Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedManifesto

A style plainbut not too plain,unafraidof any wordthat’s just,lucid,pellucid,whose music proceedsas it must.

The problem with poetry, of scant concern to most, won’t leave me alone. We need it, in my view, always have, but so few read it.

By poetry I don’t mean commercial jingles or playground taunts, however catchy; neither song lyrics, where the tune, not the words, controls the effect; but word-songs, speech made memorable by its sound, evoking depths, like an echo in a cave.

Our species made poems before we could read, long before emojis. Has that need been superseded? – by gestures? goofy faces? impatience with imprecision? loss of sufficient silence in which to hear?

Granted, with our world crashing to hell, puzzling about poetry may feel feckless. Ours is a soundscape of grunts and lies. Yet oughtn’t we fix our gaze on some star to justify our troublous trek? Isn’t freedom from worthless unless it’s also freedom to? To each their dream: mine is of a world where poetry might shily resume its place, where folks might reflect again – and listen – and respect each other’s voices and the intricacy of our earthly trudge. Pie in the sky, you say? You bet. But what’s a sky worth without some pie in it?

Poetry is more than entertainment. It’s salubrious for the soul. Its beauties aren’t blatant. It requires the reader to see what they’re being shown and ponder what it might mean. Of all art forms, it’s the most private, least obvious or conventional. My poem is never yours. Its nearest likeness is prayer. But while a prayer is about me, my relation to the divine, a poem is about us, the quandaries we share. The best poems, specific as dirt or diamonds, concern what is true for all. The poets I love seem somehow to be speaking for me, out of my mind, ventriloquists for an inner me. I am Hamlet – and Lear – and Prospero – and that’s just Shakespeare.

What forces – in barely a century – knocked poetry from the highest rank? In my grandparents’ era, poets were still heroes, known, discussed. What happened?

Electronics, consumerism, combustion engines, television, loudspeakers, alienation, isolation, computers, science, a brief might be filed against any of these culprits. But my thrust this morning is neither diagnostic nor elegiac but tenacious. A form of communication so precious may be knocked off its perch, knocked silly, but it will never be knocked out. A new poetry will arise that sates this irresistible need. Souls will always need shoulders to cry on, the consolation of communing, of knowing, even in our inmost dread, we are not alone.

How will this refreshed poetry sound? Who will be our new bard? I haven’t the foggiest. It may not be now, but it will come. I need to believe this. For a world all noise and falsity is too noisome to endure. Right now, speakers are blaring, guns blazing, we can’t hear ourselves think. The idea of holing oneself in a quiet carrel with a book feels ludicrous, even cowardly. Every adult must report for duty! No mooning, lollygagging! Shake a leg!

I accept my obligation – but on the condition that we are fighting for something, not just against. Yes, I stand against tyranny, cruelty, rapacity, mendacity, thugs, but also for liberty, decency, generosity, honesty, hugs. Now we must fight – so that one day we – or our heirs – might put away weapons and take up words again – and thought – and love. Poetry will blossom again after our winter of discontent. I believe this because I must.