(Images by Dale Barrigar)

The American poet Ted Berrigan (1934 – 1983) said (wrote), “I don’t feel / a necessity for being a mature person in this world. I mean / all the grown-ups in this world, they’re just playing house, all / poets know that.”

Among other questions this beautifully plain-spoken quotation raises, it raises the question of what, or who, a (real) poet is.

A guy who (sometimes) calls himself “The Drifter” (because he synthesized Samuel Johnson’s “The Rambler” and “The Idler”) came up with an answer for this.

He broke it down into three simple parts (or things) – or requirements.

One: a modern poet cannot be, cannot be, CANNOT BE, a cheerleader for The System, not matter what system you mean.

The modern poet MUST BE, must be, must be, an outsider; in one form or another.

Wallace Stevens was a married insurance executive with a kid (and a house) and he still managed to live as one of the most profound lone wolves North America has ever seen. And when it comes to lone wolves, America is second to none.

Secondly, the poet must have an original vision. Many poets have been literally blind, starting with the very first known and named modern poet (in the West) of all, Homer.

Their inner visions were so intense and so original that they lost their outer sight.

That is what the Homeric myth of outer blindness and inner seeing really means.

Next, the poet must be able to say what they see.

Not to a billion-plus people all at once. Once it gets to that level (or even a million) poetry has turned into propaganda. Donald Trump used to be able to give some wickedly effective “poetry” readings about immigrants being snakes. But these readings were propaganda in the form of (simplistic) poetry; they were not “real” poetry.

The poet must be able to say what they see that no one else sees.

BEING A POET HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH USING FANCY WORDS OR “PRETTY” VOCABULARY (although almost all good poets have a wickedly large vocabulary).

Real poetry is about ELEVATED LANGUAGE and the circumstances that rightfully call for elevated language; and that does not mean elevated language is pretty.

Elevated Language is often harsh; very plainspoken; savagely angry; obscene; heartbreaking; hilarious; haunting.

Elevated Language is always intense, but very-much oftentimes, intensity comes in a whisper.

Much or most of the best poetry is AWKWARD, at least until you get used to it. (Awkward, NOT “pretty.”)

And its intensity is often calm, quiet, whispering, mumbling, clipped, pungent, brief, startling, something on the wind over the waters: memorable.

Marlon Brando mumbling on screen in some of his best roles is kind of like poetry. He can do it so well you don’t even know he’s faking it: maybe because he wasn’t (quite) faking it (he was bringing it up from a real place inside himself).

An outsider with an original vision who can communicate that vision to at least one other person in words because the right words make you think and feel more deeply, privately (not publicly): that’s what a real poet is and what real poetry (and who a real poet) is.

Dale Barrigar