I never really liked poetry readings; I liked to read poetry by

Hearken, O seekers of wisdom, to the words of Leonard Cohen, who declared with honesty and humility: “I never really liked poetry readings; I liked to read poetry by myself, but I liked singing, chanting my lyrics to this jazz group.” In this confession lies not only the preference of an artist, but a revelation about the nature of art itself: that words must find their own vessel, that expression is most powerful when it is true to the soul of the one who bears it. Cohen knew that while the page holds silence and solitude, the voice holds music and communion.

For the poetry reading is a ritual of form—voices raised in solemn cadence, words drifting into the ears of strangers. Yet Cohen, ever the solitary pilgrim, felt his words lived best in private communion, in the secret temple of the self. There, in silence, poetry breathes, and its meaning mingles with the innermost spirit of the reader. But his lyrics, born not merely for reflection but for vibration, longed to be carried by rhythm and sound. They sought the embrace of music, where words become flesh and tone becomes blood. In the arms of jazz, his voice found its true sanctuary, half spoken, half sung, like a prayer rising in smoke.

This was no rejection of poetry, but its transformation. Cohen stood in the lineage of the ancients, who did not separate verse from song. Homer’s epic poetry was chanted to the lyre. The psalms of David were sung in the temple. The troubadours of medieval courts wove their poems with lute and harp. In Cohen’s chanting, accompanied by the pulse of a jazz group, he was not departing from poetry but restoring it to its primal form—the union of rhythm, word, and music. Thus, he joined himself to an eternal tradition, renewing the marriage of song and verse.

Consider also the story of Gil Scott-Heron, whose spoken-word chants over jazz and funk rhythms became the heartbeat of a generation, a bridge between poetry and what would become hip-hop. Like Cohen, he knew that the raw power of language could be heightened when married to music, that the truth could pierce deeper when carried on rhythm. Both men remind us that poetry is not confined to pages or podiums; it is a living flame that takes whatever form gives it greatest light.

Cohen’s words also reveal a deeper truth about authenticity. He did not force himself to love the stage of the poetry reading, though it was fashionable among poets. He did not pretend to find joy where he found none. Instead, he followed the path that set his spirit aflame: singing, chanting, sharing his heart not in rigid ceremony but in living performance. In this we see the mark of all true artists: they walk not the well-worn road, but the one that allows them to breathe, to live, to be whole.

And so, O children of tomorrow, the lesson is clear. Do not force yourself into molds that do not fit your soul. If your art lives in silence, embrace the silence. If it longs for song, give it melody. If it calls for movement, let it dance. The measure of art is not in conformity, but in authenticity. To walk the path of Cohen is to honor the unique vessel through which your spirit pours itself into the world.

What then should you do? Read poetry to yourself in stillness, but also dare to let your words breathe aloud. Experiment with voice, rhythm, and sound. Seek the medium that gives your heart freedom, not the one others expect. Above all, never forget that the ancients remind us: poetry is not only seen, it is heard; it is not only read, it is lived. Let your life itself become a song, sometimes whispered, sometimes chanted, always true. This is the gift Cohen left to us: the courage to let our art take the form our soul desires.