The poet is born out of necessity. His voice is most determined. But, yet, he bids your patience, and his own; he reaches not for a thing but through it all first, and so thrives only on what is given to him, as one thrives on anything till he takes from it, but the poet, with a word, is only given.
It is by nature of all things sound: for what it calls (to) to be heard. There is no life beyond this agreement. And so it must be so that each voice have its audience, be they true or imagined.

Accuse the poet of either. Still, he must write.

The poet wishes to put everything of himself and what he knows into his work, and he bears no cost but to entertain his own fancy.

Such is the case of all artists, but only the poet knows it best, for everything he knows of his audience, be they what they may, is in words. It is by this you have his sole word.

And it is by this that all moments to which one is true and honest and witnessed, by any audience, that one is then a poet and all life poetry.

This is truest poets’ aim:  to expand and contain, at will.

It is then the necessity is born, and though the cause be pathological.

And it is this cause which is their voice, coded in their words and reflecting in all their honest actions.  This voice is realized by the poet, it is won like a song and kept like a word:  and though it need not, seemingly, any form.

If this be true, that only some measure of reason be that by which a poet’s worth be held, then audience is the integral industry by which poetry thrives, again be they imagined or otherwise.

Audience itself is an industry, for its function is to be managed.

And so, economically speaking, the poet falls into three classes: the lover, the leader and the apostate.

The lover’s audience is singular, and this says nothing of his fidelity, for a lover has only one beloved.

It is the bright leader, however, who is aware of plurality and speaks to unite the masses, though this says nothing of his capacity.

It is the apostate, who finally achieves freedom in his mind at the cost of silence, for he imagines none can hear him, though this says nothing of his pride.

And all this says nothing of style, for it is to annihilate the notion in favor of necessity. The poet falls into any of these states at any given moment before his audience, and his writing is the reflection of this fluctuation.  And the poet stands hardly in any greater prowess of perception or control than any other living creature save that he may preserve his record, in sense and form. All live, only by their words, others, by then, by (their) lack; so only the poet fears not death, for he know it is with all ignorance, nor does he fear not being heard, for such is with all contradiction:  he knows and he goes, and all may see to what end, should they choose to, but what is more than a name?

This is again to expand, but contain:  for every name there is a word, a promise, and for every word there is life in its honor—all else bears necessity.

Though there be genres and global stages, there are yet subjects and objects; poets will be heard and with out any other reason than that they wished so, and so their value is near-entirely with their audience and the merit of their cause, the proof of such necessity.

It is both, as Wilde confessed and as Neruda professed, he does give us our “daily bread”, and art is “malady”, and the poet is frugal only with his own self, so all artists are hypocrites unless there remains a light—that their promise be true.

And though now all words seem boundless both in what they contain and where they may roam, creating arenas and stages and vast forms and forums of discussion and communication, one wonders what else would result of such screened audiences and spoken words, vicariously achieving their formless freedom.  And what apostasy is prose to the poet or he to pose.

The truest poets of us, wherever we see them, are nearly as the sun and made as inconstant as modernity’s moon, unnoticed and with its hand on the tides—they are fleetingly swept through our lives and we feel the winds pulling behind them, they either lift us or destroy. And, so are we all poor and made rich, poetic than less.

And only were good nature true to such enrichment is there justice in writing or speaking out.

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