I write poetry, and I put it to a beat - I mean, that's what

The words of Lakeith Stanfield resound with ancient simplicity: “I write poetry, and I put it to a beat—I mean, that’s what they call rap.” In this utterance, he reveals not merely a description of art, but a union of the old with the new, the eternal with the contemporary. For what is rap but the voice of the poet clothed in rhythm? What is the beat but the drum of the human heart, echoing the pulse of life? In these words, Stanfield proclaims that rap is not a fleeting fashion, but the continuation of a sacred tradition as old as humanity itself.

The ancients, too, wove their truths in verse and song. The poets of Greece sang the Iliad and the Odyssey before they were written, their voices rising above the flames of campfires, guided by memory and rhythm. The griots of Africa carried entire histories in their chants, each word a bridge from the living to the ancestors. The poetry was never meant to lie still upon parchment—it was meant to be heard, to be carried by the cadence of the drum, to move the spirit as much as the mind. And so, what we call rap is the same river, flowing still, though it takes a new path through time.

But hear the subtle wisdom in Stanfield’s phrasing: he speaks not of arrogance, nor of invention, but of continuity. By declaring rap to be poetry set to a beat, he strips away the veil of division between “high art” and “street art,” between the scholar’s pen and the emcee’s microphone. He reminds us that whether the poet stands in marble halls or on cracked sidewalks, the essence is one: the human need to speak truth in rhythm, to bind words with music, and to give voice to the unspoken.

Consider the story of Gil Scott-Heron, often called the godfather of rap. In the 1970s, his spoken-word performances—half poetry, half song—were set to the hum of jazz and funk. His famous words, “The revolution will not be televised,” were not merely lines upon a page; they were a chant, a rhythm, a prophetic call that echoed across generations. Like Homer before him, like the griots before him, Scott-Heron transformed words into a living force. And those who followed—the rappers of every age—did not depart from tradition, but carried it forward under a new name.

From this truth, let us take heed. Art is not bound by form, nor chained to any single age. It is a river, flowing through generations, shaped by its banks but never ceasing. What one age calls poetry, another may call rap, and still another may call it by names yet unborn. But the soul of it—the voice rising to speak truth with rhythm—remains eternal. To despise one form is to despise the ancestors, for all are joined in the same sacred current.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: honor the forms of expression that speak truth, no matter their name or clothing. Do not raise one art by belittling another, for all are fragments of the same flame. Let us recognize in the rhymes of the streets the same fire that once burned in the odes of Pindar, the Psalms of David, the chants of the griots. In doing so, we give honor not only to the artist but to the eternal power of the human word.

Practical actions arise from this wisdom: listen deeply to the words of artists, whether they call themselves poets, rappers, singers, or storytellers. Seek the truth beneath the form. Write your own verses—whether in rhyme or prose—and do not fear to give them rhythm, for the beat will carry your heart to the ears of others. Support those whose art speaks with sincerity, and remember that your voice, too, is part of this ancient river. Thus you join the lineage of poets, rappers, and storytellers who have, through every age, kept alive the sacred fire of the spoken word.