I don't think I've ever read poetry, ever. I'm not really

Hear, O children of rhythm and seekers of truth, the voice of Eminem, who confessed: “I don’t think I’ve ever read poetry, ever. I’m not really book-smart.” At first, these words may sound like an admission of ignorance, a turning away from the sacred halls of literature. But beneath them lies a paradox both profound and humbling: one of the greatest poets of our age denies the name of poet, though he has breathed poetry into the ears and hearts of millions. His statement is not a dismissal of poetry, but a revelation of where poetry truly lives—not only in books, but in the pulse of life itself.

For Eminem, raised not in libraries but in the hard streets of Detroit, book-smarts were not his inheritance. His education was not in lecture halls but in battles of rhyme, where wit and courage were tested in fire. Yet what is this if not poetry? The ancients knew that poetry was first an oral art, born not in silent study but in the gathering of voices, in the clash of word against word. Eminem’s denial, then, may be a misunderstanding: he may not have read poetry in books, but he created poetry in sound, rhythm, and breath, carrying forward the oldest tradition of the art.

This truth recalls the story of Homer, the blind bard of Greece. Scholars debate whether Homer ever wrote at all, or whether his epics lived first as song, carried in memory and performance. If so, then the Iliad and the Odyssey were never “read” in their beginning, but heard, shouted, chanted. By this measure, Eminem is nearer to Homer than to the scholars who later wrote him down. He may not have read poetry, but he has lived it, embodying the oral spirit that was always its origin.

Yet there is wisdom, too, in his humility. By saying he is not book-smart, Eminem acknowledges that genius does not always come cloaked in academic robes. He reminds us that creativity often springs from hunger, from hardship, from necessity. Great poets have not always been scholars; some have been wanderers, exiles, laborers, fighters. The gift of expression is not limited to those who study books, but belongs also to those who survive storms and find words to tell of them.

Consider Frederick Douglass, who, though born into slavery and denied formal education, became one of the most powerful orators of the nineteenth century. He, too, might have once claimed he was not “book-smart,” yet his words, shaped by pain and longing for freedom, moved nations. Eminem stands in such a lineage: a man whose life, marked by wounds and battles, became the forge of words that resonate with millions. His art proves that poetry does not always spring from books—it springs from life, sharpened into language.

And yet, there is also a hidden challenge in Eminem’s confession. If a man of such verbal fire has never turned his eyes to the great poets of the past, what wonders might he yet discover if he did? The one who creates without reading might find new horizons by joining his voice with the chorus of history. His words remind us that poetry is already within us, but also that it can be nourished by listening to the voices that came before.

Therefore, O seekers, take this lesson: do not confine poetry to the page, nor measure wisdom only by books. But neither should you despise the treasures that books hold. Poetry is both lived and read, both shouted and whispered. If you lack book-learning, know that life itself is a teacher; if you have book-learning, do not forget to live what you read. In this union, poetry flourishes.

So remember Eminem’s words: “I’m not really book-smart.” He speaks not as a scholar, but as one who proves that poetry needs not the approval of institutions to be real. Poetry lives wherever words burn with truth, whether on the page or in the mouth of the people. Let this embolden you: do not wait until you are learned to create, but create with what you have, and in so doing, you too may discover that you have been a poet all along.