A definition of poetry can only determine what poetry should be

Hear the penetrating words of Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel, philosopher of the Romantics, who declared: “A definition of poetry can only determine what poetry should be and not what poetry actually was and is; otherwise the most concise formula would be: Poetry is that which at some time and some place was thus named.” In this saying lies a deep warning and a greater truth: that the living flame of poetry cannot be bound within a cage of definitions. Attempts to confine it shape only ideals of what it ought to be, but never capture the breadth of what it truly is.

The meaning is clear. To define poetry is to chase the horizon; it shifts with each age, each tongue, each heart that names it. The Greeks thought poetry the song of the muses; the medievals thought it divine allegory; the moderns call it free verse, fragment, or protest. Each definition reflects the desires of its time, yet none can contain the totality of poetry across ages. Thus Schlegel reminds us: the truest description may simply be, “Poetry is what people have chosen to call poetry,” for its nature is too vast to be imprisoned by formulas.

History offers examples. Consider Homer’s Iliad, once deemed the very model of poetry: lofty verse, sung with meter, filled with gods and heroes. Yet centuries later, Walt Whitman shattered those boundaries, writing in sprawling free verse that critics at first refused to even call poetry. If we had clung to Homer’s definition, Whitman would have been excluded. Yet today, Leaves of Grass stands as one of the great poetic works of the modern world. Here is Schlegel’s wisdom embodied: no definition could have foretold Whitman’s song, yet the world recognized it as poetry because it carried the spirit of poetry, whatever the form.

The paradox Schlegel names is the eternal tension between the prescriptive and the descriptive. To say “poetry should be this” is to set a law, but to say “poetry is that which has been called such” is to surrender to history and to human naming. Both have value: ideals push the art forward, but lived reality keeps it honest. Poetry thrives in the dance between them—never wholly bound, never wholly free, always becoming.

This truth is humbling. It warns the critic who would declare what is “real poetry” and what is not. It reminds the poet that their craft is not measured against rigid formulas, but against the living response of human beings across time. A child’s simple rhyme may move the heart more deeply than an intricate sonnet. A haiku written in silence may carry more eternity than an epic carved in marble. To define is useful, but to experience is greater.

The lesson for us is clear: do not cling too tightly to definitions, for they may blind you to beauty. Read widely. Listen to the old and the new. Recognize that poetry takes many forms—sung, spoken, written, whispered—and that each carries its own truth. When you create, do not be paralyzed by “what poetry should be.” Write instead what your spirit compels, and let others decide whether to name it poetry. For in the end, the naming is less important than the awakening of the soul.

Practical actions flow naturally. When you encounter a poem, resist the urge to judge it first by definition. Ask instead: Does this move me? Does it awaken wonder, sorrow, joy, or truth? If it does, then it belongs to the family of poetry, however strange its form. When you write, remember that you stand in a tradition vast and varied, one that no formula can encompass. Write with freedom, but with reverence for those before you, knowing that they too stretched the boundaries of the possible.

Thus Schlegel’s words endure: “A definition of poetry can only determine what poetry should be and not what poetry actually was and is.” Let us carry this teaching as a shield against narrowness and a torch for openness. For poetry is not a prison of words but a river of spirit, flowing through every age, shaped by every hand, yet never exhausted. It cannot be bound; it can only be lived.