Parable of the Madpoet
And I'm the great would-be poet. Yes. That's right! Poet. Some kind of bastard
literature...all it needs is a simple knife thrust. Just let me bleed you, you loud whore,
and one poem vanished. A whole people of neurotics, struggling to keep from being sane. And the only thing that would cure the neurosis would be your murder...
--Amiri Baraka, The Dutchman
He was a man who lived on the razor's edge, like a tight walker about to fall into the chasm, a false step, a slight loss of balance and he would surely fly headlong into the precipice.
He had taught at the greatest universities in the land, but was often escorted off campus by police
for violating the law of political correctness. He was deported from countries for the same reason, marched onto the plane at gunpoint, the hatch door slammed behind him. If madpoet returned, the prime minister said he would leave.
His writings were so outrageous people threw them on the ground in the north and dirty south. He told a man who threw his writings on the ground that he was dumber than the dumbest mule in
Georgia. The man went away but came back to ask him if that was a line from a movie. Madpoet told him, "You the movie, nigguh!"
Even though he hadn't sought employment in decades, he believed he was banned from employment for life because of his deranged thoughts, that he was not invited to events to celebrate life or art, even events his peers organized, though he invited them to his productions without fail.
People wanted him to be rich by saying the right things so the public could accept his writings. But his doctor told him to remain poor so he could be truthful and free. Another friend told him not to
worry about money because on the day he died he would surely be rich and famous. He was praised by word of mouth because nobody was going to talk about his writings out loud, but they hush hushed about it. It was very straight and plain. Youth told him he was very blunt!
Some people thought he liked to whine, snibble and was ungrateful because whenever he put on events they were unique and classical extravaganzas, though sometimes long, drawn out affairs without thought of intermission or length of time. Another mad friend named Sun Ra had taught him about infinity.
He had been confined to the mental hospital four times, but each time he had taken himself. He enjoyed the mental ward, especially since it was full of artists like himself who had crossed the
line from creativity to insanity. Other than drugs, the doctors found nothing wrong with him so when he refused to leave, they threw him out onto the street. The police jabbed him in the ribs with their night sticks as they escorted him off the grounds of the mental hospital.
So please let his pen flow and do not disturb him for any reason, especially some menial chore, a mundane exercise, just leave him alone in the silence of his room. Let him ponder thoughts beyond the box, beyond the pale of tradition. Let him consider the finer things of life, what words to configure, what metaphors, psycholinguistic turns of the mind, the sociology and historiography of a people, or else there shall be chaos in the land and blood shall flow like a river, for his spirit
shall be suppressed and shall seek an outlet in blood from the misery of his mind.
And I'm the great would-be poet. Yes. That's right! Poet. Some kind of bastard
literature...all it needs is a simple knife thrust. Just let me bleed you, you loud whore,
and one poem vanished. A whole people of neurotics, struggling to keep from being sane. And the only thing that would cure the neurosis would be your murder...
--Amiri Baraka, The Dutchman
He was a man who lived on the razor's edge, like a tight walker about to fall into the chasm, a false step, a slight loss of balance and he would surely fly headlong into the precipice.
He wrote to keep from killing, from slaughtering the guilty and innocent. In his warped mind, the choice was society's, not his. For in his selfishness, either let his pen flow or blood shall flow upon the land because he felt wronged, the constant victim of theft, even by his friends or so called friends.
He had taught at the greatest universities in the land, but was often escorted off campus by police
for violating the law of political correctness. He was deported from countries for the same reason, marched onto the plane at gunpoint, the hatch door slammed behind him. If madpoet returned, the prime minister said he would leave.
His writings were so outrageous people threw them on the ground in the north and dirty south. He told a man who threw his writings on the ground that he was dumber than the dumbest mule in
Georgia. The man went away but came back to ask him if that was a line from a movie. Madpoet told him, "You the movie, nigguh!"
Even though he hadn't sought employment in decades, he believed he was banned from employment for life because of his deranged thoughts, that he was not invited to events to celebrate life or art, even events his peers organized, though he invited them to his productions without fail.
People wanted him to be rich by saying the right things so the public could accept his writings. But his doctor told him to remain poor so he could be truthful and free. Another friend told him not to
worry about money because on the day he died he would surely be rich and famous. He was praised by word of mouth because nobody was going to talk about his writings out loud, but they hush hushed about it. It was very straight and plain. Youth told him he was very blunt!
Some people thought he liked to whine, snibble and was ungrateful because whenever he put on events they were unique and classical extravaganzas, though sometimes long, drawn out affairs without thought of intermission or length of time. Another mad friend named Sun Ra had taught him about infinity.
He had been confined to the mental hospital four times, but each time he had taken himself. He enjoyed the mental ward, especially since it was full of artists like himself who had crossed the
line from creativity to insanity. Other than drugs, the doctors found nothing wrong with him so when he refused to leave, they threw him out onto the street. The police jabbed him in the ribs with their night sticks as they escorted him off the grounds of the mental hospital.
So please let his pen flow and do not disturb him for any reason, especially some menial chore, a mundane exercise, just leave him alone in the silence of his room. Let him ponder thoughts beyond the box, beyond the pale of tradition. Let him consider the finer things of life, what words to configure, what metaphors, psycholinguistic turns of the mind, the sociology and historiography of a people, or else there shall be chaos in the land and blood shall flow like a river, for his spirit
shall be suppressed and shall seek an outlet in blood from the misery of his mind.
Yes, he is a killer in disguise, who appears in the persona of a poet for the good of society, but continue to oppress him, suppress him, and he shall strike out in a moment of black madness and those who have wronged him shall see your guts spilled, your head smashed against
the concrete sidewalk.
Believe it, it is only a matter of time before the madpoet shall seek revenge and come upon those
who have wronged him. He shall strike like a panther in the night, and you shall cry in horror as his knife enters your throat and from thence to the spilling of your guts upon the ground. He shall walk away with a laughter and joy only the devil himself shall understand and appreciate.
--Marvin X
4/17/09
Gullahland, South Carolina
Revised 4/3/10
the concrete sidewalk.
Believe it, it is only a matter of time before the madpoet shall seek revenge and come upon those
who have wronged him. He shall strike like a panther in the night, and you shall cry in horror as his knife enters your throat and from thence to the spilling of your guts upon the ground. He shall walk away with a laughter and joy only the devil himself shall understand and appreciate.
--Marvin X
4/17/09
Gullahland, South Carolina
Revised 4/3/10
Marvin X was born May 29, 1944 in Fowler, California, near Fresno. Marvin X is well known for his work as a poet, playwright and essayist of the BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT or BAM. He attended Merritt College along with Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale. He received his BA and MA in English from San Francisco State University.
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