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The Devil of Premium
I was summoned before the Devil of Premium,
and he said:
“Your poetry will not be seen
unless you pay the price.”
I answered him:
“Is it not you who should pay me—
for my fire,
for my talent,
for the marrow of my soul
poured into verse?
Poetry is not a commodity.
It is the cry of the soul,
and those whose hearts are tuned
will find it,
without chains of silver and gold.”
The Devil sneered:
“Without coin you are nothing.”
But Rumi appeared in the shadows, whispering:
“I never paid a premium to be eternal.
It was my spirit, naked and burning,
that carried my voice to the stars.”
And Kahlil Gibran wept,
saying:
“Poetry is the wine of prophets.
Would you place it in the marketplace
beside bread and meat?”
The Apostle Paul leaned close:
“Men have become lovers of money
more than lovers of truth.”
Then William Shakespeare laughed bitterly:
“Poetry is medicine for the soul.
Let it be given freely,
for no king’s ransom could buy its worth.”
And Langston Hughes smiled faintly:
“True poetry is its own advertisement.
Once displayed,
it travels further than gold can purchase.”
So I turned to the Devil of Premium and said:
“You cannot chain the Spirit of Poetry.
It is sacred.
It is beyond your profit and your prisons.
It does not kneel to coins,
nor beg to be seen.
For poetry itself is the currency—
and the true poets
are already rich.”
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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