Mere appreciation
January 13th, 2026
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I should like the poetry of W.H. Auden, but I can only appreciate it. In his poems, there is everything I should like — elegant, weighted words and phrases, the sparsity of a clever wordsmith, and a clear definition of thoughts with an added deep yearning. No emotions, though. That makes it only passable as a slight whimsy of the almost-great poet. There is no depth of understanding or complexity of being. Or rather, not enough depth of understanding or complexity of being. Too much logic and objectivity. Too much caution. Not enough of the truth. The truth of human emotions and complexities. Still, his poems are easy to read and appreciate. There is an unmistakable rhythm and original and creative phrasing. The ideas are also engaging, but there is nothing more than that. Mere appreciation of the skill, and a forlorn realization of the missing ingredient — the ability to speak from the soul without being too cunningly self-aware. Too much self-awareness can be a curse, the same way as not enough of it.
