I think we will always have the impulse towards visual poetry

Hear, O seekers of art and spirit, the voice of James Laughlin: “I think we will always have the impulse towards visual poetry with us, and I wouldn’t agree with Bly that it’s a bad thing. It depends on the ability of the individual poet to do it well, and to make a shape which is interesting enough to hold your attention.” These words remind us that poetry is not only sound and sense but also sight, that the eye, too, longs for beauty in the written word. From the beginning, humankind has shaped language not only to be heard but to be seen, and in the forms of those shapes lies another door to meaning.

The origin of this impulse reaches back to the ancients. The Greeks themselves played with the shape of verse upon the page. The poet Simmias of Rhodes wrote in the form of wings, axes, and altars, so that the visual poetry reflected the subject. Centuries later, in the medieval manuscripts, monks adorned sacred texts with intricate designs, letting words flow like rivers or spiral like stars. The impulse, Laughlin says, is eternal—it springs not from fashion but from the deep human desire to marry language with image, thought with form.

Yet there have always been critics. Robert Bly, whom Laughlin names, feared that visual poetry distracted from essence, that the reader’s mind would dwell on the picture and forget the voice. But Laughlin, with wisdom, counters: the art is not inherently bad; it is only as weak or strong as the poet who shapes it. For just as rhyme can imprison or liberate, so too can shape. The test is not the form itself but the fire within it—whether the poet has created something strong enough to command and hold attention.

Consider the tale of Guillaume Apollinaire, the French poet who birthed the “calligram.” His words of war and love were shaped into towers, rain, and birds. On the page, they dazzled the eye, but they also carried meaning, for the visual poetry did not replace his voice but joined it. His poem in the shape of the Eiffel Tower was both text and monument, both verse and architecture. Here is Laughlin’s teaching made flesh: the shape must be more than ornament; it must embody the spirit of the poem, deepening its power.

There is also the story of concrete poetry in the twentieth century, where letters and words became landscapes of vision. Some works endured, for they married meaning and image; others faded, mere tricks of layout with no soul. This shows us that Laughlin speaks truly: it is not the form itself that determines greatness, but the ability of the poet to make the form worthy. When done well, it can captivate, when done poorly, it dissolves into dust.

The lesson is clear: do not despise innovation, nor cling too tightly to tradition. Both sound and sight belong to poetry, as both ear and eye belong to humankind. If you are a poet, dare to experiment, but remember that shape without substance is vanity. If you are a reader, do not dismiss the strange and the new, but ask always: does this form deepen the meaning, or distract from it? By such discernment, the spirit of poetry is preserved.

In practice, let each seeker take action: write a simple poem, then see how its form upon the page may mirror its meaning. A poem about rivers may flow like a stream down the page; a poem about towers may rise in columns. But do not force it—let the form grow from the seed of the idea. And as you read, linger not only on the sound but on the shape, and notice how the eye itself can be guided into meditation.

Thus the teaching endures: the impulse toward visual poetry is eternal, as ancient as the first drawings on cave walls and as modern as the digital page. Do not fear it, and do not worship it. Instead, honor it as another path by which the poet may lead us into mystery. For when words, shapes, and attention unite, poetry becomes not only song but vision—a window through which the soul may glimpse eternity.