The Baltimore poet David Beaudouin dedicated a poem he wrote to me long ago. In his introduction, I recall the line, “Kill the Poets, drink their blood.” It was a satire on the nature of poetry and the poets who write it. A thankless endeavor to say the least. Because poetry’s a solitary pursuit and only appeals to a select group of boorish louts and cretinous self-absorbed malcontents. A bunch of lunatics who historically try to escape reality by creating fantastical language with cryptic metaphors and colorful subject matter.
The idea of killing poets and drinking their blood is a vampirism take on sucking the life out of the bard. Slowly sapping energy out of their vital bodily fluids. The Blood of the Poet. An obscure reference to an early French surrealist film by Jean Cocteau in 1932. He proclaimed, “Poets… Shed not only the red blood of their hearts but the white blood of their souls.” That's a lot to swallow. It's all subjective depending on how you interpret words and meanings referencing symbols, allegory, style, and wordplay.
Poets don't know what they say so much as how they feel when they say it. Charles Bukowski may not the best example, but this sentiment could clear up the controversy of poets and artfully-executed poetic observation. “I had first learned that I was an idiot in the school yard. I was taunted and poked at and jeered, as were the other one or two idiots. My only advantage over the other one or two, who were beaten and chased, was that I was sullen. When surrounded, I was not terrified. They never attacked me but would finally turn on one of the others and beat them as I watched.”
Is poetry from the raw emotional trauma stemming from an imperfect childhood? Are we born poets or evolved out of ego and experience? We all had weird adolescences, growing up in the middle of a crazy life in a mad world. No two poets can ever be the same. There’s no personal best. It all boils down to a simple residue of words and meanings. What does it mean? It’s always different for everyone. Your poetry is my favorite or your pretty is my ugly.
Nobody likes a smarty-pants. It’s part of the deal. A pact you make with yourself. So misunderstood by your fellow scribes that you can’t fit into the mix of babbling and drivel that passes for great literature. In the simplest terms of common-sense decorum, composition, and the usage of a universal language of feeling and emotion are two necessary elements in the human connection between experience and discourse in communication with others. Poetry’s not taught in the traditional sense in the classical classroom setting, although it has been tried. It must live or die. The teacher is the student, just as the mentor has their tormentor.
If you’re searching for a voice, it's your unique sound. If you have the time to learn and listen. The inner voice will speak louder than the words you say. To speak in strange tongues and never know the meaning behind the treasure you find inside your soul. The heart speaks what it wants and needs from you. Nobody can tell you how to do it. You are on your own path and the direction changes with every fleeting thought. The map takes you to a place where you are ready to be in control of your destiny. It is neither glamorous nor lucrative. You will find rejection at every crossroad. You will meet resistance and compulsion. It’s not a competition or popularity contest. Here’s my take on the basic idea of what poetry might mean to the novice.
A Beginners Guide to Poetry 101
See the poet run
Run poet run
Watch the poet jump
Jump poet jump
See the poet stumble
Fall down poet fall
Hear the poet scream
Scream poet scream
The poet cries
Cry poet cry
The poet is drunk
Drink poet drink
The poet is dead
Die poet die
That’s the way
The way we do it
What have we learned?