A young lady named Ann
Said, “you are a bad man!
Although you haven’t done anything yet,
Which I very much regret,
You must have a wicked plan!”.
I have been asked by a number of people (including my mum!) whether I make any money from my writing. Yesterday evening, whilst out for a drink with friends, I had the same question addressed to me and answered (so far as my memory serves), in the following manner:
“Very few writers make much money, and its particularly difficult for poets to derive an income from their poetry, as that particular art form is rather a niche market.
Whilst I self-publish on Amazon (which has no costs associated with it), I do pay an editor/proof reader to check for typographical and other errors. Also, whilst there is no obligation on me to purchase author copies, I always do buy paperbacks of my books (albeit at an author discount) to distribute to family, close friends, my local library etc.
I could more easily recoup the cost of the above where it not for the fact that I have been in the habit of giving away copies to strangers, in future I shall become a veritable Scrooge in such matters. Actually, I think that this is unlikely, (me becoming a Scrooge I mean!).
Whilst poets can cover their costs, and even turn a profit, it is extremely difficult for them to do so”.
In light of my conversation with friends yesterday evening, I did a little digging with the help of Mr Google and came across this article, https://www.shmoop.com/careers/poet/salary.html, which does, in essence chime with what I told my 2 friends last night.
I would, as ever be interested in receiving comments from my readers.
Kevin
Awaking at long past midnight
I turned on my bedside light,
And saw to my surprise
A young woman’s pretty eyes,
Her name was White, or Wright.
When a young lady named Rose,
Who never would wear any clothes,
Went for a job interview
With a man called Drew,
She recited some very fine prose!
When a young lady named Rose,
Who would never wear any clothes,
Went for a job interview
With a man called Drew,
He fixedly looked at her nose!
Poetry is bits of paper, blown
Away in the wind.
It is shouting into the breeze,
A voice lost amidst the trees.
It is arrogance overthrown.
It is the poet, who stands alone
Wondering what his legacy
Will be
When a young lady of Rome
Lost a brand new golden comb,
It was found in Caesar’s bedroom
Scented with the sweetest of perfume,
Along with a naughty old gnome!
A young lady named Hortense
Is quick to take offence.
When she said, “to rhyme
Is a most despicable crime,
I jumped upon her fence!
A young lady whose name is Hortense
Refuses to speak in the present tense.
She said, “I loved you yesterday
When your hair ’twas not grey,
But last week, please get thee hence!
