Poetry is certainly a tough subject to grasp; particularly for those who might not be entirely comfortable with the written word. However, some of the most amazing lines of text ever written have been created in such a manner and this very same sense of passion continues into these modern times. While we have all heard of names such as Keats, Frost and Whitman, why are these authors considered be some of the greatest? In the same respect, what are some of the differences between a few well-written stanzas and a poem that will resonate with the reader for months or even years to come? Although this is an entirely subjective question, it is still wise to take a look at a handful of variables that may come to mind. 

The Ability to Identify Directly with the Reader

This is actually one of the very same traits which has served to define brilliant literature in the past. Take a few moments to think about your favourite poem. How does it make you feel? The chances are high that it has the innate capability to take you on an emotionally visceral journey; to make you believe as if you are living life through the eyes of the writer. Great poetry transcends time, space and location. Its impact will be just as powerful five years from now as it is today. 

Many readers judge "greatness" off of how much they can identify with what is being described. Thus, some will gravitate more towards subjects such as loss while others prefer a poem describing a sense of immaculate. In other words, beauty is once again in the eye of the beholder. 

Great Poems Create a Verbal "Texture"

While this may seem like a strange comparison, how do all of the top global brands market a product to the end user? They present an image, a vision and an outcome. While this is one of the core tenets of any marketing campaign, it also shares certain similarities with great poetry.

A great poem should use words to create a mentally tangible "texture" that seems as if it leaps off of the page. This texture (whether beautiful or decidedly ugly) can thereafter be used to stoke feelings and to create an emotional response. Thus, a great poet possesses the seemingly god-like ability to amalgamate a series of words in such a way as to create an emotion or sensation that is nearly palpable to the reader. Of course, such talents are normally not born overnight.

Please keep in mind that there are a milieu of other ways to define what might make a poem "great" in terms of the reader's perspective. These are simply a handful of the most common observations. Whether you are hoping to enjoy fame as a poet or you enjoy being transported to an entirely different dimension, there is no doubt that well-written poetry will provide you with a means to ultimately transcend what can often times be considered a rather dull existence.

I never feel good enough

I have no self esteem

I tend to sabotage my stuff

Do you know what I mean

I have nothing important to say

What do I know anyway

No one cares what I think

I could be the missing link

The more I learn the less I know

and yet I get on with the show

I know I don't know everything

No one does no matter what they think

Those who know that they don't know

have lots and lots of room to grow

Those who think they know it all

are pushed up against a wall

Keep an open mind

maybe you will find

that you can unwind

that's how it's designed

When abstract thoughts become too clear

You may have lost your mind my dear

That's OK that's what we want

to clear our mind for abstract thoughts

The Poetry that I never created,

But the seconds of my day

                                                That I adored so much.

                                                Couldn’t grip the moments

                                                Of my day in my fists                                     

                                                As the iceberg of the day

                                                Set into water and spilled over

                                                From the seams of my fists.

                                                After my morning routine,

I’d befall at                                         `           

                                                The dining table of my kitchen,

For my everyday breakfast

                                                With a Mug of Coffee  

Or a Cup of Tea                                             

                                                Arising the whole fullness in                          

                                                The emptiness within me.

The morn spun another page

Of my erstwhile diary

With the deeds of that very day,

Too much absorbed I’d be in                              

Savoring the flavor in me

So that my time spilled out

Of my clenched fists

Might never be in futile.  

                                                *

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

The past is passed

so why must it last

This loop in my head

I constantly dread

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

PTSD is not for me

PTSD must cease to be

Got to get it out of my head

These thoughts that I have come to dread

keep playing over inside my head

Who hit replay

Shut it off

No not today

Life can be rough

Enough is enough

Let's talk about her beauty
Yes! A beauty?
That she is!

I don't need to see her diploma
I can tell by her posture
And her aroma
Her speech and her tone
Umm
This beauty is quite the gift.

Not a gift that's to be wrapped
A gift of life in fact.
A little bit of this and alot of that
Exquisite to be exact.

The knowledge that she possess
blows me away
I'm glad shes blessed with
determination for that success
She has style, she has class
She has finesse!

The fruition of our conversation
The situation has me mesmerized
The combination of me staring
Glaring got me declaring
Hypnotized!

Prisoner of my imagination
My creation
Release her to me!

I feel the ink flow through my veins,

After fearing it all had dried.

As once again, reality awakens muse,

When all hoping again, has died.

For a jolly poet, simply cannot write,

Unless it all goes tragically wrong.

So to hell with all the make believe...

And to hell with being strong.

I'd rather feel this release again,

As from me, this blood pours out.

A letting of this verbal plasm,

Pouring forth from an emotional spout.

A too-tight tourniquet of sorts,

Long staunched, a healthy flow.

But now, like before, it flows warm and red,

And eagerly fills again, a river of woe.

So muse, now cut me deeper still,

For we have poems to be created.

Since life prooved to us, yet once again,

The tempests will never, be abated.

I dreamed a dream of stars and light

Shining brightly in the night

But then I saw, to my surprise

That they existed in your eyes

I had an illusion of desire

It's scarlet flames were rising higher

And soon after we took flight

You quickly vanished in the night

I gained an insight of your being

Sitting, broken, hopeless-feeling

I sat next to you, contrite

To tell you it was all alright 

I bear a vision, dark and deep

It has me turning in my sleep

Your memories I'll keep and keep

As I sit to sigh and weep