I have no interest in writing confessional poetry, or laying bare my soul to strangers.* If it happens, fine and good luck. But mostly something that personal to the writer is of interest mostly to themselves, and little or no interest to me. Unless the poem is well written.
Now, one can argue that art requires personal motivation and investment to be good. If that's what we mean by honest, I could agree. But should art imitate life? Why?
Baring one's soul to the world, as a goal, is overrated, I think. We all have our own souls to contend with already, and the rest of the world has a lot on its plate. I don't care about feeling raw and exposed; sometimes I do it, but it's not the sole aim of poetry. It's hardly ever mine, and I don't think that precludes me from being a poet.
In fact, I think it can detract from the art: it's possible to be so preoccupied with Opening Up that one gets lazy with the craft. Meaning It is not sufficient. Poetry to me is not therapy; it's art.
On this point, I think I'm aligned with Hamenaglar and Trish. And with Kevin, in that truth isn't even a criterion.
I just want beauty and wit. Lie all you want, but be clever and charming. Don't get me wrong - I love insight and epiphany; one of my favourite poetic devices is the unexpected simile. But, when considering the quality of a poem, I have never asked, "is this honest?" or "is this true?"
The honesty I would care about is whether it's honestly as well written as you can make it. If poetry were a long litany of artless heart-spills, I'd give it up. There are more productive ways to be bored.
It might just be that, to me, being honest isn't a decision. Like "keepin' it real": how does one not? My honesty, to me, is a tautology.
Ah, never mind. This is what happens when you find out you've got tickets to see Morrissey. I'll be acting like a third-tier Wilde apostle until June.
*: But I am extremely fond of making friends and then soul-baring ad infinitum.