I have no way of checking but recall reading that the third most popular subject sought online is poetry related. This suggests one of two things. Statistics can be whatever you wish or people have turned to online poetry in the belief that there alone one finds real poetry. By this I mean poetry as a separate art form rather than the fashionable ‘nonsense’ which, like modern art, tends to leave people scratching their heads.
Does poetry pay? Is there a market for poetry? I think so but words come cheap, specially the words of poets. If fame beckons you can be sure it will come after you are kicking up the daisies. Therapeutically I turned to poetry during a time of personal upheaval and how my pen flew. Poetry became my passion.
I wrote about real people just as an artist sketches from life. Before long people were asking for copies. One enterprising rogue was actually selling copies of my poetry claiming it as his own. I was later introduced to another poet and shown his work; it was mine.
Knowing something about small press publishing I thought I might as well self-publish and see what I could achieve. This was at a time when the Writer’s and Artist’s Yearbook was advising against printing more than 500 copies of poetry collections as ‘poetry isn’t popular.’
As there was little price difference between printing 500 or 1,000 copies I stuck my neck out and ordered 1,000 copies of my first anthology. Within weeks I had completely sold out and it was suggested I publish a second collection. Bursting with confidence I published 2,000 copies of Believin' of Liverpool. They sold so quickly that I limited sales. I had no wish to sell out and print another 2,000.
This probably sounds like madness but each booklet was priced at a reasonable £1.95. After publishing costs and a third mark-up for booksellers I was making only about 75p a copy; add postage and it seemed everyone was profiting except me. But, it was great for the ego. It showed also that real poetry remains popular and so in that respect poetry paid off for me. Here are three of my favourites from the several hundred composed.
Ma Vourneen
When time and distance separate us,
Then you will find the spirit of our togetherness,
In a glass of wine.
My darling; Make it a long stemmed glass,
To remind you that even the minute apart is the longest one.
Fill it to its very brim to symbolize the fullness that you bring to my heart;
Sip it gently, and often, that you may know that each slight touch or glance is a kiss from you.
And most of all; let its spirit warm you as yours has warmed me.
Raise the glass and salute both the past and the future that link us;
But most of all, toast the emptiness that lies between,
Without which there could be no anticipation.
And if the spirit of the glass brings warmth, peace and joy to the inner you,
Then you will understand what you have brought to me.
Let the shimmer of the wine’s sparkle on your lips,
Hint at desire;
The coolness of the chilled bottle the long ago.
The chuckle of its pour, the future.
But most of all may it, as it becomes part of you,
Remind you that you are a part of me.
(Ma vourneen is Gaelic for My Darling)
The Cattle in the Lea
The summer air was heavy on the meadow by the stream,
Where cattle flick their tails - I wonder,
What do cattle dream?
They dream of neither morning nor of evening yet to come;
They dwell upon the moment, not the future yet unspun.
Upon the now, not after; of neither when nor where,
Beneath the ancient oak tree in the still of summer's air.
A Tall Ship
I saw a tall ship sailing by,
I wept inside, I knew not why,
The spirit of the wind should breathe,
To bring my broken heart to grieve,
For distant shores, a warmer clime,
A place where bougainvillea climb.
I saw a tall ship sailing by,
Its masts were waving to the sky,
And as a compass needle's drawn,
I felt my soul was being borne,
Across the seas, across the waves,
Where sailor men cross sailor graves.
I saw a tall ship sailing by,
It flew so fast the foam would fly,
And as it stood upon the beam,
I wished myself aboard to dream,
Upon the tall ship sailing by,
To seek a place where I might die.
Michael Walsh 2000