But one does not make living writing poetry unless you're a

Hear, O seekers of truth, the ironic wisdom of Jeffery Deaver: “But one does not make living writing poetry unless you’re a professor, and one frankly doesn’t get a lot of girls as a poet.” Though spoken with humor, this saying carries the weight of reality and the sting of honesty. For Deaver unmasks the fate of the poet in a world that values coin more than vision: the poet may command the mysteries of the heart, but rarely the treasures of the purse. His jest about admiration and romance reveals, too, the lonely path of the one who chooses art above worldly gain.

The origin of this truth lies in the long struggle of poets throughout history. Few have found material wealth through verse alone. Poetry was born not to fill bellies but to feed spirits. Homer, though immortal now, was said to be poor in his day. Villon, the French vagabond poet, wandered destitute, his genius unrecognized by wealth. Even Keats, whose odes now shine like eternal stars, died in obscurity, far from riches, far from worldly reward. Deaver’s playful words echo this long tradition: to live by poetry alone is rare, and often precarious.

Yet the remark about “not getting a lot of girls” strikes deeper than mere jest. It reminds us that poetry, though it can stir admiration, is often misunderstood in the wider world. Many chase after glamour, status, and spectacle, while the poet labors quietly with ink and soul. To some, this devotion seems impractical, unprofitable, even unattractive. But herein lies the paradox: what seems foolish to the world is often most precious to eternity. The poet sacrifices applause for the deeper joy of creation, trading fleeting admiration for lasting vision.

Consider the story of Edgar Allan Poe. Though now hailed as a master of rhythm and mystery, in life he was impoverished, ridiculed, often scorned. His poems did not win him riches nor worldly success. Yet his “Raven” and “Annabel Lee” stir the hearts of readers across the centuries. Poe lived without comfort, yet he left treasures that no thief can steal. His life exemplifies the truth of Deaver’s jest: the poet may not win in worldly measures, but he wins in immortality.

Deaver’s quote, though humorous, carries a challenge: if one writes poetry, it should not be for gain or glory, but for truth. The path of the poet is not lined with wealth nor strewn with roses, but it is radiant with purpose. The poet’s reward is not measured in applause or companionship, but in the creation itself, in the unburdening of the soul, in the flame carried forward to future generations. Those who take this path must do so knowing its hardships, yet also its incomparable joys.

The lesson, then, is clear: seek not to be a poet for wealth or admiration. Let your motivation be love of language, hunger for truth, and the need to express what cannot remain silent. If worldly recognition comes, accept it with humility; if it does not, know that your work still carries value beyond price. For though a poet may lack riches, their words may outlast kingdoms. Though they may not dazzle crowds, they may touch one solitary heart—and that alone is triumph.

In practice, let each seeker act thus: write because you must, not because you expect reward. Support yourself with honest labor if need be, but do not abandon the flame of verse. Read the poets of the past and remember how many of them struggled, yet endured. And when discouragement whispers, recall that your words may plant seeds you will never see bloom. The world may laugh at the poet, but heaven remembers their voice.

Thus the teaching endures: to write poetry is not the road to comfort or acclaim, but it is the road to truth. Deaver’s jest conceals a deeper honor: though the poet may not gain wealth or admiration, they gain something greater—the chance to speak with eternity. And if you walk this path with courage, your words may live long after your own name is forgotten, burning still like embers in the hearts of generations yet unborn.