To call yourself any kind of a poet carries with it a knife-edged perspective on other people’s parts – of course it does, poetry is expected to be good, if anything at all, and good, good poetry is hard as hell to come by these days. Perhaps it always has been. Many people take the time to sit and get it because, as it turns out, they do care where ever the writer might be attempting to take their mind next with a line, if only for a little while. But, for a real ‘poet’, I fear it is incredibly rare when, and if they will ever get to let themselves know whether or not their poetry and stories actually bring any real enticement, let alone excitement with them. It is difficult; you pour your every honest thought, your supposedly (and hopefully) God-given style, your constant intake of self-fed vocabulary into this fairly sentimental and highly extractable thing, and nobody is being forced whatsoever to like it. Not one bit, actually. Even if it might just feel sometimes as though they are being somewhat forced. It’s a strange medium is poetry, a none too visual medium, in the first instance at least, that requires a backbone that brings with it something exceptionally unique. A real poet, in my opinion – and, again, this is just one person’s perspective in seven-billion+ – cannot but have to attempt to write their way into a meandering and utterly dependable style that locks in some kind of style or formulaic comfort in their mind, even. The pay-off will either be phenomenal or bust. And, also, bust-broke-poor and still very phenomenal in many, many ridiculously typical instances. What does a poet wish for themselves: money, fame, relative acknowledgment or true glory? Or none of the above and just to read and enjoy their own wisdom in word. True glory being a true luck and, again, God-given ability to land their suggestive words upon that page in a way that most, if not all readers do get it in one form or another for its whole worth. Impossible? No. likely? Heck, no. It’s not that hard for the actual poet though because it is in them, probably carefree driven into them to do it as much as anything might just be driven into any single creative person so as manage to somehow help themselves to create top quality intent. Perhaps that is why it might be fairly correct to refer to the great poets as artists rather. And there aren’t an absolute heap that come to mind whenever you do push yourself to think of any of the supposed ‘greats’. Heaney, right here on our doorstop, William Blake, Emily Dickenson, Yeats, Keats, Plath… and I find myself at an undoubted loss beyond that point and, what’s more, I could not name one of those artist’s poems by title other than Heaney’s school-enforced study of ‘Mid-Term Break’. A good poem, sure, but hardly great by many comparable standards. That’s just it; does a real and natural poet believe that they can actually muster the talent (and courage, a lot of reader’s believe) from some place in just such a ‘mathematically romantic’ manner that brings them to finally bordering upon utterly unputdownable poetry? Most definitely, in my opinion, at least. It’s dog-eat-dog and it’s not a mainstream endeavour, yet it also kind of is. Strange for sure.

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