Publish and be damned: a cautionary tale Part 2

I knew what would come next- a book with
A wider perspective and greater depth.
No campaigning- its nonconformity
To be shaded by complexity.

Opportunity was squeezed more tightly
When my highly placed protector had gone.
The enemy coalesced- those with their
Paradigms long established in print
And those whose talents extended only
To massaging the inflated vanity
Of authority.

I managed to finish despite all.
Publishers were amenable- track record
Still counted. But the former fans disliked
The avoidance of certainty. A few
Cognoscenti, joined by the stubbornly
Eccentric, thought it was superior
To its predecessor.

The recherche still had some attraction
For another spectrum of weird power.
An invitation came from the World Bank
To address top Latin-American
Bureaucrats on the ideas in the book.

It was very plush with First class air travel
To a mountainous luxury hotel
In Spain. There was the best available food,
Limitless free alcohol and, at the end,
Five thousand US tax free in C-bills-
For a twenty minute talk.

And despicably disgusting. I knew
Very poor countries and their poorest.
They were usually more tolerant
Of my attempts at the local language
Than their contemptuous social betters.
The World Bank was designated to be
Their saviour.

And for me it was humiliating.
I was just the cherry on top of the
Fermenting cocktail of control and wealth-
A poem to be read in a brothel
Before real business started.

That was it. I left the job. But rehab.
Came gradually. There were still some calls
To write articles and chapters in books,
Even in the CD predecessor
Of Wikipedia.

I finally did make the break, leaving
The metropolis to live in a sink
Estate up north (I knew it would improve).
I eschewed all academic contacts
And banished my books and other print works
To the top shelf of the tallest bookcase,
Where no visitors could see the covers
And I could not casually reach them.

I rejoiced when the Google entries under
My name reduced from the first ten on page one
To a solitary reference
On page seven just about remaindered
Books.

I cultivated a plot for my fruit
And vegetables; resumed paternal
Duties; made country walks; read more widely.
And writing? The addiction was still strong.
The anathema was publication-
Irreconciliable with my new delight
In anonymity among people
Who never inquired about what I used
To do.

Writing needs finality; to admit
A piece is finished and put it somewhere
Where it no longer belongs entirely
To the author- like your child becoming
A self-sufficient adult.

It is the creation that counts and not the
Memorial to it. It matters
Little that no one reads it for decades
Like my school magazine article.

Did that piece offer an alternative?
No. It would have been the same, but tougher.
The genius of Emily Bronte did
Turn juvenilia into greatness.
But she took the wise precaution of dying
Soon after publication.