Search for the Good Poem

[Sackanaka]

I am severely perplexed by the standards of poetry, or at least, what makes a good one.
Regarding written form only for now.
It is hard for me to judge the value of a poem because there are so many different styles, each with their own emphases and interpretations, I feel that just by judging a value for any one of them will have meant that I never completely understood the poem. Which others will say, "That's alright, that's just the way poetry is."
Is poetry entirely subjective?
How can you tell a word was brilliantly used or was just an accident or fluke of another intention? Does the meaning of a poem rest solely upon the audience? Is there no objectively good poem, one that the good majority of coherent and competent readers and writers of the chosen media/language can agree upon as worthy of praise?
Cuz seriously, I am feeling like writing poetry is the most liberating activities to do, yet becomes an unparalleled source of frustration when the final product is publicly released. It is as if definition instantly sours when exposed.

I give a few examples of varying poems of my own. Others, please add your poems, especially if varied, and critique each style or provide a prime example of particular techniques.

Here are some poems I thought seemed to reflect the tone of poem enjoyed by others like Songbird, but they are probably sucky (since they were some of the earliest poems I wrote):

(this could actually be it's own thread called : a novice poet's progress)

Dirt and Sand
Before the grains of seahorn’s skeleton
sprayed cross this vast shore,
we were to be thankful for
Mortal lessons of a reverend
Can’t be heard twice more.

Once for the mountains of the seas;
This breathed life into this molten globe
And energy bolts gave sky a strobe
Once for the rise of man’s glees
The fortune surrounds him; his robe.

The light has since faded into the sea
Where is the blue?
Are we still true?
Gray blurs the horizon and what we see
Are the sins that we rue.

Can we go back to the way things were?
When dark meant night and dirt,
Not technology’s flirt
And the everlasting beauty of nature was sure
The dust is wiped with machinated shirts.

Twice we have been blessed, first with glands
Of rock, glowing and flowing,
Sun with son, neither withholding
Till the silt turns all to death, and only the sands
Will be sprayed, the glow slowly ebbing.


See you

There are no piers
Only ships
And here

There are no answers
Only right
And y’sirs

There are no others
Only you
And me;
She
And
He

There is a ride
Only now
And then

I’ll see you again
On the other side.


Slugs seep down my nerves leaving their cancerous marks
Fatigue blends, stirs, and disturbs every speck of shine,
It dulls any luster.

Gone are all the memories of happy times, walks along
The roads that were rained on have since aged
And retain no memories

Slippery time seems to ooze as well as gush, approaching
my tired, so utterly tired mind
Clouds too thick to clear


[a change of style]


Pleasure of the fall
Drown me free in the turbulent sea,
that's where my body would like to be
after falling through the listless crowd,
fattened within a heavenly shroud.

Still, don't deny pleasure of the fall,
since living isn't living, should it ever stall.
Just flow with the wind,
is what they tell me,
Until my body is cast into the sea.

[learned about the existence of the string theory concept]

The Virtuoso’s String (12/15/04)

Original vibration and infinite shimmer,
The string captures and raptures
As the casual fingers arouse,
With its dance of oscillation, seemingly without end,
And suddenly it stops.



~

Second vibration, the symphony continues.
The end of one note, birth of another,
Seamlessly harmonious;
Not a single ear minds
As all minds tune in
To The Virtuoso’s String.


The Soak on Year Four

A second ours ago
bled white footsteps in snow,
but minute years go by
having left four lunar sighs.

Face and burn, soften poise,
drown out your own amongst the noise;
Liken wits to borrowed morrow
soothe by dips in silken sorrow;
Breathe apple mist on languish stream
invoke your dormant lying dream;
Stir up four waves with little toe
as lips and eyes selected so
collected drink soaked creamy night,
forever strewing lacquered light.


The Travel of Ant (2/16/05)

Feed, move,
Carry, move,
Fight, move.
Move, for you are an ant, The Ant,
and you can move.

The Death of Ant

Move, fall,
Move, pain,
Move, stop.
Stop, for you are an Ant, The Ant,
and you have moved.

[trying free verse stuff again]

Free Timing Thing

Free timing thing
keep rhyme and still,
blink death and trifle
like a giant amid
relish and utopia.

Consequential sting
forever lend a thrill,
playing never stifled
your clanking on the grid
of genetic insignia.

Rosevein

Amore amore amore
felt only for that pulse!
quenched from lies and liquor
Blasted fingers!
they tear through the pupil
bloodthirsty and gelid,
all the hell a man awakens
and bubbles in delight with
are quelled by the fury
of the heart engorged,
and when it is so,
sobriety is illusory
and love inseperable.

