A poem,  like the universe,  is all:

A concise cosmos having a complete

Rich harmony,  well-ordered in a state

Consistent with itself that always will,

When apprehended,  excite wonder in

A reader's faculty,  and thoughts engage,

Elucidating words upon the page;

Their mood,  their import,  inferred emotion.

 

A poem is both logos---the thing said---

And poiema---- the thing made:  one may approve

The structure of a work and disapprove

Of what it says;  or vice versa.  'Made'

Is pivotal;  for poets are,  before

All else,  the makers,  working at their craft,

Creating,  as a jeweller makes a deft

Elaborate brooch a lady would desire.

 

A poem is a potent magic spell:

Shakespeare conjured high magic on the stage,

Turning language inside out,  a bright rage

Seizing him:  supreme magician in all

He ever did;  for words came at his beck,

Obeying his command,  and yet remained

Themselves or meant more things;  or else he coined

White-hot mintage if he perceived a lack.

 

A poem should be music in its soul:

Dante wrought a perfect music,  profound,

Most elegant,  to sing a theme of fond,

Pure adoration;  his work as a whole

Having faultless architecture,  mastered

Prosody,  fine rhythm,  tonal colour,

A vivid imagery,  apt metaphor,

Deep truth:  in things he made,  in things he said.

 

Stanley   MM II