When I speak of poetry, I am not talking about versifying or wordsmithing. I am speaking about creating lives of passion, intensity and wonder. I call those people poets who go into the world with the creative intention of living life to the full. They may then choose to express the wonder, the intensity, the passion – the marvelous – that they discover in words, but the words are not their poetry – their lives are.
Those who try to pass themselves off as poets at most “poetry” readings have little to do with real poetry. The sonorous, pontificating voices with which they choose to read their banal verses prove that they have more in common with papish priests and sleazy televangelists, those buzzards voyeuristically feeding off the corpse of the marvelous banalized. A true poet in the midst of these slimy ghouls can only have the lycanthropic urge to rip out throats in order to stop the insipid babblings of these sentimental saps.
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