The end of poetry is not to create a physical condition which

In the world of poetry, few truths resonate as deeply as the one expressed by Laura Riding when she says, "The end of poetry is not to create a physical condition which shall give pleasure to the mind... The end of poetry is not an after-effect, not a pleasurable memory of itself, but an immediate, constant, and even unpleasant insistence upon itself." These words invite us to reconsider our understanding of what poetry is truly meant to achieve. Riding's perspective challenges the conventional view that poetry exists primarily for the sake of beauty or pleasure. Instead, she argues that poetry’s true purpose is not to soothe or entertain but to provoke, to insist on itself, and to demand our attention in a way that can sometimes be discomforting or even jarring.

This concept is not foreign to the ancient poets. Homer, in his grand epics, did not seek to comfort his listeners with smooth narratives. Instead, he wove stories that demanded reflection on the human condition—stories of war, loss, honor, and betrayal. His poetry was filled with moments of suffering and tension that were not merely presented for enjoyment but for the purpose of making the listener engage deeply with the truths of human life. The battles in the Iliad were not just spectacles of heroism; they were depictions of the cost of violence, the sacrifices of war, and the futility of human pride. Similarly, Homer’s work insisted on self-reflection, forcing the listener to reckon with their own mortality and fragility.

The same can be said for Virgil, whose Aeneid is a journey of political and personal sacrifice, woven together with themes of destiny and duty. The poetry of Virgil was not intended to merely delight the Roman people but to instill in them a sense of the greater good, the weight of empire-building, and the necessity of perseverance through suffering. Virgil’s hero, Aeneas, is driven not by the quest for personal happiness but by a relentless call to a future that is fraught with pain and loss. In this way, Virgil’s Aeneid is not an easy read—it is a force that insists on confronting the reader with the harsh realities of power and sacrifice.

Even in more modern times, the demanding nature of poetry is evident. Sylvia Plath, in her confessional style, did not write to comfort or provide easy answers. Instead, her poems confront the reader with the rawness of human emotion, mental illness, and the chaos of identity. In poems like Lady Lazarus and Ariel, Plath forces us to reckon with the darkest parts of the human experience. Her poetry does not simply leave us with a pleasurable aftertaste; it lingers, unsettling us, forcing us to confront our own fears and vulnerabilities. In this, Plath embodies Riding's philosophy—poetry, when truly powerful, should not be a passive experience; it must be an active, almost confrontational force.

Riding’s view of poetry as something that insists upon itself, that disrupts and disturbs, also finds resonance in the work of T.S. Eliot. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land is an unsettling exploration of a fractured world, one that refuses to provide clear answers or moments of easy beauty. Instead, it demands engagement with the disintegration of meaning, the loss of tradition, and the chaos of modern life. Eliot’s work challenges the reader to grapple with the complexities of existence, to understand the disillusionment of the post-war world, and to see beyond the surface of things. Poetry, in this sense, is not an escape but a confrontation—a call to deal with the uncomfortable truths of the world.

The wisdom of Laura Riding encourages us to redefine what it means to engage with poetry. Too often, we look to poetry for simple enjoyment, for beauty that pleases the senses and offers temporary relief. However, true poetry—poetry that matters—does not exist merely to gratify. It exists to provoke, to force the reader to feel, and to think beyond the obvious. Poetry, in its highest form, compels us to reflect on the world and our place within it. It calls us to engage with the uncomfortable and the difficult and to find meaning in the struggle. In this way, poetry becomes an active force, a means of waking up to the world, even if it is uncomfortable.

In your own creative endeavors, whether in poetry or any other form of expression, let Riding’s words guide you. Do not shy away from the difficult or uncomfortable truths in your work. Challenge your audience to confront the hard realities of life—whether personal, social, or universal. Like the ancients, like Plath, and like Eliot, find in your art the power to insist upon itself, to make the viewer or reader sit up and take notice. Understand that great art is not always about comfort; it is often about forcing us to face what we would rather ignore. In doing so, you will not only create something memorable but something that changes the viewer, something that leaves an indelible mark upon their soul.