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It is not always obvious that a poem is a kind of argument. For example, it might be an argument of persuasion, as in “How do I love thee / Let me count the ways” or an argument in praise-in praise of the king, for example (which is how poet laureates got their jobs), or in praise of God or of life itself. Often the argument is for a political or moral or theological point of view, as in “The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” And with increasing frequency in contemporary writing, the argument might be epistemological, that is, about what is real and how we know what we know.
Most important, whether obvious or buried, the argument in a good poem must point to a truth, be it an acutely observed reality or an emotional truth. The reader takes pleasure in being persuaded of that truth-surprisingly, skillfully, or entertainingly.
The parallels with our own art-the art of psychotherapy-are apparent. In our work, it could be argued, there is a very large argument going on, something on the order of, “Here is how you have always seen the world; but here is a way you might see it more profitably or more comfortably or more sanely.”
The parallels with poetic argument extend even to the use of language. The therapist's words (or withholding of words) are of value only as they move the argument along, not because the language is impressive or inspirational. We know that plain words usually work better than fancy ones. This is so in either art. It's not poetic diction that makes a poem beautiful. Indeed, in the contemporary aesthetic, overly “poetic” utterance is seen as a kind of lily-gilding. We want simple words to point us to deep truth.
Here's an example from contemporary poet Tony Hoagland. Vivid but frankly un-poetic images lead us into and through a kind of cranky argument-and, surprisingly, into the experience of a lovely truth.
Despite the unpleasant contemporary images (the broken swings, empty swimming pools, flies in motel rooms, greedy 6-year-olds) and the com