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Fame

By: Ardis E. Parshall - September 13, 2012

Fame

By Maud Chegwidden

An Epigram

A poet spilt his soul in song
And died for lack of food.
The critics, who had sneered so long,
Then saw his work was good.

The nation raised a monument
And graved his praise thereon.
Thus he, whose life was vainly spent
For bread, received a stone!

(1932)



3 Comments »

  1. I like this.

    Comment by IDIAT — September 13, 2012 @ 12:24 pm

  2. I have to speak in Sacrament the end of this month, and this will fit in nicely….

    Comment by Rameumptom — September 13, 2012 @ 12:49 pm

  3. I have always been told that a poet has three choices these days, and none of them good for the poetry.

    1) Teach poetry, writing, or literature, and fit the poetry in, while teaching a new generation about the great poets of the past.

    2) Have a patron and wrote poetry as it comes, but miss out on the misery that makes good poetry.

    3) Have a hand to mouth existence, working only to pay the minimum expenses, while creating a large and extensive collection of poetry, so that when you die, you can be famous.

    I don’t only write poetry, but my poetry feels like the closest kind of writing to prayer. A good, or great, poem can be as precious as gold, and infinitely more rare.

    Comment by Julia — September 15, 2012 @ 5:24 am

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