Probably all the attention to poetry results in some value

“Probably all the attention to poetry results in some value, though the attention is more often directed to lesser than to greater values.” Thus speaks A. R. Ammons, whose voice carried both humility and sharp insight into the nature of art. In these words, he reminds us that poetry, by its very nature, attracts the gaze of the curious, the critic, the teacher, and the reader. Yet much of that gaze, though earnest, often fastens itself on the superficial, the fashionable, the trivial—while the deeper treasures of poetry lie hidden, waiting for the rare soul who seeks them.

The meaning of this saying lies in the distinction between lesser values and greater values. To dwell on meter, form, reputation, or academic classification may yield some profit—it sharpens skill and preserves tradition. These are the lesser values, not unworthy, but incomplete. The greater values lie in what poetry awakens: the enlargement of the soul, the piercing of illusion, the encounter with truth and beauty that changes a life. Ammons laments that most attention hovers near the surface, forgetting to dive for the pearls that lie deeper.

The origin of this thought is found in the very history of poetry’s reception. Critics and scholars have often praised poets for their style while neglecting their substance. The Romantics, once mocked as sentimental, carried within their verses a revolution in how humanity saw itself in nature. The Modernists dazzled with experimentation, yet behind their fractured lines lay profound cries about the fragmentation of the modern world. Ammons recognized that both in his time and before, the eye too often lingered on the lesser, ignoring the greater heartbeat beneath.

Consider the story of Walt Whitman, who, when Leaves of Grass first appeared, was ridiculed for his strange free verse and his self-promotion. Many critics fastened upon the roughness of his lines or the indecency of his images—these were the lesser values that captured their attention. Yet the greater values of his work—its radical democracy, its vision of unity, its sacred embrace of the common person—were largely missed in his day. It took generations before his true depth was honored. Ammons’s words remind us how easily we mistake the surface for the heart.

The lesson here is urgent: do not be content with shallow readings of poetry—or of life. Look beyond what is obvious. When you hear a poem, do not ask only if it is clever or well-made; ask what it stirs in you, what truth it whispers, what vision it opens. The same applies to your encounters with people, with events, with history: lesser values are always at hand, but greater values require patience, humility, and depth of sight.

History gives us another witness in Emily Dickinson, whose poems lay hidden in a drawer during her lifetime. Had her neighbors paid attention only to her reclusive habits, they would have seen nothing but eccentricity—a lesser value in their judgment. But the greater value was hidden in her verses, where eternity itself pressed against the confines of dashes and hymnal stanzas. When at last her poems were read, the world discovered not oddity, but greatness.

The practical teaching is this: train your soul to hunger for the greater values. Read poetry not only with your eyes but with your heart. Let its words guide you to wisdom, not just to analysis. When you give your attention to art—or to any part of life—ask yourself whether you are clinging to what is lesser or reaching for what is greater. If you cultivate this habit, your life will be richer, your understanding deeper, and your soul more alive.

Thus the teaching endures: attention to poetry always bears fruit, but the true harvest lies not in the husk but in the kernel, not in the outer form but in the inner fire. Seek the greater values, and you will drink from the deeper well of meaning. And let this wisdom guide you not only in art but in life itself—for all things hold both lesser and greater, and it is the mark of the wise to know the difference.