Some people swear by writing courses, but whether it really

"Some people swear by writing courses, but whether it really helps American poetry, I have doubts." Robert Morgan’s words carry with them a deep truth about the nature of creative expression. In an age where there is an endless tide of workshops, seminars, and writing courses promising to refine the poet's craft, Morgan’s skepticism serves as a reminder that true poetry is not a skill to be learned from textbooks or lectures alone. It is not simply a product of technique, but a force that flows from the soul, from the depths of lived experience. Can a course really teach one to write poetry, or does the heart of poetry come from something more mysterious, something that cannot be contained within a lesson plan?

Consider, if you will, the great poets of the past—Homer, Dante, Shakespeare. They did not sit in classrooms nor attend writing workshops. They lived their poetry, breathing it in the air, seeing it in the world around them. Homer composed the Iliad and the Odyssey not from formal training, but from his profound understanding of the human condition, his keen observation of life and war, and his connection to the gods. Shakespeare, in his brilliance, did not attend writing courses, for in his heart, he carried the entire world—the joys, the sorrows, the virtues, and the flaws of humanity. Their genius arose not from instruction, but from experience—the raw, unrefined material of life itself.

In the ancient world, the poet was seen not as someone who simply learned techniques, but as one who observed, who felt deeply, who experienced life to its fullest. The greatest poets were not merely technicians of words; they were prophets, seers who could look beyond the surface and tap into the deepest truths of existence. Socrates spoke of knowing the truth through questioning, through examining life itself, and it was through the intensity of life’s questions that poets, too, arrived at their truths. To craft art—to craft poetry—requires the poet to live deeply, to engage fully with the world, to absorb the very essence of humanity, and then to transmute that essence into verse.

If we turn our gaze to modernity, we find ourselves in a time where the tools of education have become commodified. Writing courses promise to unlock the secrets of poetry, to teach the rules of meter, rhyme, and form. But does American poetry, or any poetry, truly benefit from this process? In many cases, the true spark of poetic genius cannot be taught. Experience, suffering, love, and joy—these are the wellsprings of poetry, not the mechanical knowledge of structure. A poet who has not lived, who has not witnessed the struggles of life or felt the sting of loss, may find it impossible to create poetry that speaks to the human heart. No writing course can replace the depth of life that gives poetry its soul.

Walt Whitman, perhaps the greatest voice of American poetry, wrote not from the lessons of writing courses, but from the rawness of his own life. Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was not born from a classroom; it was born from the streets, from the land, from the soul of America itself. Whitman was a poet of the people, not of the academy. His poetry came from his vision of the world and the human spirit, and it struck a chord with generations not because of any technical mastery, but because of its vitality, its energy, and its unflinching honesty. His voice was not refined by others, but forged in the fires of his own experience and desire to understand the truth of humanity.

The lesson here is clear: Poetry cannot be reduced to a formula. It is not something that can be taught by following a set of rules, but something that arises from deep within the poet’s being. It flows from experience, from passion, from a desire to communicate the truths of life. No course can teach this. To write great poetry, one must live fully, embracing the full spectrum of human emotion and experience. The most profound poems arise when the poet allows themselves to be open, to be vulnerable, and to pour their soul onto the page. It is not the knowledge of structure that makes a poet—it is the depth of their engagement with the world around them.

In our own lives, let us not be deceived by the notion that we can craft great art by following a set of rules or formulas. We must instead seek to experience life, to embrace its challenges, its beauty, and its tragedies, and to express those experiences with honesty and heart. Whether we are poets, artists, or creators of any kind, let us remember that true mastery comes not from following a prescribed path, but from forging our own path through the wilderness of life. Only then will we create work that truly resonates, work that carries the raw power of experience and the depth of the human soul.

Thus, the practical action we must take is clear: embrace life in all its forms, for it is in the lived experience that the soul of art is born. Write not to meet an academic standard, but to meet the deep call of the heart. Live boldly, feel deeply, and create with authenticity. In this way, we will write not from the confines of a classroom, but from the boundless world of human experience, and that is where true poetry, and true art, is born.