Yesterday, someone said to me, why would people write a poems if they weren’t going to be paid for them?
That’s a gulch of perception I may never be able to cross. What is a poem worth, anyway?
This morning in Montpelier, I attended an art show, where my daughter had a painting entered. In the opening remarks by Tom Greene, president of Vermont College of Fine Arts, he said creating art widens our experience and makes us more humane. I’m not sure that sentiment would have imprinted on me as an adolescent, but as an adult, far down in the cavernously lonely well of writing a second novel, those words shone like a bright beacon far above, a place I know – a place I continue to heads towards through the arduous work of writing.
What’s art worth? A truer question, perhaps, would be: how unimaginable our world would be without art.
"This is Just to Say" I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold
– William Carlos Williams