I think the best American poetry is the poetry that utilizes the

“I think the best American poetry is the poetry that utilizes the resources of poetry rather than exploits the defects or triumphs of the poet’s personality.” So speaks Mark Strand, a voice of clarity among poets, reminding us of the true calling of the art. In this saying, he draws a distinction between poetry as a craft and poetry as a mirror of ego. He warns that the greatest verses are not those that parade the wounds or glories of the poet, but those that reveal the deeper powers of language, rhythm, and imagination—the eternal instruments of poetry itself.

The meaning of this wisdom lies in its humility. Too often, poetry is mistaken as the raw confession of the self, as though its highest purpose were to display the poet’s own victories or sorrows. Strand reminds us that such writing may be honest, but it is limited. The resources of poetry—its imagery, its music, its compression of thought, its power to transform the ordinary into the luminous—these are greater than any single life. The finest poems do not exalt the poet; they exalt the art. They open doors in the reader’s mind and heart, leading them into landscapes larger than one person’s story.

The origin of this thought can be traced to the long tradition of poetry that seeks universality over self-display. The Psalms, though born of David’s voice, do not remain trapped in his personality—they became the prayers of millions across centuries. Homer, though recounting ancient wars, used the resources of poetry—epic simile, repetition, rhythm—to create something enduring long after the details of his own life were lost. Strand, standing in this lineage, calls modern poets to remember that their task is not self-exposure, but the wielding of language like a sacred tool.

Consider the story of T. S. Eliot, who, though a man of complex inner struggles, did not write poetry to display his private anguish. Instead, in The Waste Land, he marshaled myth, fragments of history, voices from many ages, and wove them into a tapestry of cultural despair and renewal. The poem did not stand because Eliot confessed, but because he employed the full resources of poetry—allusion, music, rhythm, symbol—to give voice to an age. His personal troubles mattered less than his craftsmanship. This is what Strand meant: that poetry must serve something greater than personality.

The lesson here is sharp: do not confuse sincerity with greatness. A poem may be deeply personal, but if it does not rise into artistry, it will fade. On the other hand, a poem shaped with the full power of metaphor, rhythm, and form can lift even the smallest subject into something eternal. To write well, one must remember that poetry is not the poet’s mirror but the reader’s bridge—a structure that carries the human spirit into deeper waters.

History gives us another example in Walt Whitman. His Song of Myself certainly speaks in the first person, yet it does not exploit his personality—it transcends it. His “I” is expansive, a symbol of humanity itself. Through repetition, rhythm, and sweeping catalogues, Whitman created not a confession but a cosmos. Here the resources of poetry transformed personal voice into universal hymn. His triumph was not his personality, but the art that made his voice timeless.

The practical teaching is this: whether writing or reading poetry, seek the craft first. If you write, do not ask, “What do I feel?” but rather, “How can language, rhythm, and image reveal what lies beyond me?” If you read, do not stop at the surface of the poet’s life, but listen for the deeper resonance of the words. Let the poem expand your own vision, not simply echo the poet’s. By doing this, you honor poetry as something larger than one soul, a shared inheritance of humanity.

Thus the teaching endures: the greatest American poetry, and indeed the greatest poetry of all lands, is not the cry of ego but the song of art. The poet is but a vessel; the resources of poetry are the fire. And when that fire is tended well, the words will not only speak of the poet’s life—they will speak for all lives, across generations, carrying truth and beauty far beyond the self.