Unraveling the Gordian Knowledge of Poiesis (With Boring Prose)

Poets at one time in history held an exclusive role: to critique the Sovereign Rule in open forum, and to shape the world–because language itself is a material force (as Dumbledore once said, "a most inexhaustible source of magic") and everything is a communication.

Sometimes an unusual form is required to break the reader from the shelter of their habit. Un-ironically, we don't need to use unusual form here, just attention. That an unusual form is sometimes required is a simple truth, but one that explains why poetry—of all things—has survived the ages. People are creatures of habit, and language is one of the most deeply ingrained habits we’ve got. It’s how we understand, how we communicate, how we navigate reality itself. But when we get too comfortable with it, language stops being a tool for discovery and becomes a dull, predictable script we read without seeing. And that’s exactly why poets—those tinkerers of language—sometimes have to shake things up through blatant transgression, unexpected rhythms, strange metaphors, unrepentant departure from the norm, or a form so unconventional it’s practically throwing sand in your mental gears. The best poetry does this on purpose: to jolt us out of autopilot and force us to confront the world with fresh eyes.

The very word poet comes from the Greek poietes (ποιητής), which means "maker" or "creator," derived from poiein (ποιεῖν), meaning "to make" or "to create." It’s not a word for someone who simply uses language, like a lawyer or a copywriter. No, a poet is someone who creates with language—who turns words into something new, something that didn’t exist before, something that can take apart and rebuild reality. The Latin form of the word, poeta, carried this same sense of “creator,” and it was only during the Middle Ages that the word evolved into its modern English form, “poet.”

This etymological history matters because it shows that, at its root, poetry isn’t about communication; it’s about transformation. And transformation requires a breaking of forms, a shattering of patterns. It’s not enough for poetry to tell us what we already know in the way we expect it. Poets are “makers” in the sense that they remake language itself—because sometimes, when people can’t see what’s right in front of them, you’ve got to take language and twist it until it looks almost unrecognizable. That’s when you finally get someone’s attention.

And here’s the kicker: poets have always known that language is more than a passive medium. It’s a material force. Think of it like clay in a sculptor’s hands, or maybe more like dynamite in a demolition expert’s. Language shapes realities, influences decisions, and, when wielded skillfully, can alter the course of history. This is why, throughout the ages, poets have positioned themselves as critics of those in power. They recognized that words don’t just reflect reality; they construct, deconstruct, and reconfigure it. And the people who control reality—the kings, emperors, presidents, and tycoons—are always the first to feel uneasy when a poet starts messing with the very fabric of language.

History is full of examples of poets taking on the establishment with nothing but verse and a willingness to disrupt. Take the Greek poet Archilochus, for instance. He didn’t just criticize his political adversaries; he skewered them with satire so biting it made their names infamous. Or consider the Roman poet Horace, who perfected the art of subtle irony to expose the moral decay of his society without ever getting too overt—because there’s nothing more dangerous than telling the emperor he’s got no clothes, unless you can do it in a way that makes him chuckle. During the Middle Ages and Renaissance, poets like Dante Alighieri and Geoffrey Chaucer took up this mantle, using their works to address and critique the ruling classes and the church.

Dante’s Divine Comedy wasn’t just a trip through Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven; it was a scathing commentary on the political state of Florence and the corruption of the papacy. Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales held up a mirror to medieval society, exposing the hypocrisies of everyone from knights to nuns. But none of this would have worked if they’d stuck to familiar forms. Dante’s verse structure—terza rima—forces the reader to keep moving forward, linking one idea to the next in an unbreakable chain, while Chaucer’s varied rhyme schemes and genres push the reader to look at each story afresh, never knowing what’s coming next. Form, in both cases, becomes a tool for keeping the reader alert and engaged.

This is where the true power of an unusual form becomes apparent. When language conforms to predictable patterns, it lulls us into a passive state where we skim along the surface of meaning without diving deep. It’s comfortable, even soothing, but it’s not transformative. An unexpected twist in form—a sudden break in rhythm, an unrecognizable structure—disrupts that comfort, shaking us out of our mental complacency. It makes us pay attention, question, and reevaluate. And that’s when language becomes a true material force.

Language, in its most dynamic and potent state, is a force capable of bending reality to the will of those who wield it. It can expose the ugly truths hidden behind the polished facades of power. It can ignite revolutions, shatter empires, or whisper quiet reassurances to a single soul. It is, quite literally, an endless source of influence and dexterity, a tool for changing the world and for making what we will of life.

This is why, sometimes, poetry has to go strange—to break the reader from the shelter of their habit and show them what language can do when it’s pushed to its limits. In those moments of disruption, language reveals itself not as a passive observer but as an active agent of change, bending, breaking, and remaking the world in ways both profound and astonishing.