There's No Money in Poetry

Why is that? I wonder. I ponder...

“There’s no money in poetry.”

She was sure,
certain.
Spoke
with conviction.
She knew
things
you didn’t.

There’s no money in poetry.

The words,
they
drip

drip

drip

like droplets
from a mossy
cliff-edge
into a deep
dark ravine.

There’s no money in poetry.

Why is that?
I wonder
I ponder.
Too brief, perhaps?
Obtuse? Or scarred,
by teachers
trying
yet failing
to share the magic
of words

drip

drip

dripping
into you,
your blood,
your consciousness.

There is no money in poetry.

Unless you’re
Rapi Kaur,
all
Milk & Honey,
all
hip and cool.
Leaving
the dusty
haired in her
wonderous wake.
Bitter melon
tasting
words, these.

There’s no money in poetry.

We do it for
love

love

love
pouring out our
pain
heartache
regret
sorrow
joy
serenity
heartbeat
into ink
into glyphs
on a page,
screen
notebook.

There’s no poetry in money.

This poem was inspired by the novel Alys, Always by Harriet Lane and was originally published here.

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