The Great Poet Age Debate: Because Even Bards Have to Deal with Quarter-Life Crises
Ah, the age-old question: When is a poet truly *in their prime*? Is it at 25, penning angst-ridden verses in a dimly lit café? Or perhaps at 50, after a lifetime of collecting existential dread and decent health insurance? The Great Poet Age Debate rages on, folks, and it’s about as unresolved as the meaning of life or whether pineapples belong on pizza.
On one side, we’ve got the “Child Prodigy” camp, where poets are expected to burst onto the scene like a literary Mozart, composing sonnets before they can legally drink. Think Rimbaud, who was basically a teenage poetry rockstar, or Dylan Thomas, who was writing masterpieces before he could vote. Then there’s the opposing faction, the “Late Bloomers,” who argue that real poetic genius comes with age, like a fine wine or a well-aged cheese. Robert Frost, for instance, didn’t publish his first book until he was 39, which is basically middle-aged in poet years.
And then there’s the rest of us, stuck in the middle, wondering if we’re behind schedule or if we’ve already missed our window. It’s like the poet’s version of a quarter-life crisis, but with more angst and fewer avocado toasts. Do you publish early and risk being labeled a “wunderkind” with nowhere to go but down? Or do you wait, letting your masterpiece marinate in your brain like a fine wine, only to possibly die before it sees the light of day? The pressure is real, folks.
Why the Best Poet Age Is Clearly 5 Months Old
Ah, the age-old question: when is one most primed to pen a Pulitzer-worthy masterpiece? The answer, dear friends, lies not in the angst-ridden teens nor the midlife crisis of 40, but in the unlikeliest of heroes—the 5-month-old baby. These tiny humans are the epitome of poetic genius, and here’s why.
The Maestro of Babble
At five months old, babies are virtuosos of vowel play, stringing together consonants with the reckless abandon of a jazz legend. Their coos and babbles are the purest form of free verse, unshackled by the constraints of grammar or rhyme. It’s like they’re channeling the spirits of Shakespeare and T.S. Eliot, minus the pressure of iambic pentameter.
The Performance Artist
Every wiggle and wave is a choreographed dance, a kinetic poem that defies the confines of the page. Their audience, utterly captivated by each squirm and coo, hangs on every movement. This is poetry in motion, where the stage is a crib and the spotlight is a sunbeam streaming through the window.
The Ultimate Fans
And let’s not forget the audience—doting parents who find brilliance in every gurgle. Imagine having fans who don’t care about your meter or metaphor, who cheer for every syllable. No harsh critics here, just pure, unadulterated adoration. It’s the ultimate writer’s retreat, where every performance is a standing ovation.
The Poet Age Sweet Spot: 97 Years Old
Ah, 97 years old—the sweet spot for poets. It’s like the prime rib of life, aged to perfection, with just the right amount of seasoning from decades of heartbreak, triumph, and questionable fashion choices. At 97, you’ve seen empires rise and fall, trends come and go, and probably a few things that would make a millennial weep into their avocado toast. This is the age where you can look back on your life and say, “You know what? I’ve got enough material to write a whole library of sonnets, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Why 97?
– You’ve Seen It All: By the time you’re 97, you’ve lived through wars, depressions, and at least one global pandemic. You’ve got stories to tell, and if you’re a poet, you’ve got metaphors for days. Need to describe heartbreak? Just compare it to the Great Depression—everyone gets it.
– You’ve Got Nothing to Prove: At 97, you’re not trying to impress anyone. You’ve already lived a full life, and if someone doesn’t like your poetry, well, you’ve probably outlived them anyway. This is the age where you can write about anything—love, loss, the absurdity of modern technology—and no one can tell you otherwise.
– You’ve Earned the Right to Be Eccentric: Let’s face it, by the time you’re 97, you’ve earned the right to be a little weird. Want to write a 10-page poem about the history of dentures? Go for it. Want to perform it at a slam poetry night while wearing a top hat and monocle? Absolutely. At 97, you’re a national treasure, and no one’s going to question your choices.
And let’s not forget the practical benefits. At 97, you’ve got a lifetime of bad metaphors, overwrought similes, and poorly timed rhymes to draw from. You’ve also got the wisdom to know when to use them. So, if you’re a poet who’s been waiting for your moment, don’t worry—it’ll come. Just give it another 70 years or so.