Why I Write Poetry

by Kevin Powell

I have not always been a fan of poetry. Nah. In fact, I hated it and thought poetry an activity for the overly sensitive--and suckers. Suckers in the sense that I, a Black boy from the ghetto, would--could--never let my guard down long enough for you, the observer,to see me--naked--as I am. But the reality is that I had always, on the down low, dug poetry, be it the sensual sonnets of William Shakespeare, the dark meditations of Edgar Allan Poe, or the lonesome thoughts of Emily Dickinson.

However, it was not until I encountered the first very traumatic experience of my adult life, at age twenty-two, that poetry really began to mean something to me. You see, I was suspended from my university for an indiscretion I will not share here. Having been the first person in my immediate family to attend college, I was devastated and could not tell my moms what had happened. Between sudden bouts with insomnia and school-mandated trips to a therapist, I scrawled words which became stanzas which became my initial attempts at poetry. Although I had studied this literary form in both high school and college, I did not know if poems were supposed to be long or short, nor if what I was writing was actually good or not.

Back then I did not care, to be honest. I had wanted to be a writer since I was eleven and, outside of some short fiction I penned during my high school years, this post-college writing was the first time I felt free—and truly felt that I was, indeed, a writer. And how amazing it was, yo. To be able to say whatever I wanted, to push the door to my imagination and walk through, without fear, to those spaces I never knew existed.

And it was not enough for me to write poetry in isolation. I knew I had to share my words with other people and I soon found myself in hole-in-the-wall spots in north Jersey and New York City, reading to audiences of maybe ten people. I was mad happy about that too. I felt empowered, that my voice, my life, my world, mattered. That poetry was, no doubt, special, magical, a gift from some greater being and I was merely the vessel carrying the word.

It took me a few years but I eventually recovered from that college suspension. Now all these years later, after five books, numerous magazine and newspaper articles, and travels across America and outside of the States to places like England, France, and the Caribbean. I cannot help but think back to those very innocent days when I kept a tiny notepad in my back pocket and tried to capture everything I felt at any given moment, on the subway, at a grocery store, while walking down a street in Newark or Harlem, or Brooklyn.

Today I cannot picture what it would be like not being a poet. Yeah, I am sensitive, because one cannot be a poet without having some level of sensitivity. Without some connection to one’s soul, and the souls of other human beings. And, yeah, I am a sucker, for words. For sure, I love words and the poetry made from stringing just the right words together. In this coming together of pen and paper, of fingers and computer keys, of raw-dog emotions and instant testimonies that make poetry—to me—as necessary as the blood beating a path to our hearts.

The New York City-based Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, essayist, activist, and public speaker. Kevin is the author of five books, including his editorship of the recent HarperCollins release Who Shot Ya? Three Decades of Hiphop Photography (images by Ernie Paniccioli), which is the first-ever pictorial history of hiphop. Kevin's essays, articles, and reviews have appeared in many publications, including the Washington Post, Essence, Newsweek, and Vibe, where he was a longtime staff writer. A highly sought-after political and pop cultural commentator, Kevin has shared his views on VH1, BET, CNN, and a host of other media outlets. And Kevin first reached the national spotlight as a cast member on the original season of MTV's The Real World, the most successful reality-based program in television history.