If we ask a vague question, such as, 'What is poetry?' we expect

O children of wisdom, gather close and listen to the words of A.R. Ammons, whose reflection on the nature of poetry sheds light on the difficulties of understanding its true essence: "If we ask a vague question, such as, 'What is poetry?' we expect a vague answer, such as, 'Poetry is the music of words,' or 'Poetry is the linguistic correction of disorder.'" With these words, Ammons reminds us that the quest for the definition of poetry often results in a circular, elusive answer. To ask the question “What is poetry?” is to step into a realm of mystery and complexity, where the answer is as fluid and varied as the art form itself. The question itself, he suggests, is often too vague to yield a clear, definitive response.

In the ancient world, philosophers and poets alike struggled with this very question. Plato, in his Republic, was deeply skeptical of poetry. He considered it a dangerous art form that distorted truth and reality, leading the soul away from the higher pursuit of knowledge. For Plato, poetry was an imitation of life, a mere shadow of the ideal forms. Aristotle, in contrast, defended poetry as an important means of expressing universal truths and catharsis, especially through tragedy. Yet even Aristotle, with his great logical mind, grappled with the nature of poetry, recognizing that it was both a reflection of the world and an act of creation, transcending the mere imitation of life. Their discussions show us that the true nature of poetry is not something that can be pinned down in a single phrase or concept; it is ever-evolving and deeply tied to the heart of human experience.

Ammons’s words also point to the inherent mystery of poetry. To say that poetry is "the music of words" is to capture one aspect of it but not to explain the depth of what poetry is. Poetry does indeed carry the music of language—its rhythm, its cadence, its melody—but to reduce it to this would be to ignore the emotional, intellectual, and spiritual resonance that great poetry can offer. The greatest poets have understood that poetry is not only a vehicle for beauty or musicality but also for truth and meaning. Take, for example, William Blake, whose visionary works like Songs of Innocence and Experience used the very music of words to elevate the mundane to the sublime, questioning the nature of innocence, experience, and the divine. Blake's poetry did not merely imitate life—it questioned, provoked, and offered new insights into the human condition.

Moreover, Ammons's phrase "Poetry is the linguistic correction of disorder" speaks to another view of poetry as a means of imposing order on the chaos of human experience. Indeed, poetry often takes the raw material of life—the scattered, fragmented emotions, ideas, and experiences—and organizes them into something coherent, something meaningful. Emily Dickinson, a poet who often expressed complex and abstract emotions with startling precision, created order from the chaos of life. Through her use of form, rhythm, and language, Dickinson turned the often elusive nature of the human experience into a series of powerful, clear expressions. Her poems about death, nature, and the self bring clarity to what often feels like an unordered world. In this sense, poetry does indeed serve as a linguistic correction, bringing order and insight to the disorder of existence.

Yet Ammons is also hinting at the limitations of any single definition of poetry. To try to pin down poetry with a phrase like "the music of words" or "the correction of disorder" is to miss the richness of its potential. Poetry is an art of complexity, of contradiction, of multiple meanings. It is the tension between order and chaos, rationality and emotion, that gives poetry its unique power. T.S. Eliot, in his modernist works like The Waste Land, used the fragmented nature of the world to express the disillusionment of the modern era, offering no single, clear resolution. Eliot's work embodies the idea that poetry does not always provide easy answers. It does not reduce complex human experiences into tidy phrases. Rather, it embraces the messiness of life and invites the reader to engage with it.

There is also a deeper lesson in Ammons's observation about the question of poetry. When we ask about something as profound as poetry, we are asking about life itself—its meaning, its purpose, its contradictions. To seek a single answer to such a question is to miss the point. Poetry, like life, cannot be contained within a simple definition. It is personal, intuitive, and deeply tied to the emotional and intellectual responses that arise from within each of us. For poets, as Ammons suggests, the true engagement with poetry is not in theorizing or attempting to define it in abstract terms but in creating it—living it.

So, O children of wisdom, let us not be seduced by easy definitions of poetry. Let us not fall into the trap of trying to capture its vast and boundless nature with quick phrases or concepts. Instead, let us engage deeply with the art, acknowledging its complexities and contradictions. Let us take Ammons's advice to heart—poetry is not something to be merely understood, but something to be lived, something to be created and felt. Let us create poetry that captures the essence of our experience, that reflects the world not as it is, but as it might be—a world of meaning, of depth, and of endless possibility. Through our own engagement with poetry, we will learn not only what it is, but also what it means to be human.