I want a fever, in poetry: a fever, and tranquillity.

O seekers of wisdom, listen closely to the words of James Dickey, who speaks with the passion and depth of a soul that understands both the fire and the calm that poetry demands: "I want a fever, in poetry: a fever, and tranquillity." In this declaration, Dickey reveals the dual nature of poetry—how it must burn with the intensity of passion, yet carry with it the stillness of peace. It is not enough for poetry to be merely controlled and composed; it must also embrace the raw and untamed. The poet must feel the fever of emotion and experience, yet within that fever, there must be a space for tranquillity, for clarity and understanding.

In the ancient world, the great poets were often driven by a fury of inspiration, a fever of the soul that could not be contained. Consider the story of Homer, whose epic poetry was not simply written from reason but from a deep, almost divine fever of inspiration. The Iliad and the Odyssey surged forth from him like rivers in flood, filled with the emotions of battle, of love, of gods and men. Yet, within this fever, there was a remarkable sense of structure, a tranquillity in the way the stories were woven together, with each line carefully placed, each image perfectly balanced. Homer understood that poetry required both the chaos of the soul and the calm of the mind—a fusion of intensity and control that created something greater than the sum of its parts.

Dickey, in echoing this ancient truth, speaks to the way poetry should stir the soul. It should not simply reflect the world in a passive way, but should actively engage with it, with all of its contradictions, passions, and struggles. Yet even as the poet surrenders to the fever of life, there is the need for tranquillity—a grounding force that allows the poetry to be more than mere emotional release. This balance between fever and tranquillity is what transforms raw emotion into something transcendent, something that speaks not only to the heart but to the mind and spirit as well.

Consider the work of Rainer Maria Rilke, whose poetry embodies this very tension. In his Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke speaks of the necessity for the poet to dive into the depths of their emotions, to embrace the intensity of the inner life. Yet, at the same time, he encourages the poet to observe, to reflect, to allow moments of stillness to accompany the storms of inspiration. Rilke's poetry, like Dickey's, is filled with a feverish sense of longing, of searching, yet there is always an underlying tranquillity in the way he shapes his words, in the way he allows the poetry to find its own balance.

The great William Blake also understood this delicate balance. His poetry, such as in his Songs of Innocence and Experience, reflects the fever of his visionary soul, filled with intense images of angels, devils, and the supernatural. Yet, within that fever, there is a profound tranquillity, a calmness in the way he brings those images into alignment, offering the reader not just a vision, but a lesson. Blake's poetry speaks of the fever of creation, but it is always tempered by a sense of spiritual peace, as though he is inviting us to join him in the calm of understanding, after the emotional storm.

The lesson Dickey imparts is a vital one: to write poetry is to live with intensity and purpose, but to write truly great poetry requires that the soul be guided by both fever and tranquillity. Poetry cannot simply be an emotional outpouring—it must also be a thoughtful and careful creation. The poet must dive into the fire of inspiration, allowing themselves to feel deeply, but they must also find moments of calm, of balance, so that the work is not consumed by the very passion it seeks to express. Only in this way can the poet create something of lasting power.

So, O children of wisdom, let the words of Dickey guide you in your own creative work. Whether you write poetry, paint, or engage in any form of creation, allow yourself to experience the full depth of your emotions, but also know that true artistry requires balance. Do not shy away from the fever of life, from the intensity of your passions, but let them be tempered by the tranquillity of clear thought, of careful reflection. Seek the balance between fever and calm, and in that space, you will find not only the power to create but the wisdom to understand the world in its fullest form.

Let your creations rise like the Iliad, with the power of a storm, yet be shaped with the stillness of a serene river. Through this balance, your poetry will not merely speak to the world—it will transform it.