Poetry Without a Poet

Anytime I encounter art – whether it be poetry, music, a novel, etc. – I like to try to understand the intent of the artist. They carefully crafted this work, so I should put forth the effort to receive it as they intended, right? While I still think that is a valuable exercise, it may also be that much of the experienced beauty in art isn’t created solely by the artist – not all of it deliberately, at least. C.S. Lewis captured this idea when he wrote the following in The Personal Heresy:

Where we have traditional poetry there will be epithets and metrical devices which are the offspring of no single human temperament; wherever we have ancient poetry at all, there will be language which was commonplace to the writers but which time has turned into beauty; wherever we get misunderstanding – as in the common, beautiful, mistranslation of Virgil’s lacrimae rerum – there will be poetry that no poet wrote.

Every work of art that lasts long in the world is continually taking on these new colours which the artist neither foresaw nor intended. We may, as scholars, detect and endeavor to exclude, them. We may, as critics, decide that such adventitious beauties are in a given case meretricious and trivial compared with those which the artist deliberately wrought. But all that is beside the purpose.

Great or small, fortunate or unfortunate, they have been poetically enjoyed. And that is enough for my purpose. There can be poetry without a poet.

This passage, when I first encountered it, struck me as groundbreaking. It felt like a very modern take, especially considering it was written more than 50 years ago. Yet, as we’ll explore, Lewis may simply be giving voice to an older tradition of thought. To begin, let’s examine the historical roots of this idea, tracing how interpretations of art and text have evolved over time. From there, we’ll move into modern examples, asking whether art and artist share an inseparable bond or if their creations can take on a life of their own. Finally, we’ll explore the notion that the true beauty of artistic expression lies not in any single interpretation, but in the emergent tapestry of the collective experience – one that transcends the individual and unfolds across time.

A Brief History of Interpretation

This isn’t meant to be a comprehensive history of textual criticism – countless books have been written on the subject. However, I do think it is helpful to review a few key examples that highlight how interpretive approaches have changed over time.

According to The Encyclopaedia Britannica, we first see a well-defined tradition of textual analysis at the Library of Alexandria, in the third century BC. Scholars there, such as Zenodotus of Ephesus and Aristarchus of Samothrace, were known for their skills in meticulously compiling the best and oldest copies of various texts. Their commentaries aimed to discover the author’s original intent, while acknowledging that meaning would be shaped by time as well as the faithfulness of available transcriptions to their respective original manuscripts.

By the Middle Ages, we see heavy use of the Quadriga, or the fourfold method of interpretation. While this was developed as a framework for biblical hermeneutics, it was often applied to other literature as well. In short, it encouraged audiences to engage with text on four key levels of understanding: literal (historical, straightforward reading), moral (ethical lessons), allegorical (symbolic), and anagogical (spiritual, mystical). A well-known example of this is Dante’s Divine Comedy – scholars would openly go beyond the literal meaning of the text to discover layers of spiritual truth, often in ways that went beyond Dante’s original intent.

This idea – that textual or poetic meaning can expand beyond what the author envisioned – doesn’t just apply to literature. Art, in all its forms, has a way of evolving over time. Sometimes, this happens organically, as cultural shifts or linguistic changes give new resonance to an old work. Other times, new beauty in a piece of art materializes almost by accident – something may be created with one purpose, yet later reinterpreted as something entirely different.

Accidental Art

Art is not always born from intention. Throughout history, we see examples of “accidental art” – works that either emerged as art unexpectedly, or took on meanings beyond what their creators foresaw.

A somewhat silly example of this is “accidental haiku” (although whether or not they qualify as true haiku is debatable) or “accidental iambic pentameter”. If you’ve spent enough time on sites like Reddit or X, you’ve probably come across bots that detect unintentional poetry in everyday comments. Below is an example:

Or, as in Lewis’ example above, Virgil’s phrase “sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt” from the Aeneid has been subject to various translations (and mistranslations), each capturing beautiful nuances of its meaning. Literally, this phrase is rendered in English as “there are tears of things”, but this feels a bit clunky. Naturally, translators have sought to convey its essence more fluidly:

• Robert Fagles: “The world is a world of tears, and the burdens of mortality touch the heart.”
• Robert Fitzgerald: “They weep here / For how the world goes, and our life that passes / Touches their hearts.”
• Seamus Heaney: “There are tears at the heart of things.”

