Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D.
“To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of 
speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem’s perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem’s greatest becomes a relatively simple matter.
If the poem’s score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness.
A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great. As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will – so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry.”
I agree with Mr Keating that this is “excrement”. But at the same time, I have no better explanation to offer. Most of us try to express an emotion and it sounds trite, or whiny, or exaggerated… simply, it does not have the ring of truth, the symmetry of truth meeting beauty. And, sorry, but to me, accuracy is also a part of it. (scientist….)
I’ve quoted poems here before, poems classically considered “good”. Here’s one that is in a greyer area, but it still appeals to me. But I am not sure whether I like it because it is “good poetry” by any meter, or whether it rings true to me, in its very absurdity.
I first read it in High School. We had been asked to present ten poems in a unique and original format…. so I made up a story about the telegraph operator on the Titanic choosing to steady his nerves, in his final hours, by telegraphing poetry from memory. And I handed in the ten poems, all painstakingly translated into Morse code. 
Even in my teenage years, a time for high-flown pseudo-artistry!, my concept of “unique and original” was more technical than artistic.
The author is a Canadian poet named Irving Layton. He was born in Romania.
FOR AVIVA, BECAUSE I LOVE HER
I saw a spider eating a huge bee.
First he ate my limbs;
and then he removed my head, feasting
on the quivering jellies of my eyes
and on what passes among bees for ears.
And though dead
I could feel, with each morsel he had
that he enjoyed his repast
and I was glad.
Afterwards he sliced me down the middle
exposing my insides
to the burning mid-day heat;
and slowly the voluptuous spider
feasted on my jeweled organs
abolishing them one by one
till I was all gone, all swallowed up
except my love of you:
My radiant wings – these, ah, these
he did not touch
but left glinting in the sun.
