The Defence of Poetry in the Modern World: A Proposal

It has largely become a cliché in the discussion of poetry, of its moral and social merits, to address the great Platonic rejection of the art from any ideal state of being. Poets were kicked out of the Republic, and for millennia they have held a grudge. Poets “know” intuitively the social and moral importance of their art, the odd outlandish remark punctuating the point: “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” Shelley announces. The emphasis, one suspects, is on unacknowledged with a touch of agitation. As a result of Plato’s rough treatment, there has grown the tradition of the “defence” of poetry, but it seems no acknowledgement of poetry’s importance is yet forthcoming.

But can poetry’s modern obscurity and disfavour really be attributed to an ancient philosopher? The problem that poetry faces today is not philosophical, but perhaps rather economical. Poetry has always suffered from a lack of money and popular appeal; as Robert Frost says, “there is no money in poetry and no poetry in money.” Poetry is forever on the defence because it has a limited audience; it seems it has always had a limited audience, with few exceptions. We try to teach it in school, and perhaps this is where the problem lies. Equally as problematic, in the contemporary context, poetry cannot contend with the hyperstimulation of modern technology and entertainment.

Poetry has remained largely unchanged; the biggest change it has ever endured is the great leap from the oral to written form. The latter, of course, retains a connection with the former. Modern technology, however, has accelerated at such pace that our lives and or experiences are unimaginably different to what to what they were two or three generations ago. Poetry, to be sure, is an ancient art, if not the most ancient, and this is perhaps why we so often return to that first great rejection. We must not overlook the possibility, however, that society may have just past us by. This is the existential threat that poetry faces, and it is up to poets not only to resist this nihilism, but to assert its positive presence in society. More than just poets, it is up to thinkers and theorists and poetry’s small but loyal coterie of sympathisers to defend poetry.

But, does poetry actually need “defending”? Surely, there will always be readers of poetry. The internet has opened up the lines of communication between human beings across great distances more than any other invention; it has taken the inventions of language and the written word into a new dimension. There are numerous online poetry publications, as well as online communities of poets where their art can be shared and discussed. While there is still little money in poetry, it doesn’t seem to be any worse off in Information Age.

Poets still practice their art freely; readers still read, and theorists still theorise. Students still hate poetry, and teachers still don’t help. The question “what is poetry?” however, also remains unanswered. Poetry, for many, still remains a mystery; the mysteries of rhyme, metre, free verse, even the social and moral purpose of poetry, are vexatious for many. Or, perhaps, poetry slows life and the mind down to a pace at which it must consider things at depth, and this is frustrating in the flittering age of the internet. Does anybody really want to think anymore when knowledge is just a Google search away? Importantly, does anybody need to think the way in which poetry compels us anymore?

Poetry must always find and assert its relevance in any given time period; it is no different today. Poets have an obligation to their craft not only to find its contemporary niche, but to expand that niche and seek acknowledgement. This is achieved as much through the practice of poetry as through imparting the practice to others, creatively and pedagogically. Understanding what poetry is requires a sustained engagement by practitioners and theorists alike in order to uncover and convey the mysteries of poetry to those both inside and outside the coterie of poetry.

Understanding poetry is not the same as understanding other arts. Poetry is itself about understanding, about metaphor and meaning-making. Poetry can make us think deeply, and challenge our cognitive capacity; a good poem will always punish a lazy reader, but reward an attentive one. Understanding poetry, answering the question “what is poetry?” is a complex matter that has wracked the minds of poets, theorists, critics, and philosophers since Plato. It may, then, have been a fundamental misunderstanding of poetry that led to Plato’s rash decision. But we can only assume.

How then is poetry to be explained? Perhaps more importantly, how is poetry to be explained so as to attract more readers? Poetry, after all, relates to a fundamental process of thinking; indeed, poetry turns us back towards that process of meaning-making like no other art. To understand poetry, then, is to understand meaning-making at its most fundamental level. The challenge for poets and poetic thinkers alike is to demonstrate this vital dimension of poetry. This is a theoretical problem as much as a practical problem; as much as a pedagogical problem as it is a critical problem.

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The relationship between poetic practice and theory is an important intersection that can shed light on our understanding of poetry, but that relationship is also problematic. There is no comprehensive theory of poetry, but countless parochial ones. Every poet has a few theories that might explain their use of a favourite metaphor or trope; every theorist has a theory by which to explain why their favourite poet is particularly special. There may be a danger, then, that theory is just a side industry or a curiosity, so much self-justificatory or self-congratulatory “padding.” What, then, is the relationship between practice and theory? Does poetic practice even need theory? What purposed does the latter serve to the former?

It is, perhaps, too glib to suggest that the theory of poets is self-serving, equally so with theorists and critics. The attempt to understand poetry is an ongoing effort to which every poet and theorist adds his or her voice and ideas. The question, however, must be asked, what value does theory have in relation to the practice of poetry. Can theory ever explain poetry? Can practice ever be used to prove theory? Do poets write to a theory, or does theory come ex post facto?

Poets, like Wordsworth, Shelley, Eliot, and Brodsky, have contributed just as significantly to poetic theory as much as practice. But we must ask what the relationship between their theory and practice is. In what way, for instance, is Eliot’s notion of the “objective correlative” at work in The Waste Land? Equally importantly, we must also ask what the relationship between the theoretical insights of poets is. And further, can we apply the insights of one poet to the works of another? Can Philip Larkin’s notion of the “emotional concept” be applied Robert Frost’s “Death of the Hired Man”? Is there any value in such comparative analysis? Will this get us any closer to understanding what poetry is?

We have been trying to understand poetry – to answer the question “what is poetry?” – since at least Aristotle; since Plato, we have been “defending” it against misunderstanding. There is a long tradition of theoretical defences and explications of poetry, which can be mined for convergent insights. “Delight,” for instance, or “wisdom” (or “knowledge,” or “learning”) are recurrent concepts in the defence of poetry. The goal of poetry, as Sidney succinctly puts it, is “to teach and delight.” “A poem” Frost says concurring, “begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” For Aristotle, the delight, or pleasure, originates in mimesis; for Plato, the sin of poetry consists in the wrong kind of teaching it imparts through mimesis. Is it possible to explain the delight and teaching of poetry in defence against Plato’s accusations?

Our understanding of the human body and brain is of such an advanced nature that we may someday soon map human thought with high fidelity. Soon, we may be able to map the poetic experience inside the brain and see poetic delight; we might be able to see the benefits of poetry. This might be considered a threat, the unravelling of yet another rainbow. What are the implications of our growing cognitive and neurological understanding of human thought and experience for poetic theory and practice? To what extent should poets embrace technology? And how might our understanding of the human body and brain be incorporated into our understanding of poetry?

Perhaps a new “defence of poetry” would be characterised by the re-evaluation of poetry in light of new scientific knowledge. As knowledge and technology evolves, society changes; as society changes, so does its relationship to its artists, including its poets. The poet’s niche must be carved anew. The rise of technology and scientific knowledge can be seen to throw into stark relief the relationship between poetic practice and theory, in part because science and technology have changed how we relate to each other. Poetry, the “most ancient” of arts, connects us to our history and our origins; how we reconcile it with our technology-driven future may be the most important question of all.