Mastering Language: Balancing Craft and Emotion in Poetry

As one who is new to crafting poetry, I am aware that my journey is one of growth, learning, and exploration. What follows is a discussion of the approach I have consciously adopted to refine my poems and avoid the criticisms and condemnations so freely voiced by those such as Wilde—“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic”—and Bloom, who remarked, “All bad poetry is sincere.”

The Art of Moving the Soul: My Approach to Poetry

My approach to poetry is grounded in a vision that goes beyond crafting words into aesthetically pleasing forms; it is about shaping language into something that moves the reader deeply. Poetry is, at its heart, the pursuit of connection, of reaching into the depths of an emotion and distilling it into a form that resonates universally. To accomplish this, I focus on balancing the technical mastery of language with an awareness of emotional truth—crafting a poem not to be admired for its sophistication but to stir something fundamental within its audience.

Mastery of Language and Artifice

A poet must be a master of language—but this mastery is more than an extensive vocabulary or a mastery of grammar. It encompasses an intimate understanding of all the artifices of language, from metaphor and rhythm to sound, cadence, and imagery. Each of these elements is a tool that, when used with precision and intention, can amplify the emotional power of a poem.

  • Metaphor and Symbolism are central to my work. I believe that a well-crafted metaphor can reveal truths that straightforward language cannot reach. Metaphor allows me to take the deeply personal and translate it into the universal. It transforms emotions into imagery that transcends the particularity of my own experiences, inviting readers to see their own reflections within the lines.
  • Sound and Rhythm are equally crucial. Poetry is inherently musical, and I strive to create an aural experience that mirrors the emotional landscape of the poem. The rhythm of a line, the careful use of alliteration or consonance, can evoke a specific mood—whether it be urgency, tranquility, or dissonance. This musicality helps bridge the gap between the reader’s intellect and their emotional response, drawing them into the essence of the poem.
  • Precision in Word Choice is another aspect of my approach. Every word in a poem must be chosen with purpose, as the weight each carries is amplified by the brevity and density of poetry. Words must be evocative, precise, and imbued with the potential to convey a spectrum of meanings. The challenge lies in selecting words that are capable of evoking the complexity of emotion I aim to convey, while still maintaining accessibility for the reader

What I Seek to Avoid

While I strive to use all the tools of language, I am cautious of letting craft overpower emotional authenticity. There is a risk in focusing too heavily on technical mastery—in creating something that is elaborate but lacks heart. A poem must not be an exercise in showing off the artifices of language; it must always remain rooted in emotional truth.

Additionally, I seek to also avoid the temptation to use language that is obscure simply for the sake of complexity. My aim is to create poetry that is layered and nuanced but still accessible. Complexity should be employed to deepen meaning, not to obfuscate it. When a poem becomes a puzzle that requires solving, it runs the risk of alienating readers, making them admire or – more likely – curse the poet’s intellect rather than inviting them to connect with the poem’s core. To me, poetry should not be a performance to impress but a bridge to connect—to take a feeling, a moment, and expand it in such a way that it becomes a shared experience.

Lessons from Rhetoric: Demosthenes vs. Cicero

In approaching poetry, I often reflect on an anecdote I read years ago about two of history’s great orators: Demosthenes and Cicero. Cicero was celebrated for his eloquence—when he spoke, people said, “What a fine orator.” His speeches were technically perfect, full of rhetorical sophistication, and they garnered admiration for their artful construction. But when Demosthenes spoke, people said, “Let us march.” Demosthenes moved his audience to action; his speeches were not simply admired, they were felt deeply, and they inspired his audience to do something.

This comparison informs my approach to poetry. While I value the craft—the meter, the rhythm, the careful construction of lines—I strive for something more. I want my poems to move the reader, to evoke a response that goes beyond admiration for a well-crafted verse. I want them to feel the emotional urgency behind the words, to resonate with the core truth of the poem, and perhaps even to be stirred to reflect, to act, or to see the world a little differently. My goal is to use the artifice of language not as an end but as a means—to make my words sing, not just for beauty’s sake but for the sake of the emotion and meaning that lie beneath.

Craft and Emotional Truth in Harmony

Ultimately, my approach to poetry is about finding the balance between mastery of language and emotional authenticity. The artifices of language—metaphor, rhythm, sound, form—are powerful tools, but they must be used with intention. They must serve the deeper purpose of the poem, which is to capture and convey something genuine about the human experience. The artifice should be invisible, or at least secondary, to the emotional impact.

Like Demosthenes, I wish to create not just a polished, skillful verse but something that speaks directly to the heart of the reader, that moves them. The art of poetry, to me, is not in the cleverness of its construction, but in its ability to resonate—to create a moment of connection, a shared breath, a glimpse into the universal truths that bind us all.

I hope that my poetry steadily improves and meets the standards I articulated above, growing in emotional depth, linguistic mastery, and its ability to touch readers in meaningful ways.

