I don't like to boast, but I have probably skipped more poetry

Hear the jesting voice of Will Cuppy, who declared: “I don’t like to boast, but I have probably skipped more poetry than any other person of my age and weight in this country.” Though he speaks in humor, as was his custom, there is beneath the laughter a sharp truth about the neglect of poetry in the modern age. Cuppy, the satirist, mocks himself while also mocking a culture that treats verse as a burden to be endured rather than a treasure to be sought. His exaggeration—boasting of how much poetry he has avoided—reveals the gulf between poetry’s eternal worth and the small regard in which it is often held.

The ancients would have found this jest both sorrowful and strange. For in their time, no man of culture could boast of neglecting poetry. In Greece, to know Homer was to be civilized; in Rome, to read Virgil was to be Roman. To skip poetry was to skip one’s heritage, one’s duty to the gods and to the state. The wise saw poetry not as an ornament but as a foundation of life. That Cuppy could boast of skipping it, even in jest, shows how far the modern heart had drifted from the ancient flame.

Consider, by contrast, the story of Abraham Lincoln. Though largely self-taught, he read the King James Bible and Shakespeare’s plays until their rhythms shaped his very soul. When he spoke at Gettysburg, his words carried the cadence of poetry, compressed into power and simplicity. Had Lincoln “skipped poetry” as Cuppy claimed to have done, he might never have found the language to bind a nation in grief. This is the silent truth behind the humor: to neglect poetry is to diminish one’s voice, to rob oneself of the strength that shaped leaders and sages.

Yet Cuppy’s wit also contains a mirror for us. Many, like him, have laughed off their neglect of poetry, finding it too difficult, too obscure, too impractical. They say: “It pays nothing; it changes nothing.” And yet, when sorrow comes, they turn to verse; when love overwhelms, they reach for lines; when death visits, they seek comfort in stanzas remembered. In times of crisis, even the one who skipped poems feels their absence, like a well forgotten in a desert. Cuppy’s boast, then, is also a confession: that he lived in a world where men could ignore poetry, but not without cost.

We may learn, therefore, that humor can disguise wisdom. The satirist pretends pride in neglect, but the wise reader hears the warning: do not skip what nourishes the soul. To laugh at poetry is easy, but to live without it is barren. The true boast would not be in avoiding poetry, but in carrying it within, letting it guide, enrich, and sharpen the mind.

The lesson is clear: do not be among those who skip. Read even a little, even slowly, but read. Memorize a line, recite it when the day is heavy, let it be the song of your heart. Do not think yourself too busy, too modern, too practical for poetry, for the greatest of leaders, thinkers, and lovers were never too busy for it. If the ancient soldier could carry Homer into battle, if the Renaissance builder could carry Dante in his mind, then surely we, too, can spare time for what makes us truly human.

Practical steps are simple. Begin with one poem—read it aloud, hear its rhythm. Keep a small book of verse by your bed. Share poems with children, so they grow not boasting of neglect but rejoicing in inheritance. And if you laugh, as Cuppy did, let your laughter not be dismissal but remembrance—that humor may draw us closer to the truth we once ignored.

Thus Will Cuppy, even in jest, serves as prophet. He boasts of skipping poetry, but in doing so, he calls us to return to it. Let us not skip, but embrace; not neglect, but cherish. For poetry is not mere pastime—it is the voice of our ancestors, the rhythm of our soul, the mirror of our destiny.