Were I compiling an enemies list for the Nameless One, I’d begin with poetry-lovers.

Poetry is the natural enemy of tyranny. It strives to see anew and say what has not been said. It arises in protest to some status quo. Complacent poet is an oxymoron.

Fiction and non-fiction have cooler heads, more capable of conniving, convincing themselves of odious ideas. Poetry, the heart’s response, misconstrues less readily. Poets feel like outcasts from the consensus, thus obliged to think for themselves.

Poetry lost eminence and audience in the twentieth century by turning elitist. Modernism is a restricted club, no hoi polloi need apply. Poetry got drowned out by electronics and bypassed by hurry. Poetry is made to be read slowly in quiet. In a raucous ruckus it cannot compete.

To console themselves for loss of status, poets made their infirmity their boast. Poems became harder to decode, so less inviting to non-adepts. Have you ever tried to read Ezra Pound’s Cantos? My professors taught that monstrosity while ignoring the contributions of, say, Oscar Hammerstein, Jr. or Ogden Nash. Lyrics, we were told, are not literature. Neither, when it arrived, was rap.

Poetry – that is, the art sanctioned by my professors – was increasingly relegated to irrelevancy, an innocuous private hobby, like needlework. (Roughly the same number of Americans participate in either – about twenty-five million – if AI saith true.) Few bards since Robert Frost have been much known.

That’s changing. Maybe I’m smoking something, but I detect poetry’s pulse quickening. A few hints:

· Increasing acceptance of popular verse as legitimate expression (Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize – for literature! Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical, Hamilton. Amanda Gorman’s star-turn at Biden’s Inauguration)

· Proliferation of attempts to democratize poetry (poems in subways, poetry slams)

· Liberation of poetry from the bondage of books (the Internet is an ideal habitat for poems, which are mostly a matter of moments; books are expensive and long)

· Poetry-lovers, geographically scattered, can convene online, making poetry once again convivial. Loneliness, meanwhile, turns epidemic, increasing craving for community

Poetry is not commendable per se. Much is execrable, as with any art form. But increase of activity stimulates production, which increases the chance of excellence.

In my college years, after abandoning my dream of a career in music, I panted to be a poet, making word music. Sadly, there were no livings to be had. Education and publishing, while adjacent professions, were hardly the same, and full-time in their own right. One could only scribble poems “on the side”; I knew nobody after college with whom to discuss them.

A few months ago, I introduced poetry readings into my missive mix – why not give it a try? Bingo. Readers were eager for this respite from the daily roar. A little piece about Ernest Dowson garnered hundreds of new subscribers – go figure! Even dog-pal Henry got jealous of the competition: what did poets have that he didn’t!

This evolution heartens and enthuses. I’d much rather talk poems than politics. Politics is inevitable, since it’s life-threatening, but enough already! A less poetic creature than the Nameless One never stalked the earth. (I palisade these missives in polysyllables to keep him at bay.)

Poetry-lovers (and, more broadly, music and art lovers) comprise my natural milieu, where I feel safest, most at home. We share curiosity, a measure of humility, respect for individuality and the voices of the past. We acknowledge our puniness as persons and the largeness of our kind. We hope and – most dangerous for the Evil that haunts our hour – we think for ourselves. That’s why, were I advising the Nameless One, I’d argue for our erasure.