[when I fell in love with "Because I could not stop for death"]

Gray had perished Crimson (2/24/05)

Gray had perished Crimson-
They collected Ash-
a spit committed treason-
boiling from the gash.
Sterling feather-sleek-
kisséd Red Goodbye-
adieu the mem'ries left on Cheek
strolled down upon the Way-
Caustic light refracted
into the glacéed Glass-
but- a Lance exacted-
Judgment duly passed.
A bony Hand now grips
the earth in lustful sin-
the Other freed of Dissonance-
risen toward the Rain-


Sorry. I suspect this thread will die within -1 posts. :(
But I would sincerely appreciate any constructive response.

[songbird36]

"Molten globe" and "energy bolt" are cliches. The poem is OK but too much cliche - good poetry requires fresh and original use of language.

Just a tip..

[Edmond Zedo]

Uh, take anyones' advice but hers! Universally, of course, but specifically on poetry.

[Sackanaka]

thanks :)
good thing that was from the first poem i wrote.
*awaits heavier bruises*

*wonders if he should point out other words he thinks are cliches*

[songbird36]

"sobriety is illusory" (too wordy)
"quelled by the fury" (cliche)

[Edmond Zedo]

Witness the descent to madness. :devil:

[Sackanaka]

exactly, both of you.
This is why I asked how can you tell what's good and what isn't?

(from poetry.com's front page)

The Raincoat
I know not from where the raincoat came,
Only that it hung in the corner of the hall
By the old stuffed chair near the game room,
Where old family pictures lined the wall.
As a child, I used to marvel at the fabric,
Worn and tattered, yet golden in its hues;
And I would think how one day, if I were sick,
I could put it on along with Daddy's shoes.
It seemed like a comfortable way
To hold my hurt inside--just wrap it tight,
Close my eyes, and ask my Mom to pray
With me to ward off evils of the night.
I knew that it was safe and strong, for Daddy
Wore it on those days of rage and pain
When things weren't all so happy,
With crops near death from too much rain.
Today at Mom's I finally put it on.
It was rather small and did not fit at all--
Quite strange, for in that house as Daddy's son,
It always seemed alone and very tall.

Samuel Rhodes


One's-Self I Sing

ONE'S-SELF I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.

Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I
say the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.

-Whitman

The Return

See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!

See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,"
Inviolable.

Gods of the wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!

-Pound

NATURE, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,—
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,—
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky,

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.

-Dickinson

"A FIELD GUIDE TO THE WILD FLOWERS OF THE MOON -
James Norcliffe

this spiky inflorescence
on the answer-phone
troubles the heart

the students are asked
which is the more stressful?
the bad news you anticipate
or the bad news that comes
when you least expect it?

and rats as usual
provide the answer

they droop like
stringy chrysanthemums
the colour of rust

their ulcers bloom brightly
like twitching anemones

they stumble through
falling petals of cancer

and those who have least
knowledge stumble first

towards the wall
towards the door
towards the window

through which
a sharp white
sickle moon
floats in a black sky

in its pale light
letters are lilac
enough to read

the future is round
and dark enough to see"


In every poem here there are tidbits that could be interpreted as cliche or verbose. Yet they are apparently regarded in high esteem, and I wonder why is it that they are allowed to do so? I addressed this in my first post; I am contending that the answer lies in asking "does it work as a whole?" That to create a successful poem does not lie in the words used or lack thereof but as a comprehensive, cohesive whole that effectively/successfully allows for a reader to interpret the work and the intention.
Unless is it the modern poet's goal to mesmerize, astound and stupify the petty reader? I don't think that is the case, and if confusion does arise it is the sophistication of the poet's intention, not the complexity of the diction and unpredictable syntax that not befuddles but invigorates the curiosity of a reader.
Or perhaps you could just provide a synopsis of this poem, and why the last stanza would be falsely accused of being cliche:


MANY MOONS

aurad moon
swims
in a milky puddle
treads water

a haze
unwinded

soundless night
screams
clamours

black holes
choke
as they swallow
stars


(I'm not picking on you Songbird, I genuinely want to know!)

[Sackanaka]

Perhaps it is that I do not know what makes a cliche.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cliche
http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=cliche

trite, overused, sarcastic and French. hmm...

Perhaps we should define cliche? Or perhaps differentiate a common cliche and a successful cliche?

And of course this goes without question, but Edmond Zedo, feel free to critique as well, even if it is a quote (as long as it's an interpretable success). Anyone else too.

[songbird36]

Oh yes I'm sure Zedo can critique it competently, as he possesses such a deep and impressive intellect.

