The Rugged Life of the Poet

Some time ago I decided that I should become a poet. The problem with this is that I do not often compose poetry. Fortunately, one does not need to be a certain thing to call oneself that same thing, except that such calling will in truth be untrue, unless it is called art. It is for this reason that I must make (or find) something that I can call poetry. The convenient thing about art is that the artist has a great deal of freedom to call creations (and sometimes destructions) anything he likes. This is what makes it art.

The poet's art is a dangerous art. The life of the poet is a hard one. It is indeed one of the most rugged and manly lives that can be lived, for it is as I sometimes say, "Poets die young." I might add that they often die violently, as well. Let us survey the dangerous lives and deaths of several famous poets to illustrate the point:

Lord Byron died of illness at the age of 34 while in Greece aiding with their rebellion against the Ottoman Empire.

Percy Shelley drowned at the age of 29 while sailing in a storm.

John Keats died of tuberculosis at the age of 26.

Edgar Allan Poe died for an uncertain reason at the age of 40.

Sylvia Plath committed suicide at the age of 30 by way of gas stove and sealed kitchen.

Five is a fine number, for the most part, but it is not three. At any rate, my readers, you understand, the writing of poetry does indeed decrease one's life expectancy. It is a risky behavior, much like serving in the Polish cavalry in the second World War. It is for this reason that I shall be a poet only insofar as I might call myself one, for I must call myself a poet to refer to myself as a poet-musician or bard-minstrel. I do not wish to be a mere musician or minstrel.

Thus I take up my pen with the greatest of care, so as not to harm myself with it. You know, if you believe yourself to be an inkpen, it is unwise to sharpen your neck with a pen-knife, but that is another matter for another time, and that time, a time of dramatic poetry, was in 1867. Of course, there is also time in my final sentence. That being said, I bid all of my friends farewell, and until next time, I should remind you that though Hussein is widely believed to be a sand-box, he is really a pen.