A great many people seem to think writing poetry is worthwhile

Hear the voice of Mark Strand, who observed with both wonder and irony: “A great many people seem to think writing poetry is worthwhile, even though it pays next to nothing and is not as widely read as it should be.” In this simple utterance lies the paradox of poetry itself: that it endures not because it fills the purse, nor because it commands the multitude, but because it nourishes the soul. Strand speaks as one who knows the poverty of the poet’s trade and yet marvels that, despite worldly indifference, men and women still turn to the pen, compelled to sing what cannot be silenced.

For poetry has never promised gold. In the marketplaces of antiquity, the poet was fed not with coin but with honor. Homer wandered, blind and poor, yet his words shaped civilizations. Sappho sang from her island, scarcely known beyond her circle, yet her voice has not been extinguished in twenty-five centuries. The truth Strand names is eternal: the world often looks away from poetry, yet poets continue, driven by a force deeper than profit or applause.

Consider Emily Dickinson, who in her lifetime was nearly unknown, her poems unread by the masses. She received no wealth, no recognition, and yet she wrote—hundreds upon hundreds of verses, each distilled drop a universe. Only after her death did the world awaken to her genius. If she had sought only money or fame, she would have stopped long before. But she knew, as Strand reminds us, that writing poetry is worthwhile because it feeds the unseen part of life—the eternal flame within us.

The ancients also cherished this truth. When Solon of Athens, the great lawgiver, was asked why he wrote poetry though he was already wise in politics, he replied: “Because laws govern the body, but poems govern the soul.” Here lies the secret Strand unveils: though the poet gains little outward reward, the inner work is priceless. The worth of a poem is measured not in coins counted, but in lives illuminated, even if only a few.

And yet, Strand’s words carry a quiet sorrow—that poetry is not as widely read as it should be. He names the neglect of an age distracted by noise and commerce, an age that forgets the fountain of wisdom at its feet. But though neglected, poetry does not die. Like a hidden spring, it waits for the thirsty. Its value is not diminished by scarcity, for truth does not fade because few listen; it endures until the right ears are opened.

The lesson is clear, children of the future: do not measure your life by reward, nor your art by its audience. Measure instead by faithfulness to the flame within you. If you feel the call to write, then write, even if the world pays you nothing. If you feel the call to read, then read, even if others scorn your devotion. For in this way you partake in the eternal banquet, where words are bread for the hungry spirit.

Practical actions must follow. Read a poem each day, even in secret. Support poets not with applause alone but by sharing their words, so that others may drink. If you write, do not abandon your pen because the world is deaf; write because you are alive. Teach children to hear the cadence of verse before the noise of the marketplace drowns them. In this way, you resist the poverty of spirit that forgets the worth of poetry.

Thus Strand’s words stand as both lament and celebration. Yes, poetry is poor in worldly measure, ignored by the multitudes; yet still, a great many find it worthwhile. And that is proof of its immortality: that generation after generation, though unrewarded, souls arise who must sing. Let us then honor them, and be counted among them, knowing that though poetry may not buy bread, it gives life, and though few may read it, it speaks forever.