Is it possible, strange as it may sound in the fiercely capitalist economy of the quotidian, that there exists such a creature as a professional poet today – perhaps in certain parts of the world? Obvious as it might appear, it is nevertheless necessary to emphasise that by ‘professional poet’ reference is to those who do nothing else for a living but write poetry and live by its proceeds – which will surely be close to nothing! If this economic wonder does exist, is the professional poet not destined for the doghouse – or shall we call it pigsty, reminiscent of the prodigal son in the Bible who must steal from the pigs and eat their food? Apart from the basic necessities of subsisting in a competitive economy, it is not impossible that some poets, weaned on ‘the image’ as they are, can relish the sensuous to an extreme, be keen as sword-blades and love to live life to the scabbard-hilt; as such there has to be an absent but prospectively magnanimous father-surrogate, for whom he would be a literary ‘foundling’. Literary patronage is as old as writing itself. We can go as far back as Ancient Rome to find examples.
In a bad poem
you will hear a sound
but no silence,
only more sounds
full of noise.
Traditional English poetry explored the full range of English prosody- metre and rhyme in all its variation...
July 04, 2008
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