There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money

Robert Graves, soldier, poet, and teller of myths, once uttered with both wit and solemnity: “There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.” These words are a paradox, yet a paradox that cuts to the marrow of human life. He speaks to us of the eternal struggle between spirit and coin, between the art that gives meaning and the wealth that sustains survival. In his statement, Graves reminds us that poetry is not born from commerce, nor can wealth ever substitute for the fire of inspiration. The two belong to different kingdoms: one of necessity, the other of transcendence.

The origin of this thought lies in Graves’s own life. He was a man who fought in the First World War, who saw death on the battlefield and then sought refuge in words. His poetry was not crafted for profit but for survival of the soul. Yet he lived in a world where poets starved, where the marketplace prized material gain over spiritual depth. From this tension sprang his reflection. He had tasted both worlds: the harsh demands of money, and the liberating but unprofitable realm of verse. His words are not a complaint but a truth spoken with clarity—that poetry gives life meaning, but rarely bread; and money, though necessary, is barren of beauty when it is hoarded for its own sake.

The ancients knew this same struggle. Consider Socrates, who owned little and sought no wealth, but filled the streets of Athens with questions that burned brighter than gold. By contrast, Croesus of Lydia, famed for his vast treasures, sought to buy security with riches, only to be overthrown, his gold unable to shield him from destiny. The poets, the prophets, and the sages have always stood apart from the merchants, not because money is evil, but because it cannot nourish the deepest hunger of the soul. Graves, in his modern tongue, is but repeating the wisdom of the ages: poetry and money serve different gods.

And yet, do not mistake his meaning. He does not say one must despise money. For bread feeds the body, and without it, no poet can write. But he warns us against confusing value with price. Money may purchase paper, ink, and shelter, but it cannot purchase vision. It cannot call forth the muse or shape words that stir eternity. Just as a field of wheat must be sown and tended by love of the earth, not merely by greed, so too poetry arises from passion, suffering, and wonder, not from the promise of coin.

Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh. He sold almost nothing in his lifetime, living in poverty and despair, yet his art now speaks across centuries, priceless in its impact. Van Gogh found no money in poetry, no wealth in painting, but his vision of swirling skies and burning fields lives on as a gift to humanity. By contrast, countless wealthy men of his age, though rich beyond measure, left behind no beauty, no lasting song, no trace in the soul of the world. In their fortunes, indeed, there was no poetry.

The lesson is thus: pursue wealth only as a servant, never as a master. Let money be the tool by which life is sustained, but let poetry—the pursuit of beauty, truth, and meaning—be the master of your heart. For if you live only for money, your days will be filled but your spirit empty. But if you live for poetry, whether through words, deeds, or the simple act of seeing the world with wonder, your life will be rich beyond gold.

Practical action follows. Cultivate a craft not because it brings wealth, but because it brings life. Create something—write, paint, sing, teach, or serve—that nourishes others, even if it never fills your purse. And when you earn money, spend it in ways that serve poetry: on books, on experiences that lift the soul, on acts of generosity that make life more beautiful. In this way, wealth and art are not enemies, but allies, each in their rightful place.

So let Graves’s words echo in your heart: “There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.” Do not seek to measure your worth by coin, nor your life by ledger. Instead, let your wealth be the poetry of your deeds, and let your poetry be the treasure you leave behind. For when the dust of time covers the golden coins, it is the poem, not the purse, that endures.