Each of these has its beauty, yet each carries a subtly different undercurrent of meaning. Each interpretation adds layers of depth – much like the fourfold method of interpretation would have centuries ago. Lewis would argue that each interpretation, even ones created by accidents of mistranslation, add true beauty to our experience of the original work.

Alternatively, spending time with letters from the past offers us a fascinating glimpse into how regular correspondence – once quotidian – now carries a poetic, almost lyrical quality. This is partly due to the more formal and expressive writing style of the past, which, compared to modern communication, feels elegant and perhaps even poetic.

Just as the passage of time can cast everyday writing in a more artistic light, an “accidental” transformation through the years, it can also complicate how we relate to the people behind the art we admire.

Is Art Inextricably Linked to its Artist?

Artists are human, and humans are flawed – sometimes disturbingly so. Beyond that, commonsense social mores change over time. What was once a perfectly acceptable point of view may now seem unbearably archaic or bigoted. Some would seemingly argue that, if an artist commits public sin, that their art is also invariably tainted as well.

A recent example is J.K. Rowling, who has faced calls for censorship from both ends of the political spectrum – liberals have distanced themselves from her due to her self-avowed TERF (trans-exclusionary radical feminist) positions, while just a few years ago, conservatives criticized her for supporting gay characters and endorsing color-blind casting in the Harry Potter films. This raises an important question: if an artist’s views are controversial or evolve over time, does that inherently change the value of their work? This isn’t a settled debate. Today, many in both communities wrestle with whether or not to continue partaking in the Harry Potter universe, and whether being a Harry Potter fan means endorsing Rowling’s views or not.

And beyond controversial opinions, some artists go on to commit serious crimes. Jonathan Majors, for example, was poised to fill a prominent role in the Marvel Cinematic Universe until his conviction for domestic violence prompted Marvel to drop him and rework upcoming films to remove his character. Fans have been conflicted, trying to decide whether they can still enjoy the works he appeared in, or if doing so feels like they are downplaying the harm he caused.

Of course, the tension between artistic legacy and personal conduct is far from new. Caravaggio, a renowned early Baroque period painter, was known as a violent man who committed murder. Despite that, he is still a celebrated artist to this day. Richard Wagner, an 1800’s German composer, openly expressed staunch anti-Semitic views. Nonetheless, his compositions continue to be played worldwide (other than in Israel).

This even applies to religious art. Some of the most revered poetry in the Bible, found in the Book of Psalms, was composed by King David – a man both blessed by God and tested by great trials. Yet, despite his legacy of faith and devotion, David is also remembered for his deep moral failings – most notably, committing adultery with Bathsheba and orchestrating the death of her husband, Uriah, to cover up the affair. For anyone living in the modern era, actions along those lines would be clear justification for utter cancellation from popular culture and public religious life, despite any sincere claims of repentance. Nonetheless, David is remembered as “a man after God’s own heart” and a hero of Abrahamic faiths.

There is no clear consensus on whether art can truly be separated from its creator. In many ways, this is an inherently personal decision – one shaped by individual experiences and values. For some, the harm an artist has caused, whether directly or indirectly, is deeply personal and impossible to overlook. The weight of that hurt, whether felt firsthand or in solidarity with community, may make engaging with their work unthinkable.

On the other hand, some may find it difficult to sever ties with art that has been deeply meaningful to them, even if they strongly oppose the personal choices of the artist. Here, as in many aspects of life, time seems to play a role in reshaping perception. As the years pass, the moral failings of artists may become more historical than immediate, allowing their works to be viewed as cultural artifacts rather than reflections of their character. Over centuries, their contributions often take on a life of their own – existing as a part of broader artistic and cultural legacies rather than being unseverably linked to the person behind them.

Artistic Interpretation as a Tapestry of Meaning

As I reflect on Lewis’ words and the evolving nature of interpretation over the centuries, I see why his writing resonates with me. Throughout history, we’ve wrestled with the question of who art truly belongs to – whether its meaning is dictated by the artist, the audience, or something greater than either. While an artist’s intent holds weight and deserves consideration from those seeking to engage deeply with a work, meaning is never confined to a single interpretation. Not the artist’s. Not our own. To grasp the full richness of art, we have to take a step back and zoom out.

