greece and Rome. They did not always seek the grand halls of kings or the wide acclaim of the public; rather, their works were often passed among the learned few, carefully preserved and cherished by those who could truly grasp their weight. Homer, that towering figure of ancient Greece, may not have written his epics for widespread publication. His oral traditions, passed down in limited circles, were a form of private creation shared among select listeners, who could feel the power of his words in a way that the uninitiated could not. Homer’s works were treasured, though few could truly own them. Poetry, in its purest form, has always been a personal journey—a creation that moves from the heart of the artist to the hearts of those capable of receiving it.
In the same way, Glazer’s decision to publish only fifty copies of his poetry speaks to an ancient wisdom—the value of intimacy over quantity. He did not seek the acclaim of the world; he sought the connection of a few kindred spirits, those who would hold his work not as a commodity, but as a sacred gift. The cost of the edition, ridiculously expensive, emphasizes the care and thought that went into each copy. These were not simply books to be sold and discarded; they were works to be treasured and honored. In choosing to make his poetry rare, Glazer made it more valuable, for in rarity lies meaning. The few who received his collection were not just given a book—they were given a part of his very soul.
This idea—of poetry as a deeply personal gift—resonates through the ages. Emily Dickinson, the reclusive poetess of 19th-century America, never sought the public eye. She published very few poems in her lifetime, yet her works, carefully crafted and privately shared, have endured. Dickinson’s choice to hold her words close to her heart, to keep them private, speaks to a truth that Glazer seems to echo: the value of poetry lies not in the number of people who read it, but in the depth of its connection to those who encounter it. Poetry, in its truest form, is a dialogue between the poet and the reader, one that can be as intimate as a shared secret or as universal as the air we breathe.
What, then, is the lesson to be drawn from Glazer’s decision? It is a lesson in authenticity, in the importance of creating for the sake of the work itself, rather than for the external rewards of fame or wealth. In a world that often values quantity over quality, Glazer’s choice reminds us that art—true art—should not be measured by its reach, but by the intensity of the connection it creates. It is not the number of eyes that read it, but the depth of the impact it leaves behind. There is nobility in creating not for the world, but for the soul, and in offering that creation to those who will understand and cherish it.
In your own life, whether you create with words, paint, music, or any other medium, remember this lesson. Do not be swayed by the pressures to create for the masses or to conform to the expectations of others. Like Glazer, find those moments when you can create for yourself, when the act of creation is a sacred bond between your heart and the world, however small that world may be. Seek not the acclaim of the many, but the understanding of the few who can see and feel the depth of your work. Let the rarity of your art be a testament to its value, for it is in the private sharing of the deepest parts of the soul that art finds its true meaning.
So, let this wisdom echo through the ages: create with honor, create with purpose, and when the time comes to share your work, share it not for the sake of recognition, but for the sake of the connection it will bring. And in that connection, whether it reaches one or one thousand, you will find that the act of creation itself is reward enough.
VTnguyen van tuan
Reading this, I wonder about the long-term impact of such a private edition. Will these 50 copies become treasured artifacts or personal mementos, and how does that affect the poet’s legacy? Could the experience of producing something expensive and exclusive teach insights into the value of poetry as a tangible object? I’d like to explore whether private, deluxe editions offer a more intimate and enduring connection between poet and audience than public publication.
ESEmily Sanzu
This makes me reflect on how scarcity and curation influence the reception of art. Could the deliberate limitation of copies create a sense of reverence and attention that mass publication cannot? I’m also curious about the choice to spend extravagantly—does it reflect dedication, celebration, or perhaps an experiment in merging literary and material craftsmanship? How might such decisions inspire readers or fellow poets to think differently about publishing and sharing their work?
HHAn Hai Ha
I find this interesting because it highlights a non-commercial approach to publishing. Does creating only 50 copies suggest confidence in the work’s intrinsic value rather than a desire for fame or sales? How might the friends who received the copies perceive the gesture—as a treasured gift, a status symbol, or a personal insight into the poet’s inner world? I’d like perspectives on whether limited, costly editions of poetry are more about art, intimacy, or both.
SPsa phuong
This perspective raises questions about the intersection of art and materiality. How does the deluxe edition format enhance the experience of reading poetry? Is it the tactile quality, the aesthetic presentation, or the exclusivity that matters most? I also wonder whether Tom Glazer’s enjoyment was amplified by the effort and expense involved, and if such personal investment alters the emotional connection between the poet, the work, and the audience.
TQtruc quynh
Reading this, I feel intrigued by the idea of creating something intentionally rare and private. Does this approach suggest a preference for intimate appreciation over public recognition? I’d like to explore how this decision affects the poet’s relationship with their work—does knowing only a select few will read it change the way it is written or curated? Could this model inspire other poets to experiment with limited, personalized publications?