Once upon a time, in a land far away from here,
a writer labors over her words, quill scratching,
oak gall ink, pig skin vellum, by tallow candle light.
A book costs the price of a house she's too poor to own.
When the press prints her words onto paper,
her words are freer, her books get cheaper,
she's paid word by word, a writing machine,
then paid not at all. The Internet's free
words, flashing lights and sounds,
permanently impermanent, flit from
scrn 2 scrn, smllr n smallr, ntil
u gt nly 140 ltrs @ a tme.
wrtng, wrtng evrywhre,
n nt a drp of ink.
u pay 4
wht u
get.
In honor of my dear talented friend Karen Girard, who wrote this fabulous poem as part of her answer to Nat Po Wri Mo in April, and in the interests on not totally bailing on my blog though still coughing like it's a competition, I wanted to share this gem.
Your thoughts?