Over to him..

[Sackanaka]

as long as there is -NO HIJACKING OF THE THREAD PLEASE-

I didn't mean to imply any incompetence; I sorely need some strong, supported advice, which is why I requested help of Ed and others.

[Sackanaka]

I give up.
Since no one will give advice I'll make up my own based on what I would've expected to hear:
1) Poetry technique is improved by experience, not advice. (or something cliche like that)
2) Stop bitching, start doing. Pick up a damn book or pencil. (or something cliche like that)
3) Who cares what anyone else thinks. (or something cliche like that)
4) Your poetry is good, just keep at it! (or something reassuring but uncritical like that)
5) Your poetry fucking sucks, stfu noob.

I have learned my lesson; whether it is the apathy toward myself, my name and avatar, reading long and/or boring threads, or doing things in general, the rest of you don't have anything else to say.
My sweet sorrow:



I Tried to Piss Off a Chicken

I threw a corncob at a hen
it shook its head
and bowed again
and plucked at the dirt

[songbird36]

You didn't read my criteria then obviously on the other thread?

Or the example of a "good" poem I posted?

[Sackanaka]

I did; did you read my entry (#7) prior to your previous post?

[songbird36]

No -I will go back through them all before making a decision (with CC).

I am trying to get Waxwing to post one though as she withdrew her entry.

[Hypnos]

Sackanaka,

I didn't bother to read your poems. But I will say that the most sublime art is at once about nothing, and everything. Think Madame Bovary, or the Mona Lisa, or Philip Larkin's This Be the Verse.

There are many fine variations on this theme (Keats and Shakespeare come to mind), but everything starts there.

[songbird36]

How very profound - I will henceforth add "making everything out of nothing" as one of my explicit judging criteria..

hehehe

[ApeTheDog]

Everybody comment on my poem! I'm very much insecure about it, so be sure to capitalise on that.

Raped minds in hardened hulls
People dancing to beats ever dull
Looking for the bottom in the stream of life
Trying to find the shadow under the neon lights
Darkness is what they'll bleed into the eternal night.

[Hypnos]

Everybody comment on my poem! I'm very much insecure about it, so be sure to capitalise on that.

Raped minds in hardened hulls
People dancing to beats ever dull
Looking for the bottom in the stream of life
Trying to find the shadow under the neon lights
Darkness is what they'll bleed into the eternal night.
These might make good song lyrics (reminds me of Alice in Chains), but as poetry that stands on it's own, it's too direct. "Raped minds in hardened hulls/People dancing to beats ever dull" could be "Emptiness in dried husks" (just to illustrate -- obviously not the right flavor).

[ApeTheDog]

I see. I have an idea. I'll try writing another one later when I have inspiration.

[Eileen]

Sackanaka, I will differ with SB's first opinion--I do not think that "molten globe" is a cliche and it sounds quite lovely where you put it. "Energy bolts," on the other hand, does seem a bit worn and used...

You use sound mechanisms extremely well in the first poem. When end rhyme is used, I think it's best used when you use sound mechanisms (internal rhyme, alliteration, assonance, consonance, etc) throughout the line and not merely at the end.

I'm not crazy about "See You." It starts out well with the pier and ship thing, but the metaphor kind of falls apart by the end. It does have sort of a lilting, oceany sound to it, though. You are very good at sound.


In the next one, "Gone are all the memories of happy times" is definitely bordering cliche if not already sunk well into it... the rest of the poem is full of interesting images; I think you can find another way to express that thought that is equally interesting and fresh.


I'm not going to keep going... I gotta clean my house!!!!

[Geoff]

A poem can also be short.. dont worry about quantity. How about..

"The trouble with a kitten is/that/Eventually it becomes a cat."

(not mine, I hasten to add)

-Geoff

[Sackanaka]

Sackanaka,

I didn't bother to read your poems. But I will say that the most sublime art is at once about nothing, and everything. Think Madame Bovary, or the Mona Lisa, or Philip Larkin's This Be the Verse.

There are many fine variations on this theme (Keats and Shakespeare come to mind), but everything starts there.
I admit that I am not familiar with many literary works, something I ought to work on. Thanks for the advice :)


Everybody comment on my poem! I'm very much insecure about it, so be sure to capitalise on that.
:lol: I should've expected that as well.


Sackanaka, I will differ with SB's first opinion--I do not think that "molten globe" is a cliche and it sounds quite lovely where you put it. "Energy bolts," on the other hand, does seem a bit worn and used...

You use sound mechanisms extremely well in the first poem. When end rhyme is used, I think it's best used when you use sound mechanisms (internal rhyme, alliteration, assonance, consonance, etc) throughout the line and not merely at the end.

