A poet is born even before she knows the word
“I’m really more of a song and dance man.” Bob Dylan’s sass-in-a-glass reply to the question “Do you consider yourself a poet?” still sounds fresh. It gets its freshness first from the mystical mouth of its speaker and next from the fact that the identity he’s rejecting, that of the poet, still sort of stinks. Poets prance. Poets pine. Poets, pathetically, publish poetry. And yet poetry is what I intend to praise here.
Tony Blair to headline Class Day