I have been asked to write, but as usual the compensation lies almost entirely in the haltingly expressed gratitude of the reader.
Apparently it is now expected that a poet should not merely create the work but should then proceed to promote it.
Somehow this feels wrong. One does not wrestle with one’s muse merely to hawk her around the streets like some common panderer. No, in a civilised world a patron approaches you. They are courteous, diffident even, and suggest gently that they would be delighted if you could find time to pen them a short ode.
But it seems we live in an altogether darker world where the poet has to jostle with the huckster or fairground barker in an attempt to have their art noticed.
But in my day
Was not the poet’s pay
And look not into my eyes
The world that…
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