Always be a poet, even in prose.

Hear the command of Charles Baudelaire, prophet of modern beauty and singer of shadows: “Always be a poet, even in prose.” These words strike like a bell through time, reminding us that poetry is not confined to the narrow temple of verse. It is a way of seeing, a way of breathing, a way of being alive. To be a poet in prose is to carry imagination into every sentence, to suffuse ordinary speech with rhythm, image, and fire. It is to look upon the world not with the dull gaze of habit, but with the ever-awakened eye that sees wonder, terror, and glory in the simplest of things.

Baudelaire, who wrote in the decadent streets of 19th-century Paris, was himself a master of this principle. His Petits Poèmes en prose sought to prove that the spirit of poetry could live outside the measured line, that it could enter into the flowing river of prose and still shimmer with beauty. For him, poetry was not merely form, but essence: the power to lift language beyond utility, to make it sing. Thus his command is not only for poets, but for all who write and speak—to adorn life with vision, to carry the intensity of art into the common tongue.

The ancients also knew this secret. Plato, though writing in prose, soared with the wings of metaphor and myth. His dialogues were philosophy, but also music, shaped with cadence and imagery that gave them enduring power. Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations, wrote not as a poet but as an emperor; yet his words shine with poetic force, lifting them beyond instruction into timeless wisdom. Even in prose, they were poets, for they allowed truth to breathe in beauty.

History gives us other examples. Abraham Lincoln, though not a poet by trade, wrote the Gettysburg Address in prose so spare and precise that it reads like poetry carved from stone. He did not need rhyme nor meter to achieve grandeur. His vision, distilled into words, gave them cadence that moved the soul. Here is the living proof of Baudelaire’s command: that prose, when written with poetic spirit, can endure for centuries, stirring hearts as deeply as any verse.

To be a poet even in prose is to resist the temptation of dullness, of speech that merely informs but does not inspire. It is to treat language as sacred, as a vessel of truth and beauty. In our age, where words are spent cheaply and hurriedly, Baudelaire’s wisdom stands like a tower: let even your emails, your letters, your journals carry the spark of vision. Let your language reveal not only facts but also the soul that perceives them.

The lesson for us is this: cultivate the poet’s heart in all things. Do not confine beauty to rare occasions or sacred texts. When you write, let your words live. When you speak, let rhythm and image rise naturally, as though your voice were a lyre. And in how you see the world, always search for the flame within the ordinary: a tree becomes a cathedral, a face becomes a history, a day becomes eternity. In doing so, you will not only enrich your language, but your very life.

Therefore, remember Baudelaire’s command: “Always be a poet, even in prose.” Live as one who seeks beauty in all things. Write as one who believes words are vessels of fire. Speak as one who knows that truth without beauty withers. In this way, you will discover that poetry is not merely an art but a way of existence—one that transforms every act of language into a hymn to life itself.