The League of Most Ordinary (Wo)Men

Poet or writer or novelist or author, call her/him anything you like. They belong to the same league: The League of Most Ordinary (Wo)Men.

Ordinary? Ah! You thought they were the elite ones, right? Something like this?
Somewhere deep in a silent palace, untouched by any other human habitation, dressed in tuxedo, writing on an expensive rosewood or mahogany table under a beautiful night lamp, with a glass of the most expensive wine placed beside or with an occasional puff and violinists playing Mozart’s 9th Symphony of Mozart in the background. (He has composed a 9th one, right?)
And then there would be the most beautiful damsels waiting to serve them. Occasionally being awarded Poet Laureates, sitting among the knights and reading out their works to the royal family <oops! royal family should have been in all CAPS>

The fact is poets/writers/novelists/authors are nothing but the most ordinary of the mortals. They notice and express what others try to forget/pretend to forget having seen – joys and suffering alike.

Sometimes in the middle of the night they wake up, hearing curses of their sleeping wife/husband/child/dog/cat, not being able to postpone expressing their joy and anguish while others try to find enjoyment in daily soaps and movies from one of the WOODs (read holly, bolly, tolly, kolly... as per your preference. No discrimination. Complete tolerance).

They observe the most mundane and ordinary of the acts knowing that even these can contain a spark of inspiration.

Some of them find it difficult to earn the daily bread, while the smart ones earn the Laureates, Pulitzers and Sahitya Akademis.

At the end of day,
they still stay the same,
coming from the The League
of Most Ordinary (Wo)Men.