Being called a poet is a fate to accept and not resign to. Poets are inconsequential but so is almost everyone else. Poetry doesn’t flow out of thin air. It comes out of this world. It is just as practical as mile-high buildings or voyages to Mars. The other side of practical, the one of knowing what has already been done, of what has already proved its worth lacks imagination, it is ghettoed, worse it is brainless. Calling practicality historical possibilities is limiting.
It just boils down to foundations and poets surprisingly walk the same ground as anyone else. Sorry, but my world class doesn’t mean relegating beggars to outcasts.
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