Imagine a tapestry woven from the varying ways beauty has been experienced across time, by people from vastly different cultures, life circumstances, and perspectives. Each interpretation, rather than distorting the work, adds to its depth. No single thread defines the whole; meaning emerges from the collective patterns woven over generations.

As individuals, when we read a poem or listen to a song, we aren’t obliged to adopt anyone else’s interpretation as our own. But if we approach other perspectives with respect and curiosity, we gain something invaluable. True inquiry – the kind that seeks not just to affirm our own views but to explore the breadth of meaning – reveals new layers we might have otherwise missed.

Meditating on the Tapestry

Now, I’d like to give this a try and see how things might play out, in practice, when engaging with a work of art. One of the best-known (and one of the more ancient) pieces of artistic expression is the 23^rd Psalm, and throughout history, it has been interpreted in countless ways (here, here, and here are just a few examples). With that in mind, I’d like to use Psalm 23 as our example – but keep in mind that this approach applies to any work of art, whether it’s poetry, music, paintings, films, novels, or beyond.

When you’re ready, mindfully follow along.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Take a moment to read the Psalm again – slowly and deliberately. Let your mind fully engage with the words, not just as text, but as an experience that involves your entire self. See the shape of the letters on the page (or screen). Lean into the rhythm of the words. Feel the movement of your mouth and tongue as you speak the passage, even if only silently to yourself.

Now, let the imagery take hold. Picture the pastures, the still waters, the shadowed valley of death. Don’t just see them – imagine that you are there, immersed in the scene. Feel the grass beneath your feet, the coolness of the water, the hush of the valley around you. Breathe in the scents carried to you on the wind.

And if this is a passage you’ve known for years, let your mind wander through time – don’t be afraid to be nostalgic for a while. Recall the moments you’ve read these words before – or when they were read to you, reaching back into your childhood. How has their meaning shifted as you’ve grown? What memories do they stir?

Now, expand your imaginative horizon. Think of the people you love – those you care for deeply. Picture them reading this passage at different moments in their lives. In one scene, they’ve just welcomed a child or celebrated a major milestone. In another, they’re grieving a loss, navigating heartbreak, or praying out of desperation, even as their mind is filled with doubt. How would the words of this Psalm meet them in those moments? What comfort, challenge, or beauty might they find?

Broaden your vision further. Consider others – friends, acquaintances, strangers. People with different beliefs, different backgrounds, different struggles. Picture someone whose worldview is unlike yours, yet who still turns to these words for solace or strength.

Now, stretch your imagination across time. Think of those who have drawn comfort from this Psalm over the centuries. A mother in the midst of war, reading to her children by candlelight. A soldier whispering the words on a battlefield. A family clinging to them during the Black Death. A revolutionary seeking courage. A monk in a crumbling empire. Let history unfold before you – the Cold War, the American Revolution, the rise and fall of Rome.

And then, look forward. Envision a future where humanity reaches beyond Earth, where technology reshapes what it means to live and connect. Picture someone on a space station orbiting Jupiter, hundreds of years from now, reading these same words. What might they see in them? How might these ancient words still carry meaning, still offer wisdom and beauty?

Take a moment to breathe, and try to integrate all of what you’ve just imagined – these many experiences, many interpretations – into one great tapestry of meaning.

And finally, as you settle back into yourself and the familiar hum of your daily life, remember that the beauty and meaning you find in Psalm 23 is valuable, even if it differs from how others interpret it. Your experience is a meaningful thread in the greater fullness of beauty – one that stretches across cultures, across lands, and across time itself.

A Conclusion, of Sorts

I feel like I’ve learned a lot while putting this post together, though I wouldn’t say any particular view of mine has changed. Instead, this has deepened an instinct I already had – that, while I should strive to understand the context and intent of artists whose works I encounter, it’s entirely natural for me to have my own private interpretation of art. My understanding may differ, perhaps even significantly, from the artist’s intended meaning, yet still be worthwhile.

That being said, my own interpretation of the art I encounter isn’t necessarily more valid than another’s. Some people’s takes on works of art are simple and surface-level; others are profound, resonating across cultures and generations. At some level, the beauty of art isn’t in proving one meaning over another but in recognizing the interplay between them. Each interpretation, each experience, adds another thread to the greater tapestry of meaning.

Maybe that’s what makes art timeless. It never truly belongs to any single person – not even its artist. It belongs to all of us, across time, space, and experience, inviting us to be active participants in a conversation that stretches far beyond ourselves.