Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us

Host: The rain had just ended, leaving the city glistening — puddles catching neon reflections, the air heavy with the scent of coffee, ink, and wet asphalt. The clock above the café door read 11:47 p.m. Inside, a few patrons lingered — night workers, dreamers, and people too afraid to go home to silence.

Jack sat in the corner, sleeves rolled up, a laptop in front of him and a half-empty cup of espresso cooling by his elbow. Jeeny sat across from him, a thin notebook open, pages filled with handwritten lines that looked like tides — rising, falling, hesitant, alive.

The window beside them framed a view of billboards flashing corporate slogans and ads for everything from soda to smartphones. The hum of commerce was the city’s heartbeat.

Jack: “Robert Frost said, ‘Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.’” He smirked, his voice a mixture of irony and fatigue. “He wasn’t wrong. Even the purest art gets priced eventually.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s just reality. But it doesn’t mean art has to lose its soul. The market tests you, yes — but it doesn’t define you.”

Host: The barista wiped down the counter, the sound of cloth on glass punctuating their words. The light above their table flickered slightly, throwing soft shadows across their faces — his lined with weary pragmatism, hers glowing with stubborn faith.

Jack: “Soul doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny. I’ve written ten ad campaigns this month. Each one pays more than a year’s worth of poetry. Frost knew what he was saying — we all talk like saints and live like merchants.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the money, Jack. It’s how we let it measure us. Business and art don’t have to be enemies — they can be partners if you remember who’s driving.”

Jack: Leaning forward, his gray eyes sharp. “Partners? Come on. The moment money enters, art becomes a commodity. Look at publishing — ‘What sells?’ ‘What trends?’ Every poem gets dissected for its profit margin. That’s not creation. That’s transaction.”

Jeeny: “But even Frost sold poems. Dickens wrote for newspapers. Michelangelo took commissions from popes. Money doesn’t corrupt art — the fear of not having it does. The artist’s soul starves not because they earn, but because they forget why they started.”

Host: The sound of a passing train rattled the windows, its echo fading into the distance. Jack watched the steam rise from his cup, his fingers tracing idle circles on the table — a man who carried both ambition and regret in his bones.

Jack: “You know, I used to think writing was freedom. That words would make me untouchable. But the truth? Every time I sell one, I feel a little more owned. The client smiles, the paycheck clears — and something small inside me dies quietly.”

Jeeny: “Then stop selling the wrong thing, Jack. Don’t sell the part that bleeds. Sell the part that can afford to be sold. Frost wasn’t confessing hypocrisy — he was confessing survival. Even prophets have bills.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy and luminous. The rain outside began again, slow and persistent, like fingers drumming on glass. Jack gave a small, humorless laugh, the kind that carried both truth and exhaustion.

Jack: “You sound like a poet who’s never gone hungry.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one who’s been full for too long.”

Host: That struck him — the way her voice cut clean through his armor. He leaned back, exhaling smoke from a cigarette he hadn’t even lit yet, the ghost of habit haunting him.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Pretend we’re above it? We all write for money. Even Frost admitted it — beginners go through the market. And the market? It doesn’t care if your soul’s on the page — only if it sells.”

Jeeny: “Then prove it wrong. Write something it can’t ignore — not because it’s trendy, but because it’s true. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? You survive by surrendering to the same world you’re trying to rise above.”

Jack: “You make that sound poetic. But the truth is, the market’s a mirror — it reflects what people want, not what they need. And sometimes what they want is easier than what matters.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe our job as writers isn’t to escape the market, but to smuggle truth into it. To hide a heartbeat inside the commerce. Frost did it — he wrote about walls and fields and fences, and somehow made them eternal. Maybe the business doesn’t kill art — maybe it’s how art learns to survive.”

Host: The café’s clock ticked loudly now. Midnight. The last few customers began to leave, wrapping scarves around tired faces, clutching receipts like small proofs of existence. The neon lights outside pulsed softly, as if in sync with their conversation.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’ve romanticized suffering too much? Every poet I know treats poverty like a rite of passage. Like starving makes you holy.”

Jeeny: “Suffering isn’t holy. It’s just honest. It strips you of lies. But the world doesn’t owe us sanctity, Jack. It owes us nothing. We write not because it’s profitable — we write because silence hurts worse.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say until you’re staring at an eviction notice.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you keep two pens — one for the soul, one for survival. You don’t have to sell your voice to make a living — just learn which voice to sell.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled over the city. The lights flickered, briefly casting them in half-darkness — two silhouettes caught between faith and fatigue.

Jack: “So maybe Frost wasn’t mocking poets. Maybe he was warning us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That the trial by market isn’t about losing purity — it’s about keeping it alive in a world that tries to buy it.”

Jack: “And what if you fail that trial?”

Jeeny: “Then you become what you sell — not what you believe.”

Host: A single raindrop traced its way down the window, merging with another until it became a slow, shining river. Jack watched it, silent for a long while. Then he spoke, his voice softer now — stripped of irony, almost human.

Jack: “You know, maybe Frost was right. Maybe it’s not about hating business. Maybe it’s about learning how not to lose yourself in the bargain.”

Jeeny: “That’s the game, Jack. You can’t escape the marketplace — but you can choose not to be priced.”

Host: The barista turned off the espresso machine, the hiss of steam echoing like applause at the end of a quiet performance. Jack closed his laptop, his fingers lingering on the lid, as though sealing a confession.

Jack: “Maybe tomorrow I’ll write something for myself again. No clients, no keywords. Just something that breathes.”

Jeeny: “Good. Let it breathe, and the world will listen — even if it takes a while to pay for it.”

Host: They both smiled, the kind of tired, mutual smile that comes when two souls stop arguing and start understanding. The rain softened to a whisper, and outside, the neon sign flickered one last time — OPEN 24 HOURS.

As the camera pulled back, their table glowed faintly in the dim light, surrounded by the quiet chaos of commerce and creation. Two writers, two believers — caught between survival and meaning.

And somewhere in the hum of the city, Frost’s words lingered — both warning and benediction:

There are no pure poets untouched by trade.
Only those who learn to keep their souls unpriced while passing through the marketplace.