Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience

Hear now the words of Karl Shapiro, who spoke with the candor of one who lived among verses: “Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.” These words strike like a bell at dawn, reminding us that poetry is not the cautious reasoning of philosophy, nor the measured knowledge of science. It is the cry of the soul, fresh and unguarded, each time it emerges. Poetry does not walk as the elder, carrying lessons of the past into the present—it comes as the child, wide-eyed, unafraid, tasting the world as though for the first time.

The ancients, too, knew this innocence. When Pindar sang of victories, when Sappho sang of love, they did not repeat tired formulas of wisdom. They uttered what they felt in that moment, with all the purity of a flame newly kindled. Each lyric was unique, born of its own hour, unable to be repeated, for the world itself never repeats a moment. So it is with Shapiro’s teaching: the poet may have lived many lives, may have gathered wisdom like stones, yet when they write a poem, it comes not as a stone, but as water—flowing, fresh, never the same stream twice.

Consider the life of William Blake, who painted visions of angels and burning wheels of fire. His poetry was not born from cautious learning, nor from repeating old lessons, but from visions that erupted within him, each one distinct and unrepeatable. Though he wrote of eternity, each poem was an event unto itself, a fresh visitation. He embodied Shapiro’s truth: that poetry does not learn from experience, for experience in poetry is never the same twice—it is a revelation, not a conclusion.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the very nature of the poetic act. Wisdom seeks patterns, seeks to generalize from the past to guide the future. But poetry seeks not the pattern, but the moment. It dwells in the now, in the singular pulse of feeling, in the unique spark of vision. A poem does not ask, “What have I learned?” It asks, “What do I see, hear, and feel in this sacred instant?” That is why Shapiro calls poetry innocent—for it is unburdened by lessons, pure in its immediacy.

This innocence is not weakness, but strength. For wisdom may weary the heart with caution, but innocence keeps the flame alive. The poet, by approaching each moment as new, reminds us that life is not merely repetition, but a series of living mysteries. Just as no two sunsets are the same, no two poems are ever the same—even from the same hand. Each poetic utterance is its own world, a unique creation that cannot be repeated or replaced.

The lesson, then, is clear: when you approach poetry—or indeed, when you approach life—do not be weighed down only by what you have learned. Allow yourself to be innocent again, to see freshly, to feel newly. Do not tell yourself, “I know what this is already.” Instead, say, “This is new, and I will meet it as though for the first time.” For in this openness lies the path to wonder, and in wonder lies the root of all poetry.

Practical steps flow from this truth. When you write, resist the urge to copy yourself; let each poem emerge from the moment as though you have never written before. When you read, do not say, “This is like the last poem I read,” but allow each to strike you as unique. And in life, look at the faces of those you love, the sky above you, the earth beneath you, as though you had never seen them before. This is the poet’s way of being.

Thus Shapiro’s words endure: poetry is innocent, not wise. Its power lies not in repeating lessons, but in creating new worlds with each utterance. Let us embrace that innocence, for it keeps the heart alive, it keeps the imagination unbound, and it teaches us that life itself is not a formula, but a constant revelation—each moment as unique and unrepeatable as a poem.