
Poetry has always fascinated me, and yet, I admit, it is not something I understand or even do a lot. Yet, I still desire to “do” poetry, if that is a proper way to address it. I don’t think you write poetry; I think you “do” poetry as it is, for me, beyond writing. It is another realm, a different world, if you will.
The ancient Greeks—they are involved again—considered poetry as an art in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities. The Greek word (poieo) literally means “I make or create.” There are many forms of poetry and, to be honest, I don’t understand all of them or even know all of them. I admit that I have written some, but none of it is very good. This post is not to educate you on poetry. This post is just me thinking out loud about the role poetry plays in who we are as beings.
While I am no good a poetry, I do love certain poets and I love them because I like poetry. I love Frost, Keats, Shelly, Hughes, Blake, Longfellow and even some of Donne, who I rarely understand. What makes me love these poets? I love their poems, but I will stop there because I think it is that simple. I don’t want to get into analysis even though I would love to jump in with both feet. I can’t because I don’t understand poetry. I just know I like it.
I recently read an article about the ten greatest poems ever written. Now, understand, that this is one man’s list, but from my perspective, it is a solid list. The greatest poem for this man was written by Shakespeare, with which I can’t argue, but his second greatest poem was written by Donne, which I already admitted, I struggle to understand. Below, I have pasted Johne Donne’s poem, Death, Be No Proud, which is second on his list.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
I readily admit that this poem does not make my list of top ten poems, but does that make it any less great? Poetry has, at its heart, creation. The poet is said to be one who creates and the poem is what the poet creates. This idea of creation is foundational to poetry, but what makes it different than any other thing done? I can create a rule at work or write an article for a magazine, but neither of those would be considered in the same light as poetry. They were created by me, but they are not poetry.
While Donne does not move me; Blake does. Below, you will find The Tiger by Blake. It was the first poem that I read and immediately liked and understood.
Tiger Tiger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
What about this poem spoke to me more than John Donne’s poem? I can’t really tell you, but I will tell you that whatever it was, it is part of what makes me a human being and not an animal. I don’t know a lot about poetry, but I do like it enough to dabble. I am content to dabble with my own poetry, even if it is just to pull them out every now and then, read them and remind myself of who I am and what moves me. This one aspects makes poetry unique from other forms of literature. I don’t pull out a policy and read it again and again. Why is poetry different?
I am not sure, but it is and for me this is enough. Something about poetry appeals to our human nature, and maybe, something about poetry adds to our human nature, if I can be so bold. I am not sure of much when it comes to poetry, but I am sure of this. The kind of poetry created and enjoyed will tell us about who we are as human beings and where we are as human beings. Orwell speaks of this very issue in his book, 1984. Remember, in 1984, poetry is a tool of totalitarian control and Ampleforth, who manipulated poetry for the good of those in control, is arrested for leaving “God” in a poem.
Poetry, which I struggle to understand, still fascinates me, and I still read it not because I understand it, but because I marvel at it as a product of creativity. May this desire never leave me or you. Until next time …

