A Betrayed Secret
Anybody, yes, anybody, can do poetry these days, though
getting it published is a tad more difficult.
For that you must be determined and thick-skinned,
irrespective of your talent,
and it’s plain sailing in any case,
if you’re both rich and vain.
You can write about anything, yes anything,
the less you worry about what, the better.
Let it come, doggerel will do
(McGonagall is now in Penguin,
which only goes to show,
recognition comes soon, if you’re lucky,
but otherwise – late).
You can write badly or well.
If you write well, you’re sailing,
but if not, you’re making
a valid socio-economic point.
Your work can be dull or interesting.
If it’s interesting, you’re sailing,
but if not, don’t worry –
some movement will pick you up.
If you rhyme, that’s fine,
you crafty would-be laureate. If not,
who cares? There are plenty who hold
that rhymes are rot.
Be profound or light,
obscure or lucid, daft or bright.
If you’re bright, you’re sailing. If not,
the collective unconscious will undertake,
and if the sales are right, so who’s complaining
on your way to the bank?
Anyone, at any time (I’m pausing
during the marking of my pupils’ atrocious mistakes),
so anyone, yes anyone, can write poetry these days.
But don’t ask me how I know.
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