There’s no money in poetry - and why that should change
As many of you know, I’ve been writing one poem every single day since the beginning of the new year. That’s a lot of time and energy going into poetry writing, a lot of creativity and emotional labor poured onto the page. But what is it worth?
Photo by @micheile from Unsplash.
“In the words of the philosopher Sceptum, the founder of my profession: am I going to get paid for this?”
That’s not to say I’m writing these poems to get paid. Definitely not. I’ve just been thinking about the quality of my writing lately, and the platforms I’ve been sharing it on. I’m giving out work for free that is supposed to give something to people. Give something, meaning, fill a basic need, provide sojourn or solace in the comfort of language or familiarity. And I’m giving that shit out.
That’s cool, ya know. I’m just a beginning writer. I barely have any credentials. Not to mention I also have a full-time job to pay the bills. But I’ve been thinking about this fact more and more lately as my posts get fewer engagement and views online. And I’m wondering if Instagram is the best platform for displaying my poetry.
Long story short, no, it’s not.
This is for a multitude of reasons. One, I write long form poetry, as well as poetry that’s not easily accessible. Instagram is meant for fast-paced scrolling, and I don’t think a lot of people have the mental energy to stop and read the four-page poems I post. And I don’t blame them. Two, I’m not very artistic lol. A lot of the poems I see that are successful have these super artsy backgrounds or are photographed against some cool, indie coffee shop backdrop. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t want to do that.
Another reason I want to stop posting SO much of my content for free on Instagram is because it often disqualifies said content from being submitted to magazines or journals. They don’t accept previous published content, and more and more journals are including blogs and social media accounts as part of that. Makes sense. But severely limits what of my stuff can be submitted.
Photo by @karsten116 from Unsplash.
And finally, as someone who has just gained some confidence in their writing, what I put out there is quality. Not to say that what’s on Instagram isn’t good, but I’m through with the belief that we shouldn’t pay artists for what they do. Creativity isn’t viewed as a commodity when everyone consumes it. I spend so much time writing and editing and planning - and for what? I’m building a portfolio, but it doesn’t make sense to me to throw all this out the drain for only a few dozen likes, if that.
As my friend Allie said, “We create things for the likes and the dopamine spikes.”
Well, I’m sure my dopamine spikes would be a bit higher if I made a few bucks off my creations lol. Which is why I’m making a Patreon account. If you don’t know what that is, it’s basically a subscription site, where you can subscribe to receive monthly content from your favorite creators. There are journalists, artists, podcasters, poets, everyone. And I’m gonna offer some pretty affordable plans, imo. So if you’re interested, check me out there. If you know some folks who may be interested, feel free to send them along my way. I’ve got some cool offers on the table, and I can’t wait to start sharing with you all.
So, one final “free” poem on my blog. Enjoy. And comment to let me know what you think!
there’s no money in poetry
so maybe that’s why i live on a couch in a subway
train car, wedged between the man who watches the
stars through the tin-shattered roof and the woman
who fills a bathtub with pennies dated up to the year
of her birth but not after.
i don’t know where we’re going, & i don’t ask.
there’s not a stop as far as i know. just miles of
cornfields with high-rises sprouting beanstalks out
of fresh earth, & i lie on my couch, face level with
the rotating reams of the endless outside, crumbling
dirt in my mouth, & it spills from my lips onto the
floorless train car, that only holds us by sheer will &
nothing else.
the man coughs & spits out flowers.
the train sputters & i realize i never paid for a ticket
so really, how could it continue? we don’t move, the
three of us on a train without ceilings or floors or doors,
but the train sputters, & we watch the yellow ground
beneath & the diamond littered sky slow in motion &
we never would have guessed it was really us.
the woman puts a penny in her mouth & swallows.
i swallow years like that, too, i swallow orange edges
of couches i’ve fucked myself on, & i swallow the
sentences sinned against summer days spent splayed
against grass-coated beds, spliced skin spread over
the two of us.
we’re not that different, i suppose.
the train edges, edges, edges, & i feel myself edge with
it, feet tucked behind my ears, dirt falling out of my ears
& my eyes & the pores of my elbow bends, of racetracks
we’ve yet to run around yet.
there’s no money in poetry.
there’s no end to this
endless train, this couch, these legs, this man and woman and body. this body.