Autumn’s Forgotten Dream: Poetry Inspired by Nargaroth’s Music

Autumn Rain by Leonid Afremov

The music in the YouTube video below, Forgotten Memory of a Dying Dream, has utterly captivated me. Its delicate piano notes, scattered like raindrops, lull me into a trance, much like the gentle patter of autumn rain. I find myself playing it on repeat, mesmerized by its melancholic beauty. The music is both soothing and evocative, drawing me into a realm of reflection and relaxation. Inspired by this, I felt compelled to offer a poetic response—an embrace, of sorts, to the mood it evokes. But please, I encourage you to listen to the music to fully appreciate the inspiration behind the poem—I have had it on repeat for days.


Autumn’s Forgotten Dream

The keys fall soft, like autumn rain,
A whispered sigh in quiet refrain.
Each note, a droplet, cool and clear,
Tells of dreams that disappear.

The melody drifts, a mournful breeze,
Through branches bare of summer’s leaves.
It echoes long, then fades away,
Like shadows at the edge of day.

In every pause, the silence hums,
A memory of what never comes.
The piano weeps in gentle streams,
For forgotten hopes and dying dreams.


The Importance of Language: A Journey Through Words

When I was but twelve years old and in the sixth grade, I was already a peculiar lad—of that, there can be no dispute. One of my distinct memories from that time is sharing with Miss Davis, my teacher, that I had purchased a dictionary, which I studied ardently each night to enrich my vocabulary. Even then, I was enamored with words and punctuation—the brick and mortar of literature and poetry—and I was learning as much about them as I could. A few years later, in high school, as I have noted elsewhere, a very dear educator, my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Calpin, honored me with a graduation gift: a thesaurus, in recognition of my love of words.

At college, I developed another peculiar habit, alongside acquiring yet another new dictionary. Whenever I coined a neologism (which I believed perfectly appropriate to do), I would record it on a sheet that I had inserted into the dictionary for future reference. That dictionary remains in my possession, though not readily at hand or in regular use, as will soon be explained. Otherwise, I would gladly provide an example of one of those neologisms.

After I finished college and law school, and was sufficiently recompensed as an attorney for the federal government, I indulged myself with the purchase of the complete hardbound set of The Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition as well as the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary. It is a safe assumption that few homes, indeed, few offices, possess either of these gems for consultation, let alone for regular use. But the wealth of words contained in these volumes—the backbone of a rich and wondrous language—is awe-inspiring. Not once have I regretted the sum spent on their purchase, nor the richness they have added to both my writing and knowledge.

This lifelong fascination with language, along with those dictionaries and thesauruses, naturally informs my choice of words in my prose writing and poetry, where every term is carefully considered. This serves as a preface and background to a brief note I would like to append to my poem Where is Am I?

Some who have read the poem may be struck by the verse:

The shadow of a shadow,
a footfall lost to time’s soft track?

In particular, they may find footfall to be wholly unfamiliar. Of course, the vocabulary in the poem was not selected by happenstance; every word was chosen with deliberate care, and footfall was no exception. I hesitated only momentarily before selecting this word, but ultimately decided that context should guide the reader (or listener, as poems should always be recited after being read).

To clarify, I did consider alternatives such as step, trace, footprint, and mark, but I ultimately returned to footfall during the poem’s construction. Footfall is not a neologism; it appears in the Oxford English Dictionary (see accompanying image of the Oxford English Dictionary entry for footfall). Footfall refers to the act of stepping—the motion and sound of a foot hitting the ground—rather than the trace or mark left behind, such as a footprint. As such, footfall captures the fleeting nature of action itself, emphasizing the transitory motion rather than the lasting trace of a footprint.

Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition – entry for footfall

To add another layer to my choice of footfall, it was not just the meaning but the sound of the word itself that carried significance. Again, poetry is to be recited, not just read. The soft, muted quality of the word, when spoken aloud, mirrors the quiet, almost imperceptible nature of the action it describes. The word begins with a gentle f sound, followed by a soft, cushioned ending—a fall that lands lightly, much like the act of stepping itself. It has an almost whispered quality, evoking the idea of a footstep that passes quietly through time, barely noticed before it fades entirely.

This auditory element of the word footfall reinforces the theme of impermanence in the poem. The word itself, in both sound and evanescence, fades even as it is spoken, much like the action it represents disappears into time’s soft track. The fleeting nature of footfall contrasts with the more solid, lasting impression suggested by alternatives like footprint or mark. Where those words imply something left behind, footfall emphasizes the moment of movement itself—the instant when the foot touches the ground, just before it lifts again, leaving no lasting trace.

It is this auditory resonance that made footfall the right choice for the verse, as it complements the poem’s exploration of the transient and fragile nature of human conscious presence and action in the universe. In pairing this word with time’s soft track, the verse captures the tension between motion and stillness, existence and disappearance, echoing the poem’s larger themes of impermanence and the passing of time.