I'm not crazy about "See You." It starts out well with the pier and ship thing, but the metaphor kind of falls apart by the end. It does have sort of a lilting, oceany sound to it, though. You are very good at sound.


In the next one, "Gone are all the memories of happy times" is definitely bordering cliche if not already sunk well into it... the rest of the poem is full of interesting images; I think you can find another way to express that thought that is equally interesting and fresh.

Thanks; I do agree that "energy bolts" is way too elementary. Those earlier listed poems were some of the first I ever wrote, without revisions; I just put them in there to show my development of style over the years. I do agree with all of your criticism, and perhaps I will revise them when the feeling's apt.
And thanks :D

A poem can also be short.. dont worry about quantity.
I took that into account with my (former) adieu, but thank you for the advice. I also am trying to find out how to successfully say the most in the least amount of words.

Thanks all

[songbird36]

The last three lines are stronger than the first two.

Can you tell me why Ape?

[Claverhouse]

A poem can also be short.. dont worry about quantity. How about..

"The trouble with a kitten is/that/Eventually it becomes a cat."

(not mine, I hasten to add)

-Geoff
[ Surprised ]

Actually, that was an English proverb in the olden days: Charles I used it to one of his early ( and utterly contemptible ) parliaments. Although he personally was fond of cats, I understand. Had a black one called Luck.

Who wrote that ? Sounds like Ogden Nash.



Claverhouse :ph34r:

[Sackanaka]

Addressing the frustrations of poetry, I ask:


Must they write a poem

Must they write a poem
of every picket fence-
Or every wheelbarrow,
or every innocence?

Can’t a rocking chair on porch
be granted cob and hat
without pa
to rock it forth
or poetry, at that?

Must a song
be so sung
to sing its melody?
Must a table
be of quartz
to pelt propriety?

Can’t a rose
be called such
or any other name?
Why have rules
and governed words
learned to speak such fame?

Why rock the chair,
or name the rose,
or sing of Innocence?
Is there nothing
more divine
to man than maddest sense?

Must they speak
another word-
Can’t they taste sweet sorrow?
Or would that break
great chains we keep
to dream another morrow?

Must they make an answer
of every question rose?
Can’t they see
that just to stop
the carriage doors will close?

Must every expert tongue in cheek
give sweet soliloquy?
Why not try
or not to be-
or is "to be" more free?



(Again wanted to work on use of allusions; sorry if they are too obvious. If they aren't, I have the poem on my website with links- marching forth in the symbiosis of technology and art!)

[songbird36]

Cute

[Sackanaka]

So that another thread just for me won't be made.
I vow to only post the ones I think show improvement or are otherwise proud pieces. This was the latest one, my first "risque" poem.



the Sire of Guitars

She danced in Blue
with I- in zest-
we cracked the crawling stars.
Their lemon loess
had grazed a guest-
the Sire of Guitars.

And with a rap-
tap at the glass,
the herald's sequin peer
accompanied
the Sire's tune
to saturate a scar

and vacancy.
Our linen chirped
like leaves at 6 am.
Her pliant legs
rap-tapped in time
to propagate the stem

of morning fruit-
of waxy eyes.
And with a strum- an end-
but crack anew-
the stars and our
Guitar will play again.

[panda]

Forgive me, for my use of necromantic powers: I am reading this thread for the first time.

Sackanaka, I enjoyed your poetry. It shows potential. I especially like your last poem, the Sire of Guitars.

Your progression in skill is apparent, after reading your poems in order.

[abathur]

I give up.
Since no one will give advice I'll make up my own based on what I would've expected to hear:
1) Poetry technique is improved by experience, not advice. (or something cliche like that)
2) Stop bitching, start doing. Pick up a damn book or pencil. (or something cliche like that)
3) Who cares what anyone else thinks. (or something cliche like that)
4) Your poetry is good, just keep at it! (or something reassuring but uncritical like that)
5) Your poetry fucking sucks, stfu noob.

It's aliiiive! I wasn't here yet when the original discourse took place, so, I shall hop in for a moment at least (though I lack the time right now to read all the poems.)

1.) Yes, and no. Being critiqued or given advice alone will do nothing for you--that is not to say that there is not advice given that you should take, and then practice until you have it working. I don't think I'm a bad poet, but I, for example, with a lack of good advice to the contrary have been using a certain form of punctuation as a bit of a catch-all in my work, for lack of something more appropriate to do. I'm finally challenged on it, and do see where it is creating some problems for others--I see why it needs to change, but it won't be a switch I can flip. I'll have to not only systemize it to some extent, but then practice enough that I am comfortable with it.

