Fame
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)
I like this.
Comment by IDIAT — September 13, 2012 @ 12:24 pm
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
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