1163. Shakespeare, Milton, Keats are dead
© Bruce Goodman 24 October 2017






Mae-Helene wrote poems every day. She wrote down the first thing that came into her head. She was a natural-born poet. She was also very modern. Free verse was not called free verse for nothing. Mae-Helene was a product and a rising star of the contemporary world.

Every day, and often several times a day, Mae-Helene would post her latest poems on her blog. She had countless followers. And then one day a fellow blogger gave her the “You-are-the-Sunshine-of-My-Life Award”. Mae-Helene was over the moon, and rightly so.

Once she had reached 100 poems on her blog, her uncle, Ned, who was both proud of her and rich, offered to pay to have her poems published in a book. It would be sold on Amazon, provided of course the cover didn’t show too much cleavage. Mae-Helene’s best friend from school-days designed the cover. It was a privilege.

At last, Mae-Helene had made it into the big time. There she was! The blurb said it all: Mae-Helene is an award-winning, published author.




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