Verb Sap (1.viii.87)

We are told, by some who ought to know better,
that the purpose of poetry is to explore the
possibilities of language.

I disagree, and not just because I quibble that
purpose means end, and exploration is not an
end, but a means.

Language is what tongues produce. It's made of words.
Words are made to fit together
in sentences.

Sentences state facts, tell lies, ask questions,
give orders, and beg.
That's it.

Words are not designed to paint pictures,
describe (as opposed to naming) emotions,
or sound musical.

You might occasionally succeed in getting them to do
one or another of these, but it is like using
a fiddle to drive nails.

I could walk outside right now, and find ten things
that no-one ever has or ever will describe,
apart from naming them.

I look in myself, and I know
that how I feel is not
reducible to words.

Nor is there much percentage in slavishly
dodging clichés. As Sam said, Hamlet is
full of them.

The greatest potential in language is to express things
that are true. More could be made
of this potential,

were we not so afraid of it.