Every so often I find some poems that are too good for the

In the great tapestry of poetry, there exists a profound tension between the artist’s desire to reach the soul of the reader and the necessity of communicating in ways that resonate with the wider world. Peter Davison sheds light on this delicate balance when he states, “Every so often I find some poems that are too good for the readers of The Atlantic because they are a little too involved with the nature of poetry, as such.” These words speak to the subtle yet powerful art of poetry—how sometimes the poet's work, so deeply intertwined with the very essence of language and the craft of poetry itself, risks being lost on readers who seek poetry that speaks directly to the world rather than reflecting on itself. This is not a critique of the audience, but rather an observation about the fine line poets must walk between self-expression and universal connection.

In the ancient world, the great poets often explored the nature of their own craft, considering not just the world they were writing about, but the very act of writing itself. The Greek philosopher Aristotle, in his Poetics, did not merely discuss the works of poets like Homer or Sophocles; he considered the very essence of tragedy, what it meant for a play to stir emotions of pity and fear in the audience. Poetry, in this sense, was more than just the telling of tales—it was an inquiry into the nature of storytelling itself. The poet, like the philosopher, must question not only what is written, but how and why it is written. Thus, poetry’s most profound moments often reflect not just on the world, but on poetry’s role in reflecting that world, much like Davison suggests.

Consider Walt Whitman, whose poetry was both a celebration of the human experience and a deep reflection on the poet’s craft. In his masterpiece Leaves of Grass, Whitman was not merely chronicling the beauty of America’s landscape and people; he was simultaneously questioning the very nature of poetry—what it means to write about freedom, identity, and the soul. His work is so intricately tied to the form of poetry itself that it sometimes overflows with its own self-awareness. For Whitman, the poem became a mirror, reflecting both the world and the poet’s own engagement with it. To understand Whitman’s poetry requires not only an understanding of the subjects he wrote about, but also an understanding of the language and form that carried those subjects into existence. Such poetry, as Davison suggests, may be “too good” for readers who seek a more direct, less self-reflective encounter with words.

The nature of poetry—its essence, its form, its purpose—is not always an easy thing to grasp. There are poems, like those of Wallace Stevens, whose work often addresses the very act of creation, the role of the poet, and the deep relationship between language and reality. Stevens is a poet who does not shy away from exploring the process of writing itself, the very “mechanics” of poetry. His poems are often abstract and self-referential, concerned not just with the world, but with the language through which we engage with it. In his famous poem “The Emperor of Ice-Cream,” Stevens uses seemingly simple imagery to explore the tension between pleasure and death, while also questioning how we might use poetry to describe the world. To fully appreciate such poems requires a deeper engagement with the craft of poetry itself, not just its surface themes. Stevens, like Whitman, asks the reader to think about the act of writing, not just the subject of the poem.

Davison’s insight speaks to a crucial aspect of poetry: it can be both a reflection of the world and a reflection on itself. Poetry that focuses too much on its own craft can at times alienate the reader who seeks a more direct experience, one that connects with the world outside the poem. The poet, then, must walk the line between self-exploration and universal connection, between the personal and the collective. John Keats, in his Ode to a Nightingale, exemplifies this balance—his poem is deeply personal, filled with the poet’s own reflections, but it simultaneously universalizes those feelings, turning them into something that can resonate with the reader. Keats’s work, like the best poetry, bridges the gap between the poet’s inner world and the outer one.

The lesson we take from Davison is one of balance. As poets, we must remember that while our craft is important, it should not overwhelm the message we wish to communicate. We must seek to engage not just with the form of poetry, but with the heart of it—how can we express the deepest emotions, the greatest truths, in a way that speaks to the reader’s soul? At times, we must turn inward, questioning our own role as poets, as creators, as seekers of truth. But we must also look outward, at the world around us, at the lives and experiences of those who will read our work. Poetry is a dialogue, a conversation between the poet and the world, between the internal and the external.

In your own life, whether you write poetry or engage with it as a reader, embrace this balance. Dive deep into the craft of poetry, but never lose sight of the world that poetry seeks to engage. When you write, let your words reflect both the art of writing and the life that surrounds you. And when you read, seek to engage with the poet’s voice, not just as an artist, but as a conduit for something greater than the poem itself—something that connects you to the world and to your own heart. For in this balance, you will discover not just poetry, but the power of art itself to transform the world.