It may be said that poems are in one way like icebergs: only

Howard Nemerov, poet of depth and subtle vision, once gave this enduring metaphor: “It may be said that poems are in one way like icebergs: only about a third of their bulk appears above the surface of the page.” In these words he revealed the ancient secret of poetry—that its true power lies not in what is written, but in what lies hidden beneath. A poem may appear small, even fragile, but its meaning extends vast and deep, unseen by the eye yet felt by the soul. The page offers only the tip; beneath rests an ocean of silence, suggestion, memory, and emotion waiting to be discovered.

The ancients too knew this mystery. When the Delphic Oracle spoke, her words were often few, obscure, even riddling. Yet behind them lay oceans of meaning, enough to guide kings and alter the fate of nations. The brevity was not weakness but strength, for it invited the hearer to enter the depths. So too with poetry: the words on the page are but signals, glimpses of a vast interior landscape. The iceberg is not defined by what is seen above water, but by the hidden body below.

History gives us striking examples. Consider T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. To the casual reader, it is a series of fragmented images, strange voices, and broken phrases. Yet beneath the surface lies an immense architecture of myth, history, and spiritual longing. Scholars have spent decades exploring its submerged body, and still new meanings arise. This is what Nemerov’s iceberg teaches us: the visible is only the gateway to the invisible, and the invisible is often greater.

The metaphor also reminds us of the relationship between poet and reader. The poet may reveal a fragment, but the reader must dive beneath the waters to uncover the rest. It is a partnership in discovery. Poetry thus trains the soul to look beyond appearances, to sense the hidden weight of things. Just as sailors must remember that the greatest danger of the iceberg lies beneath, readers must remember that the greatest beauty of poetry lies beyond the words themselves.

There is also a heroic lesson here. For in a world filled with noise and excess, poetry teaches restraint. The poet does not spill everything onto the page; he trusts silence, trusts suggestion, trusts the reader to explore. To write a poem is an act of discipline, of holding back, of knowing that the unsaid may carry more power than the said. In this way, the poet resembles the sculptor who leaves part of the stone uncarved, letting the imagination of the beholder complete the form.

So what lesson must we take, children of tomorrow? It is this: do not be deceived by surfaces. In poetry, in people, in life, the visible is only a fraction of the truth. Seek the depths. Listen not only to words, but to silences. Look not only at faces, but into hearts. Understand that what is hidden may shape reality more profoundly than what is seen. Poetry, like the iceberg, is a reminder of the mystery and vastness beneath all things.

Practical wisdom flows. When you read poetry, linger with it. Do not rush to grasp meaning, but let it unfold slowly, as divers explore the deep. When you speak, consider what is best left unsaid, trusting silence to carry weight. And in your encounters with others, remember that every soul carries depths unseen; treat them with patience and reverence, for you glimpse only the tip of who they are.

Thus Nemerov’s words shine as a beacon: poems are like icebergs, their true greatness hidden beneath the page. Learn to look beneath, and life itself will open before you with greater depth, mystery, and wonder. For the world, like poetry, is always more than it seems.