Butts, Sacks, and Women Don’t Mix
The Independent has just posted one of those stories that highlights how strange the world is, at least to me.
Apparently, if you were chosen to be the Queen’s poet — the Poet Laureate — you’d be up for 5000 pounds a year and a ‘butt of sack’ (or 600-odd bottles of sherry). I’d be happy with just having my name alongside Spenser, Chaucer, Skelton, Jonson, and Wordsworth, but throw in the sack and a bag of money, and I’d crawl out of my skin for the job.
But according to the Independent, poets these days, especially female ones, want more.
“Award-winning poets Fleur Adcock and Ruth Padel, who have both been tipped for the role, agree that writing for the Queen was probably more trouble than it was worth. Adcock said that quite apart from the extra work it involves, the role continues to command a very meagre salary.
“It’s terribly hard work for very little pay,” she said. “The poet laureate is fine as an institution, as long as I don’t have to do it.”
Terribly hard work? Maybe I’m ignorant, but belting out the odd iamb and trochee about the royal family — who collectively provide a well-spring of material for any poetess worth her sack — seems like a pretty breezy gig.
