A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery

Jean Cocteau, the restless visionary of France—poet, artist, dramatist—once spoke with a simplicity that cut deeper than ornament: “A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.” In this image, Cocteau reminds us that poetry is not the product of affectation or excess, but of essence. Just as the rose carries its fragrance by its very nature, the poet carries beauty, truth, and rhythm in his words without striving to appear “poetical.” To force what is natural is to weaken it; to adorn what already shines is to obscure it.

The ancients knew this truth. The great Chinese sage Lao Tzu taught that the highest virtue does not announce itself, for in announcing it, it is diminished. So too with poetry: the truest poems arise without the self-conscious attempt to appear elevated. Homer did not set out to prove his poetry was great; he simply sang, and his song became immortal. The rose does not labor to create its perfume, and the poet does not labor to appear poetic—both simply fulfill their nature.

History offers us examples. Consider Emily Dickinson, who lived in seclusion, writing her verses in secret, often on scraps of paper. She did not send them to the world polished with theatricality or cloaked in grandeur. Her words were plain, yet their power shook the soul. She did not “scent her roses,” and because of this, her poetry breathes with authenticity even now. Contrast this with the countless writers who strain to appear profound, who burden their lines with artificial flourish—their verses wilt, like roses drenched in false perfume.

Cocteau’s image also teaches humility. The nursery gardener tends the soil, waters the roots, prunes the branches—but he does not create the fragrance of the rose. That mystery belongs to life itself. So the poet may labor over words, refine lines, and shape rhythm, but the essence of poetry—its ability to awaken wonder—comes not from him forcing it, but from letting it emerge naturally. The poet, like the gardener, serves life rather than trying to dominate it.

There is, too, a heroic warning in his words. For in every age there are those who mistake performance for truth. They clothe themselves in the robes of the poet, speaking in borrowed tones, but their words lack fragrance. The true poet, by contrast, may wear rags and speak simply, yet his song penetrates the heart. The lesson is clear: do not waste yourself trying to appear what you already are. Let your essence speak, and it will be enough.

So what wisdom shall we pass down? That authenticity is greater than affectation. Live in such a way that your actions carry their own fragrance. If you are kind, do not announce your kindness—it will shine of itself. If you are wise, do not strain to prove your wisdom—it will reveal itself in your choices. If you are a poet in spirit, trust that your words will bloom without artificial scent. The rose does not trumpet its perfume, and yet the world bends to inhale it.

Practical action flows from this truth. In your speech, seek clarity rather than ornament. In your work, seek sincerity rather than show. In your art, let the truth of your soul appear without disguise. And in your life, trust that what is genuine needs no embellishment. Be as the rose: unseen effort below the soil, silent growth above it, fragrance that emerges without command.

Thus Jean Cocteau’s words become a guide for all who seek to live truly: “A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.” Be real, be faithful to your essence, and your life itself will carry the fragrance of poetry.