This interpretation also explains my selection of the image of an eroding footprint, a fossilized mark in sand, as a visual metaphor for time’s imperceptible erasure of human presence, chosen to illustrate the poem. The image embodies the idea of humanity, an individual, attempting to leave a lasting mark, while acknowledging that even fossils, over time, are subject to the elements—in time’s soft track.

The word footfall also appears in T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets. Eliot has been a favorite of mine since I first read Murder in the Cathedral at the age of twelve or thirteen. The specific lines containing footfall open Burnt Norton:

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.

Exploring the Eternal Now: Past Present Future in Poetic Form

Time Transfixed (La Durée poignardée) is a 1938 oil on canvas by Belgian surrealist René Magritte (1898-1967), now part of the permanent collection of the Art Institute of Chicago. The title translates literally as Ongoing Time Stabbed by a Dagger. Magritte reportedly expressed dissatisfaction with the widely accepted English translation, Time Transfixed. The translation issue resonates with the theme of the poem Past Present Future? Which is Now?

Inspired by Where is Am I? and viewing poetry as akin to musical composition, I felt it fitting to create a follow-up variation on a theme. In truth, it took only moments to pen the opening line/title: Past Present Future? Which is Now? How could this not spring readily to mind, given the intense reading, writing, and research I have been immersed in for so long—scientific and philosophical alike? The line is a distillation of a significant part of my existential quest, an attempt to more deeply explore what I have long referred to as the eternal now.

Past Present Future? Which is Now? captures the tension between how we subjectively experience time and the idea that all moments—past, present, and future—are fixed and unchanging. In this static view, consciousness perceives each moment as now, while in reality, every moment already exists. This concept aligns with the philosophical idea of the eternal now, where all of time is present within each instant, even if our perception fragments it. The poem seeks to capture this interaction: the way awareness encounters different moments in time, while time itself remains constant and unchanging. It reflects my broader philosophical inquiries into the nature of reality, consciousness, and time’s interconnectedness.

Where is Am I? and Past Present Future? Which is Now? function as variations on a shared theme, much like movements in a musical composition. While they differ in focus—one on the search for identity, the other on the nature of time—they resonate with one another through recurring imagery and ideas. Both explore existential uncertainty, employing motifs of light and shadow, echoes and breath, to reflect the fragmented nature of consciousness and experience.

Where is Am I? is an introspective meditation on the self’s disjointed sense of being, while Past Present Future? extends this reflection, asking whether time—past, present, and future—exists as distinct moments or as a continuous whole. In this way, the second poem builds on the first, expanding the inquiry into personal identity toward a larger philosophical investigation of time. Together, the two poems form a stylistic and thematic unity, with the second poem deepening the existential questions introduced in the first, offering a more expansive vision of the human experience or, at least, my experience.


Past Present Future? Which is now?

Past whispers in the corners of my mind,
its shadow folded into the fabric of now—
but is it gone, or does it still breathe,
echoing in the present’s fleeting pulse?

The future calls, a distant tremor,
its promise threaded through each thought.
Yet does it truly wait, or is it here already,
quietly draped over the moment’s edge?

Past, present, future—are they separate streams,
or one river coursing through the self,
an unbroken thread of light,
where time is nothing but a veil? Which is now?
All and none—each breath dissolves the question,
as yesterday, tomorrow, and today
collapse into the eternal now.

Challenging the Illusion: AI Text Detection and Human Perception

La Trahison des Images [The Treachery of Images]
(oil on canvas, 1928-9) by René Magritte (1898-1967).
Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Once again, a word that appears with some frequency in my writing (delve) is maligned as an indicator of AI authorship. But, at least in this instance, it comes within the context of an essay that includes a warning that humans are only under the illusion that they can detect AI written material. The essay in which the aspersion occurs also accurately notes that studies have shown that a well-written AI prompt has often been adjudged by reviewers as more surely written by a human than a piece written, indeed, by a human. The study in circulation demonstrating the latter, written by individuals associated with the Department of Cognitive Science, UC San Diego, does not look like it was written by humans, no matter how many times I review it, but that is attributable to a different bias, not AI.

Ethan Mollick, a writer whose insights at www.oneusefulthing.org are always worth exploring, recently captured my attention with his thought-provoking essay Post-apocalyptic Education. In a section aptly titled, “The Illusions,” Mollick states:

People can’t detect AI writing well. Editors at top linguistics journals couldn’t. Teachers couldn’t (though they thought they could – the Illusion again). While simple AI writing might be detectable (“delve,” anyone?), there are plenty of ways to disguise “AI writing” styles through simple prompting. In fact, well-prompted AI writing is judged more human than human writing by readers

Ha! that parenthetical regarding the word delve, included to provide a small exception to the author’s point, is no exception, at least when it comes to my writing.