Many poets lead a dual life. For some that means teaching during the day, or working in the business world. Others are chefs or carpenters. One poet I know makes his living as a psychic.

I’ve often wondered how others balance their halves. Does one exert more pull in the evening, the other in the daylight hours? What happens when the two sides represent vastly different values? Can you make a seamless whole out of what appears to be disparate parts?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since January, when my two roles – journalist and poet – collided once again. I was writing a "where are they now" piece about Poetry Magazine; my assignment was to look at how the venerable publication has fared since announcing the $100 million gift from Ruth Lilly in November 2002.

When I was interviewing people for the piece, I followed my standard MO. I told anyone I hadn't spoken with before that I'm a poet. In one case I even mentioned that I have my MFA and I’ve taught workshops in many different venues. Normally, this information helps put people at ease.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case this time. One person seemed unimpressed, and another – whose comments weren't included for space reasons – told me I made her nervous, because she's seen reporters mangle quotes in the past. I maintained my professional cool the whole time, but inwardly I was shouting, "I'm one of you. Don’t you get that?"

The experience still leaves me feeling frustrated, because poetry and journalism are two sides of one coin. They are first cousins, as I see it, because they both are in the business of truth-telling. The difference is that one group relies on literal facts and the other on emotional truths.

A journalist at a major daily, for example, might write about a teenager who had an argument with his mother, stole a car, and then ran away from home. The story would include a description of the vehicle, how and where the teen got arrested, and what his mother said at his arraignment.

But the reporter can’t tell you why the teen was suddenly overwhelmed by personal demons, what he was thinking when he hot-wired the car, or how that drive sent him down a new path that, years later, will help him find his life calling.

Poetry can tell you those things. It can make you feel the angry tremble in his hands as he floored the accelerator. It can help you understand how he felt when his life, and his wheels, went careening out of control.

The problem, as most people would be quick to note, is that both versions of the boy’s story are limited. The first relies on surface information, details that can be verified by reputable sources. The second is based on information that comes from the poet’s mind and imagination, not the subject’s.

Neither approach is perfect, and neither has a monopoly on truth. Like water cupped in an upturned fist, some of it always runs out.

Yet instead of realizing that there is value to both views – call them sky-level and ground-level perspectives – people tend to choose one over the other. They read poetry almost exclusively and skip the news, as some of my literary friends do. Or they follow the news religiously and believe that poetry is like spring rain, something that should only appear in April (National Poetry month). One of my colleagues, who loves history and do-it-yourself science experiments, even told me once that "poetry and poets are irrational."

Both sides make me a bit sad, and weary. Human beings are more than just intellect or emotion. They can operate on many different levels at once.

But for some reason Americans don’t like to believe that. We tend to mistrust people who don't fit conventional labels. Looking for a new possibility takes too much time and effort.

What if I’m right, though, and the two genres really are close cousins? What are we missing when reporters don’t look for the emotional component of a story and poets don’t look for clarity and a "point?"

Part of me dreads the next time I start interviewing poets for a story and people who don’t know my background speak to me v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, as if I am deeply deficient. Some may even repeat themselves, as if that will somehow help me understand.

Or maybe that won’t be the case at all. Perhaps by then I will feel more confident wearing two hats at once. Perhaps I will be such an integrated writer that others will naturally feel at ease in my presence.

Just think of the stories and the poems I’ll write then.