John Tottenham

Never mind that you have nothing to bring to the table.
No problem, that is no longer a requirement.
A career in the arts is no longer the province of the unlucky few
who did what they had to do. Like poker, it’s a game open
to everybody now, and the tables are crowded with players
hungry for easy money and televised prestige.
Sacrifices are demanded of those who waver, hesitation is fatal;
false modesty or self-doubt get you quickly shaken out.
But the quality of the game has become vitiated, impenetrable
to the uninitiated, and the less talent you possess,
the more brazenly it must be heralded. Lay a golden egg
where carelessness meets calculation. The artist’s touch:
It pays, these days, to advertise your desperation.

Posted on November 10, 2011 at 5:37 am in Poems of regret and Resentment   |  RSS feed |   Reply   |   Trackback URL