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In a documentary about poetry somewhere in my televisual memory, a Scottish poet paces through the Highlands and laments the portentous voice that readers adopt when they recount stanzas; he bemoans the reliance they have on rhythm and the strange, sing-song tone they apply to the words when, he continues, poetry should be like breath and an impossible to detect transition from prose and three sentences later you realise by way of illustration he's half way through a verse. This is poetry.