Poetry is written for the love of it. The monetary gain
aspect of it is a far reaching promise that appears to the rare few.
Recently, a friend asked me to write a poem for her, to give
to her husband as a gift. I used to do this a lot when I was younger. I once
converted a poem I’d made for a bride on her hen night for the best man to read
as a speech. Heavy censoring needed to be done, but it was recited by the best
man to huge applause. I’m sure the video is out there somewhere. Anyway back to the present, I agreed to her
request, but she wanted to pay me, this I refused.
Once she knew I wasn’t taking payment, I sat with pen in
hand and asked her for a few details and it was up to her how personal she got.
Let me say, she revealed quite a bit. Armed with my information, I left and scripted
the piece. I returned shortly, with a four stanza poem for her to give to her
husband which was, as such, from her. She was very happy and insisted on paying
me again. But, after I refused she then gave me something else as payment… a
dozen organic free-range eggs. Reassured with the fact that any hunger pangs
would be kept away with my wonderful treat, I carried them home and stocked my
fridge.
Later that night I sent her a message wondering how the poem
went down with her husband. I can only assume that it was received quite well, because
she wanted to know when she’d meet me again to give me more of her organic free-range
eggs.
Who says you won’t get rich on poetry, eh.
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