The Writers’ Conference
We went to the Writers’ Conference up in town -
We judged the entrance fee would be well spent.
To be famous, rich and published was our plan
And really we were very glad we went.
There were novelists and playwrights, poets who had day-jobs,
a smattering of journalists, medical reporters,
feisty uni lecturers and a flirty oldish lecher
(who got on very well with the panellists’ young daughters)
There was Fay who writes on travel, a short novelist called Fleur
and Jill who writes on pills in journals, medical and gay.
There was Kim who writes on gender and Lesley who defends her
If anybody challenges his right to have her say.
There was Chantelle who writes verses and frequently traverses
the Spirit World and says she knows it very well.
There was Ray whose novel’s got an extremely complex plot
and some independent publishers for whom their authors sell.
The wine was flowing freely when somebody said, “Really,
how did those two get in with his long hair and her broad grin?
Do they write? Do they perform? They don’t look very normal -”
But they let us stay, as they’d invited us to come right in.
Still in light verse mode - this poem conflates observations of a number of writers' and publishers' events with no particular reference to any person or event where you might have met me!