Poetry must be made by all and not by one.

Hear the blazing words of Comte de Lautréamont, the strange and visionary poet, who proclaimed: “Poetry must be made by all and not by one.” In this utterance lies both rebellion and revelation. He cast aside the image of the solitary genius, alone with his pen, and declared instead that poetry belongs to the multitude, to the chorus of voices that make up humanity itself. For poetry is not merely the craft of a single soul; it is the breath of a people, the echo of generations, the music of shared existence.

The meaning of this quote is twofold. First, it is democratic—poetry is not the possession of the few, not the treasure of scholars and poets alone, but the birthright of every human being. Each person, by living, by feeling, by speaking, is already a maker of poetry. Second, it is communal—poetry is a great weaving of many threads, a tapestry of countless voices. What one poet writes springs from the soil of shared language, shared memory, shared struggle. Thus Lautréamont reminds us that poetry must be made by all, because it already lives in all.

The ancients bore witness to this truth. Homer sang of Achilles and Odysseus, but the epics he wove were not his alone—they were the collected songs of generations, carried on the lips of bards before him. The Iliad and the Odyssey are not one man’s creation, but the distillation of a people’s memory, a people’s grief, a people’s glory. So too with the Psalms of David, sung by countless voices across centuries. Here the truth resounds: the greatest poetry is never solitary, but communal, born from the many.

History also offers us the example of folk songs, carried by peasants in fields, sailors on seas, soldiers on marches. No single name is attached to them, yet they endure longer than the verses of kings. Their power lies in their universality—they are the voice of the people. In this, they embody Lautréamont’s dream: poetry made by all, not attributed to one, yet resonant with the truth of humanity itself.

Yet there is another layer to Lautréamont’s declaration: it is also revolutionary. He lived in an age of upheaval, when art was breaking from tradition, when new voices sought to tear down the idols of solitary genius. His cry that poetry must be collective is a call to overthrow the tyranny of the elite, to make of poetry not a crown for the few but a fire for the many. He sought a world where every human voice was heard, where every experience was honored, where art belonged not to the library alone but to the streets, the fields, the homes.

The lesson for us is clear: do not think that poetry belongs only to poets. Do not imagine that verse is only for books and schools. Poetry is in your speech, in your laughter, in your grief, in the stories you tell your children, in the prayers you whisper at night. To create poetry is not the task of one, but of all humanity, for each life adds a stanza to the song of the world.

Practical is this path: write, even if you are not called a writer. Speak, even if you are not named a poet. Share your story, your sorrow, your joy. Listen to the voices of others, for their words, too, are part of the great poem of existence. Let communities create together—songs, chants, stories, works of art—for in this way, Lautréamont’s vision lives: poetry made by all and not by one. And when it is made by all, it is eternal, for it is the poetry of humanity itself.