2.)Yes, and no. ;)There's a time for both, I think. Certainly, writing forever without having someone come in, smack you around and tell you that, despite how cocky you are getting, your poetry still isn't very good probably won't give you that desire to improve, and will instead just give you notebooks of mediocrity.

3.)If you try to get published: You. That's not to say the soul of you or your work should drastically change by what others think, but, especially if being understood is one of your goals in writing, you have to ensure that you are being understood (at least by your target audiences.)

4/5.) It's nice to hear that someone think's you're writing good poetry, and someone just saying, "you suck" rarely has effect on me, but receiving a rather thorough, biting critique, I find, is one of the great motivators for improvement. If someone who knows what they're talking about comes in, rips you a new one, tells and shows you why, and you start to SEE these things, it's almost one of those cliche epiphany moments ;)

On to a few other things:
Cliche: Has become cliche itself, IMO (though I still refer to it often when critiquing). There's a bigger problem: use, or overuse where such indicates a lack of original creativity. That is to say, it might be cliche to say, "You've stomped on my heart" whereas some new image such as "You've drowned my poor heart in pancake syrup" could work, but then you use the word drowned 4 more times throughout the rest of the poem, in reference to your heart...

The problem with cliche is the repetition--even if it isn't in your work. That isn't to say that you can't take a cliche image, flip it on its ear, use it in a new way and have something fun to play with. Here--here's a link to one of my favorite poems by a young poet (who usually tend to write about cliche things) where she's taken a veritable soup of cliche images (and add a cliche topic) to make something new. http://www.deviantart.com/view/20966660/
That isn't to say it's the best poem--but I think it's a pretty good example of the fact that a cliche image can still be used--in a creative new way, where you aren't really "repeating" the image, but "reinventing" it. Cliche, of course, tends to be subjective in the readers eyes and is based on reader experience. Someone who's never read a single poem might not find having your heart stomped on to be all that over-used (insert the catalyst for bad teen poetry here!)

Original topic (or, subjectively and objectively good poetry.) I'm not sure there's quite a way to say that it is objective. It'd be nice if it worked this way, but it also isn't entirely subjective in the sense that everyone will have a different opinion of the piece, either. I think the subjectivity of the reader is something brought out, or put away by the skill of the author. If a poem is bad, it will, for all but a few readers, seem as if some objective decision is being made about the poem by some set of rules when really everyone is coming to that conclusion by their own little set of "what makes poetry fun to read for me" guidelines. When a poem is good, this subjectivity starts to come out. The nuances of what a person likes come into play more often when the answer to "do you like this poem?" is not so clear (that is to say, they have to analyze further to determine the answer, so more factors and general nuances in preference become relevant.)

The fact that most readers of poetry are, on some level, writers of poetry, also muddles the issue, and inserts a good bit of unnecessary ego and other odd reasons for picky commentary. I, for example, an am absolute hardass in workshop, because I want to step on a few toes and make sure everyone feels comfortable--maybe even good, tearing down one of my poems so I can see if there's any merit to, "the only problems this person could find despite being pissed enough to search for them." (though that doesn't mean I invent problems or give opinions I don't hold, I'm just rather blunt and forward with them, saying things like, "You've got a good idea for a poem here--but this isn't it, and I think you can do better. I'd like to see you try to write this poem again." or, "did you spend more than 5 minutes on this?" etc.)

I think, when a poem starts nearing the other extreme, that of greatness, people start to grow silent again. There are still those who are truly picky or jealous enough to smack around a "great" poem, not to say that every published poem by an established author is great.

So, I'd say all poetry evaluation is subjective, but the worse a poem is, the more it's going to look like people are making objective decisions, because they're focusing on the things that are most often disliked, rather than having time to pick at nuances to decide whether or not they like something.

[Sackanaka]

Thanks, enigmacrypt and abathur. I agree with much of the above statements, as I too have been taking my share of criticisms and lessons in this past semester of introductory creative writing. I've put a few of my crap from that class in my blog so as to not pollute any other threads. Right now I'm in the process of "finishing up" my final project, due sometime within the next two weeks. If it comes out any good, I'll post them.

Unless.. maybe I should post them here and get it critiqued by any who are willing to? ;)

[Braggi]

The Picture of Dorian Gray
by
Oscar Wilde
The Preface

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.











The only good poetry is that which you enjoy reading.
The best poetry is what you come back to reread.

what is good in poetry is not objective, it is art, it is beauty,
and beauty is that which pleases you.

not everybody is pleased by the same things, so there is
no universal when dealing with poetry.