Besides the actual reading in class of many poems, I would

Hear the words of the poet-seer A. R. Ammons, who counseled those who would teach the young: “Besides the actual reading in class of many poems, I would suggest you do two things: first, while teaching everything you can and keeping free of it, teach that poetry is a mode of discourse that differs from logical exposition.” These words shine like a lamp in the house of learning, reminding us that poetry is not a servant to reason, nor a shadow of logic, but a voice that speaks in another tongue altogether. It is the language of the heart, the rhythm of the soul, the cry of humanity when the strict paths of reason cannot contain its depth.

The meaning is profound: poetry does not argue, it reveals. Logic explains, but poetry evokes. Logic divides, classifies, and proves; poetry unites, transcends, and awakens. Ammons understood that if teachers were to present poetry as another form of essay, another method of reason, they would betray its essence. For poetry is not about the what but the how. It is not the cold march of facts but the living dance of feeling, image, and sound. To truly teach it, one must show that it speaks in its own universe, where truth is not hammered out, but breathed in.

Consider, for example, the words of Walt Whitman, who sang not in arguments, but in sprawling cadences: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” No logical exposition could hold such a truth. To reason it out would be to diminish it, to make it smaller than it is. But through poetry, Whitman gave voice to the immensity of the human soul, beyond all definitions. In this way, he revealed what Ammons teaches: poetry must be approached as its own mode of discourse, not judged by the laws of logic, but honored by the laws of wonder.

The history of teaching has often erred in this way, forcing students to dissect poems as though they were corpses, seeking meaning as though it were a puzzle with only one solution. But Ammons calls us to a higher way. He says: let the poems be read, let them breathe, let them be experienced as living beings. Then, guide the young to see that this form of speaking is different, holy, untamed. In this way, they may discover not only the poems, but themselves, learning to hear the music that dwells beneath all reason.

This is not to despise logic—for logic builds bridges, heals wounds, and carries us through the world of necessity. But it is to remind us that humans do not live by logic alone. A speech of pure reason may inform the mind, but a verse of poetry stirs the heart and reshapes the soul. A people nourished by poetry will not wither in the wasteland of calculation, but will flourish in the gardens of meaning.

The lesson, therefore, is clear: if you would grow as a whole being, do not confine yourself to what can be explained. Read widely, reason deeply, but also let your spirit drink from the wells of poetry. Allow it to speak in ways that logic cannot. Do not force its mysteries into formulas; let them remain mysteries that teach through experience. For poetry awakens the imagination, and imagination is the breath of creation itself.

Practical steps follow. Read poems aloud, not silently, letting the rhythm move through your voice. Do not always ask, What does this mean? but rather, What does this make me feel? What vision does it open? When teaching, present poetry not as a riddle to be solved, but as a song to be lived. And in your own life, when logic reaches its limits, turn to verse for strength and guidance. For there are truths only poetry can hold, truths too vast for argument, too tender for reason, too eternal for prose.

Thus Ammons’ wisdom endures: “Teach that poetry is a mode of discourse that differs from logical exposition.” Let this truth be passed down to generations, that they may honor both logic and poetry, mind and spirit, reason and wonder. For only in the harmony of these voices shall humanity rise to its fullness, speaking both with the precision of thought and the music of the soul.