The indie music darling PJ Harvey has announced she’s publishing a book of poetry. Given the consistently high quality of her musical output over the years (and also because I’ve harboured a muso crush on Polly since the early 1990s and she can do no wrong in my eyes). I’m confident her musings won’t send the ancient art of poetry into disrepute.

However, the transition from musician to poet isn’t always an easy one. There’s a real risk that, without any musical accompaniment to help an initial idea to blossom, a songwriter’s words will land with a dull thud when attending the party on their own. It takes skill to make language dance without a soundtrack.

Someone like Patti Smith makes the transition look easy; she bridges the divide between poetry and song to the point of blurring it. But it doesn’t always work. Take Jim Morrison, for example. His songs worked perfectly matched to the chugging and yearning of The Doors’ musical underbelly, but on its own, his prose, does not soar. Despite the fact he wrote poetry about his penis.

At least musos have the tools in their creative arsenal and the innate confidence to know that, when paddling in the poetry pool, they’re not completely out of depth. This is why I do not fear PJ’s outpourings. It’s when the rest of the culture world start looking for another outlet that the art of poetry gets a bad name. James Franco, I’m looking at you.

I’m not recommending celebs stop trying to be creative. Everyone has a right to try their hand at a new thing and artistic effort should always be encouraged. But calling it poetry is not helping their cause. Being able to put pen to paper doesn’t make someone a poet, no more than singing in tune makes someone a singer.

Twilight actor Kristen Stewart learned this the hard way. When her poem appeared in Marie Claire magazine, it was cruelly dubbed the worst verse of all time. In the context of a fashion magazine, this all felt rather Mean Girls. Especially as it was no worse than the average Twilight fanfic.

And from California to Canberra, politician Clive Palmer’s recently unearthed poetry had him suffering the same fate. Sure, his policies leave a lot to be desired, but had he called his poetry words to live by and popped a tropical sunset pic behind them, his inspirational quotes would be getting multiple shares on Facebook right now among the soccer mom set: “A better world to live in, a better way of life, a better understanding, Free from strife.”

Perhaps it’s time these familiar faces simply start renaming their efforts “thoughts that sometimes rhyme”. Or “brain farts” (Charlie Sheen, this is your category). Then we could stop one raking them over the coals for simply having a go.

Never mind that nebulous thing known as poetic licence. We should instigate a real, hard copy Poetry Licence, like the pen licence handed out in third grade when you graduate from using a pencil, or the driver’s licence that’s required to get behind a wheel. A poetry licence could help us instigate some quality control.

Then again, we’d miss out on such gems as this, from Australia’s favourite retired Shock Jock, John Laws:

There are so many things, that I want to do, but I just run out of drive.
There are so many things to share with you, but I wonder why I’m alive
My world’s mine and yours is yours, and I really don’t want to change it
But I think that love is the primary cause, and why I’d like to rearrange it.

There’s so much love I could give to you, I just want that you should know it.
There’s so many reasons to live for you, I just wish that I could show it
My world’s mine and yours is yours, and I know that yours is free
But I don’t want to live in this world of mine if I must live here as me.

Now that’s what I call poetry.