My masters degree is in poetry, which I can never quite bring myself to regret--you know what I mean? So many of us lament our useless or misused degrees (my BA certainly falls into that category, so I hear you), but my MA? That two-year study of language and meaning, subtlety and simplicity and the impossible complexity of both was (is) essential. Essential to this soul, yes, but I'd argue it's essential to every soul, though school most certainly is not.
We have inherited a language. No matter what language you speak, that language has been fought for, died over, wept over, bled over, transcribed, illuminated, evolved, abbreviated, lingo-ized, abused, and foolishly worshiped.
Adherence to dogma, after all, is just as dangerous, just as ugly as is willful vandalism.
Poetry is offered in language, in text, of course. But that's not where it happens. It happens in the moment you can't describe, don't want to describe because description somehow pulls everything away.
Because, really, though poetry tries (and we need it to keep trying), no words can capture a glimpse of grace; no words can capture our astonishment when we realize how simple the workings of this old clock, and how beautiful.