I wonder if I ever thought of an ideal reader... I guess when I

Hear, O seekers of art and devotion, the words of Kenneth Koch: “I wonder if I ever thought of an ideal reader… I guess when I was in my 20s and in New York and maybe even in my early 30s, I would write for my wife Janice… mainly for my poet friends and my wife, who was very smart about poetry.” In this remembrance shines the truth that a poet does not always write for the faceless masses, nor for eternity alone, but for those dearest to him—companions of spirit, beloved confidants, fellow voyagers in the realm of words. The ideal reader is not always an abstraction; sometimes it is the spouse who shares your table, the friend who shares your vision, the one who listens with an understanding heart.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the most ancient of practices. Poets have always written first not for nations but for circles—for families, for companions, for fellow seekers of beauty. Homer sang to the courts of kings, Sappho to her circle of friends and lovers, Li Bai to his companions under the moon. Their poems reached eternity, but they began in intimacy. Koch’s confession—that he wrote for Janice and for his fellow poets—follows this eternal pattern: art begins in closeness, in the trust of those who know us, before it finds its way to strangers.

Consider the story of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who wrote verses not first for the world, but for one another. Their letters and poems became a dialogue of souls, each feeding the other’s flame. Out of that intimacy came works of lasting power, but their origin was love, not ambition. In the same way, Koch found in his wife Janice an ideal reader—someone intelligent, perceptive, capable of hearing the deeper layers of his verse. Such readers do not merely consume words; they awaken them.

Koch also speaks of his poet friends, companions who shared his language and his struggles. For in the company of fellow creators, words are sharpened, visions tested, and courage renewed. To write for one’s peers is not vanity, but communion; it is to speak into a circle where the art itself is alive, where criticism and encouragement come not from the distant critic but from the fellow traveler. These friendships are the soil from which movements and schools of poetry have always grown.

Yet there is a paradox here. Though Koch wrote for wife and friends, his words did not remain in those intimate circles. They spread outward, reaching readers he never met, shaping lives far beyond his imagination. This is the mystery of poetry: it begins in the small and the close, but it grows into the vast. A poem written for one can become a beacon for many. The ideal reader may be a wife at first, but the echo of her attentive listening may prepare the poem to speak to strangers centuries later.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not be anxious about who your audience will be. Write first for those you love, for those who understand, for those whose judgment you trust. If you have no circle, write for yourself, for your future self who will read with wiser eyes. Do not chase the approval of the faceless multitude; begin with intimacy, and let universality come in its own time. A poem that speaks truly to one heart will eventually find its way to others.

In practice, let each seeker do this: find your ideal reader, whether it is a spouse, a friend, or your own soul in solitude. Share your work, let it be tested in the fires of intimacy, and listen to the voices of those you trust. Write not to impress but to connect, to converse. And remember always that the poem written for one beloved person may outlive you and carry its flame into the lives of countless strangers.

Thus Kenneth Koch’s teaching endures: the ideal reader need not be the critic or the public; it may be the wife who loves you, the friend who challenges you, the circle that understands you. Begin there, and trust the ripple to widen. For poetry, like truth, is born in intimacy but destined for eternity.