The poetry of this one is called philosophical, of that one

Hear the probing words of Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel, voice of the Romantic age, who declared: “The poetry of this one is called philosophical, of that one philological, of a third rhetorical, and so on. Which is then the poetic poetry?” In this question lies both a challenge and a lament. For men, eager to categorize and classify, have divided poetry into a thousand labels: the philosophical for wisdom, the philological for scholarship, the rhetorical for persuasion. Yet Schlegel asks: when all is sliced and sorted, where is the heart of poetry itself? What is the essence beyond labels, the flame that burns at its core?

The meaning is profound: to define poetry only through the language of other disciplines is to lose its soul. Philosophy may sharpen thought, philology may study words, rhetoric may sway crowds—but none of these, by themselves, is the living spirit of poetry. Poetic poetry, as Schlegel names it, is that which exists for itself—free, alive, radiant—not bound in service to logic, science, or persuasion. It is the voice of the human spirit when it is most itself, neither tool nor ornament, but the pure song of existence.

History gives us examples. Consider Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey were not philosophical treatises, nor philological studies, nor rhetorical devices. They were, instead, the raw poetry of a people—songs sung before written words, carrying within them the gods, the heroes, the griefs and glories of humanity. Later scholars might dissect them as history, as rhetoric, as philosophy—but at the moment of their birth, they were simply poetic poetry: the song of life itself, spoken in verse.

So too, in later ages, poets like William Blake defied categories. Was he philosopher? Prophet? Painter? He was all and none. His poems burned not because they fit a label, but because they were poetic poetry—visions written in fire, the pure outpouring of a soul seeing eternity in a grain of sand. Such voices remind us that poetry loses power when confined to cages. Its essence is freedom, its power is wholeness.

Schlegel’s question carries a warning. If we allow ourselves to see poetry only through the eyes of analysis—if we say “this is philosophy,” “this is rhetoric,” “this is philology”—we risk losing sight of its true nature. The danger is to dissect the living bird until nothing remains but feathers and bone, forgetting the flight. To know poetry is not only to analyze it but to feel it, to be moved by it, to let it awaken the part of us that cannot be measured.

The lesson is eternal: seek the essence, not only the category. When you read, do not ask only, What is its logic? or What is its rhetoric? Ask instead, What is its life? What does it awaken in me? For that is the measure of poetic poetry: not how it fits into disciplines, but how it stirs the heart and enlarges the soul. The philosopher may learn truth, the rhetorician may gain power, the philologist may preserve words—but the poet seeks wholeness, and this is the poetry that endures.

Practical actions follow. Read widely, but do not confine poetry to footnotes and theories. Speak it aloud, let it breathe in your mouth, let it move your blood. When you write, do not write to fit a category, but to speak what must be spoken, to sing what cannot be silenced. And when others seek to reduce poetry to utility, remind them of Schlegel’s question: “Which is then the poetic poetry?”—for in answering, they must return to the heart of the art itself.

Thus his words endure as both question and command. “The poetry of this one is called philosophical, of that one philological, of a third rhetorical… Which is then the poetic poetry?” Let us not lose the essence to the names. Let us not bury the flame beneath categories. For true poetry is the song of the soul seeking eternity, and its value lies not in what we call it, but in how it makes us more alive.