In all situations, from all people, poetry binds the human race through the indefatigableforce of true understanding. From Chidiok Tichborne writing “my tale was heard, and yet it wasnot told” (Tichborne, lines 7-8) in an Elegy to himself before his execution to WilliamWordsworth distilling his peace staring out across a field of daffodils as “[Wandering] lonely as acloud” (Wordsworth, line 1), every experience, sensation, and emotion is suited to the craft ofpoetry. This means, since everyone has their own unique lived experience, that everyone is apoet. This does not mean that everyone is Wordsworth, simply that poetry is nothing more thanan expression of what makes us human. It is uniquely universal in that everyone benefits fromreading and writing the distilled essence of human existence because it allows for slow,meditative focus, the description of the indescribable, and the boundless expression of emotion.One of the most compelling reasons to read and write poetry is the requirement to slowdown and live in the moment. So often in a post-industrialization society, consumerism and thepathological need for convenience and efficiency at all costs overwhelm the fundamental humanneed for expression and connection. As Emily Dickinson suggests in her poem “I dwell inPossibility:”

I dwell in possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – (I dwell, lines 1-4)

By simply dwelling in the possibilities poetry suggests for us rather than feeling compelled to reach a goal or acquire a meaning, readers are able to open the windows into their souls and doors into their minds that otherwise remain shuttered and ignored. This practice of living in the moment, of “dwelling” in it, is the unique realm of art and, more specifically, of poetry. Tragically, many find themselves so engrossed in the perceived requirements of their menial existence within society that they convince themselves they must choose between the appreciation of beauty and their continued existence. This existential fear is as prone to poetic representation as any other human experience, and Robert Frost presents his own such representation in his “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening:”

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. (Frost, lines 13-16)

Rather than overlooking the beating heart of all of human existence that is art, everyone must take the time to slow down, take a breath, and lose themselves in the “lovely, dark and deep woods” of a good poem. Simone Weil has her own ideas on the labored, purposeful attention that poetry demands, likening it to a sacred act in “Attention and Will.” She writes, “Attention, taken to the highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love” (Weil 1). By slowing down and dedicating the “highest degree” of attention, as poetry demands of the poet and of the reader, a connection is formed which is more powerful even than faith or love. This divine understanding and absorption of pain, joy, and other impossibly abstract entities is utterly indescribable, except by poetry itself.

One such attempt was made by Archibald MacLeish in his poem “Ars Poetica.” MacLiesh writes that “A poem should not mean / But be” (MacLeish, lines 23-24). Ars poetica has become a genre of poetry all to itself, concerning the poetic description of poetry itself, and MacLiesh’s take imparts a priceless nugget of wisdom: the divinity of poetry is not found in some divine “meaning” for which one must search, rather it is found in the mere existence of the poem and of the emotions, sensations, and concepts it invokes. It is in and of itself a distilled representation of the poet’s being, a description of the indescribable in a few crafted lines of verse.

Arguably greatest of the unique human-ness of poetry is the magic of an artist spilling themselves across a page and a reader soaking them up line by line. It isn’t an intellectual act, it is an act of love. In the immortal words of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, “Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius.” Mozart’s “soul of genius” is applicable far beyond classical music, it is the purpose of art in general, and more specifically, of poetry. How could one shun a distillation of the most base force of human connection put into words?

Perhaps some are put off by the less pleasant emotions poets often bestow upon their work. Loss, betrayal, fear, despair, and other experiences more in the domain of Tichborne than Wordsworth are equally within the scope of poetry. Poetry in this realm is meant to be embraced and contemplated as fervently as any other, as this emotional ordeal is poetry. Emily Dickinson put it quite eloquently in her 1870 letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson. She wrote “If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold that no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry” (Letter, 1) This is not to say that poetry is cold, nor to disparage it as a force of evil, but to assert that only something as powerful and universal as poetry could be capable of having such an effect upon the reader. This pure expression of raw emotion is an experience belonging to poetry and to poetry alone.

All of these things and more make poetry as vital a craft as it is unique. It is the singularly human expression of the inexpressible, the manifestations of the depths of the human experience, and the transcription of being upon the page. As N.H. Kleinbaum observes in The Dead Poet’s Society, “One reads poetry because he is a member of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion!” (Kleinbaum, 36). Everyone is a member of the human race, everyone is filled with passion, and everyone is a poet.

Works Cited

Dickinson, Emily. “I dwell in Possibility.” Poems, 1890, lines 1-4. —. “Letter to T. W. Higginson.” 1870, p. 1. Frost, Robert. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” New Hampshire, 1923, lines 13-16. Kleinbaum, N.H. The Dead Poet’s Society. Disney Hyperion, 2006, p. 36. MacLeish, Archibald. “Ars Poetica.” Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1926, lines 23-24. Tichborne, Chidiok. “Tichborne’s Elegy.” 1586, lines 7-8. Weil, Simone. “Attention and Will.” Gravity and Grace, translated by Emma Craufurd, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London, 1952. Wordsworth, William. “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.” 1802, line 1.