Poetry is not the “draw” it once was.  In the nineteenth century, it was relatively common for poetic works to be taught in schools, to be memorized in whole or in part, and to be the subject of public readings.  No longer.  One would today be hard-pressed to name any modern poets who have achieved the same level of notoriety that successful writers of prose have attained.  We no longer hear of poets commemorating notable events or celebrating public figures; school children are not required to memorize verses; and a general air of archaism seems to hover over the literary form. What is produced seems bereft of recognizable meter, allure, or skill in creation. 

Why is this?  What caused this decline?  One would imagine poetry to be well-suited to the tenor of the times.  It is brief.  It is compact.  And in suitable hands, it can be laden with emotional or aesthetic power.  I think there are several reasons for this development, with some of them being predictable, and others less so. 

Firstly, we must admit that all the fine arts have suffered some decline in the modern age.  Do people attend classical music concerts and operas as they once did?  Do these art forms capture the public imagination as in previous eras?  No.  The attentions of the reading public have shifted modernly to television, movies, and other forms of mass entertainment.  It was not always so.  Before the electronic age, people would gather around a songster or a bard and listen to his renditions of poetical or musical works.  Poetry has always straddled that grey zone between the literary world and the musical world.  Poetic meter and rhyme originally developed as necessities to assist in the chanting or singing of verses when accompanied by musical instruments.  Modern popular music now plays the entertainment role that poetry once played.  In this respect, poetry may be seen as another casualty of the electronic age. 

A second reason may be more controversial, at least to some readers.  It must be said that, beginning in the early twentieth century, poetry exiled itself from popular culture.  It clearly had a hand in its own demise. No poet played a bigger role in this process, I would assert, than T.S. Eliot.  His iconoclasm liberated poetry from many stale patterns and modes, but with this freedom came a negative consequence.  As much as I love Eliot’s work, it must be admitted that he took too much delight in obscurity, novelty, and arcane references.  He filled his poems with such fractured images, broken lines, and esotericism, that readers felt they needed a handbook to understand them.  Whole college courses have been devoted to The Waste-Land and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.  His approach may have endeared him to literary aesthetes, but it also alienated a great many readers.  Poetry came to be seen as a snobbish literary genre, fit only for English majors or specialists. 

I find this very unfortunate.  Perhaps this process was unavoidable.  We see something similar in the development of modern painting, where accessible, representational images were replaced by the chaotic and unsettling lines of cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and all the other “isms” that have populated painting since the post-World War I period.  Some people found the experimentation with new forms and styles an exhilarating development: which it certainly was. Others saw in it nothing but elitism, self-indulgence, and frivolity.  I myself am unbothered by bold, new artistic forms, as long as those forms are advanced with both sincerity and artistic discipline. 

But poetry does take some patience, and it would be unfair to say that it does not. Perhaps our modern age is impatient with patience.  A reader must accept certain inversions of syntax and grammar, the presence of unusual words, and the inevitable appearance of archaisms and elusive meanings.  Not everyone sees these things in the same way.  I personally find them—in measured doses, of course—to be stimulating garnishes; others may perceive them to be annoying hindrances.  It is too easy to fall back on the cliche that modern readers are universally afflicted with “short attention spans.”  I have found this to be somewhat exaggerated.  If people are motivated to read something, they will read it, or listen to it read to them.   

The role of the publishing industry probably has a role in here somewhere, but it can be difficult to circumscribe its precise involvement.  Does the marketplace itself influence what kinds of literature are produced?  Or is it influenced by the kind of literature that it believes will sell?  Probably this feedback loop is powered from both dipoles simultaneously.  Art forms that carry little prestige are unlikely to attract audiences, and publishing resources are deployed accordingly.  But trends in art can change very quickly.  The modern literary scene awaits its next Virgil, Dante, or Homer.  We cannot say that our civilization has lost the capacity to produce a true poetic genius; and it may be that some versifier will reignite, with dramatic suddenness, popular interest in poetry, and raise our appreciation of the art form to heights undreamed of.  We cannot say. 

A final reason for the decline of poetry lies with how it is taught, or rather presented, in schools.  Like so much else in the humanities, poetry lacks good teachers.  A student’s experience with an art form depends greatly in how it is introduced and taught.  Too often, works of poetry are slapped down on a student’s desk, with no effort made to explain the context of the work, its relevance, or its hidden beauties.  As a result, potential lovers of poetry are turned into lifelong enemies.  To appreciate poetry, it first must be understood.  And to be understood, a student must have a basic understanding of the fundamental differences between classical and modern poetry; he must be familiar with both meter and rhyme; and his ear must become attuned to that which is unfamiliar.  All this takes time.  But poetry is a sensual experience; and few are those who would consciously deny themselves a physical pleasure that offers so much, in return for so little.

It would be fitting to close here with a few lines of verse.  Here is a little gem from Herman Melville—yes, he wrote poetry!—entitled “Art.”

In placid hours well-pleased we dream

Of many a brave unbodied scheme.

But form to lend, pulsed life create,

What unlike things must meet and mate:

A flame to melt—a wind to freeze;

Sad patience—joyous energies;

Humility—yet pride and scorn;

Instinct and study; love and hate;

Audacity—reverence. These must mate,

And fuse with Jacob’s mystic heart,

To wrestle with the angel—Art.

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Be sure to take a look at the new, annotated translation of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations.