And yet, in a culture like ours, which is given to material
And yet, in a culture like ours, which is given to material comforts, and addicted to forms of entertainment that offer immediate gratification, it is surprising that so much poetry is written.
Hear the voice of Mark Strand, poet and seer, who once declared: “And yet, in a culture like ours, which is given to material comforts, and addicted to forms of entertainment that offer immediate gratification, it is surprising that so much poetry is written.” These words strike with both wonder and reproach. They reveal the paradox of our age: though the world hungers for comfort and bows before entertainment, still there are those who choose the slow, difficult labor of verse. Strand marvels at this, for poetry is not born from ease, nor from distraction, but from the deeper wells of reflection, patience, and longing.
The meaning of this saying is twofold. First, it critiques the culture of immediate gratification, the world of flashing screens and endless consumption, where men and women are trained to seek pleasure without delay and to shun silence. Such a culture leaves little space for the discipline of poetry, which requires not only inspiration but attention, solitude, and endurance. Second, it celebrates the resilience of the poetic spirit, which continues to create despite such odds. Strand reminds us that in a society ruled by noise, the quiet persistence of poetry is nothing short of miraculous.
The ancients would have recognized this tension. For even in Rome, amidst wealth and spectacle—the circus, the gladiators, the feasts—there were still poets like Virgil and Horace who sang of eternity, of nature, of the soul. Horace himself wrote that poetry was not for the crowds, but for those who wished to be remembered beyond death. So too does Strand suggest that while the masses may chase diversion, a deeper current endures: the human need to speak in the language of poetry, to craft beauty that outlives fleeting amusement.
History offers its proof. In the 20th century, even during times of war, oppression, and consumer obsession, poetry flourished. Consider the Harlem Renaissance. In an America often drunk on jazz clubs, movies, and the boom of industry, poets like Langston Hughes and Claude McKay still carved verses of power and beauty. Against the tide of materialism, they used poetry to give voice to their people, to claim dignity, to preserve memory. Their work shows that even when society races toward distraction, poetry rises to remind us of what is eternal.
Strand’s words also carry a subtle warning: that the survival of poetry is fragile. In a world enslaved to comfort and entertainment, poetry may be neglected, its voice drowned by louder distractions. And yet, the fact that so much poetry is still written proves that the human soul cannot be silenced. The poet is like the solitary shepherd of old, singing to the stars while the city sleeps. The culture may not value him, but his song endures because it springs from the eternal hunger for meaning.
The lesson for us is clear: do not let the age of distraction consume your soul. While comfort and entertainment may soothe for a moment, they cannot nourish. Poetry—whether written, read, or lived—is the deeper food, the bread of the spirit. To engage with it is to resist the shallowness of the age, to declare that life is more than consumption. It is to say that beauty, truth, and reflection are worth the struggle, even in a culture that forgets them.
Practical wisdom flows from this. Set aside time for silence. Read poetry aloud, letting its rhythm shape your mind. Write, even if only for yourself, as an act of resistance against the pull of distraction. Seek beauty not only in art but in daily life—notice the light on the trees, the cadence of a friend’s voice, the patterns of thought within your own heart. In doing so, you elevate your life above the tyranny of immediacy, and you make space for the enduring work of the spirit.
Thus, Mark Strand’s words endure as both astonishment and exhortation: in a world given to comfort and gratification, the survival of poetry is a miracle—and a necessity. Let us not abandon it, but embrace it, so that even as the world chases its fleeting pleasures, the song of the human spirit will never be silenced.
NHVo Ngoc Huyen
I agree with Strand’s surprise but also think it says something profound about human nature. No matter how saturated we are with entertainment and comfort, people still seek depth and beauty. Perhaps poetry represents what can’t be replaced by screens or possessions—a need for meaning that transcends pleasure. But is poetry being truly read and felt, or is it mostly being written as a private act of yearning in an age that rarely listens?
TTBe Nguyen Tran Thi
This quote feels both critical and hopeful. It acknowledges how distracted and comfort-driven our society has become, yet also marvels at the endurance of poetic creation. Maybe poetry continues because, even in a culture of convenience, people need to make sense of their emotions and experiences. I’d like to explore whether poetry’s survival suggests a hidden undercurrent of dissatisfaction with modern life—a quiet rebellion that manifests through art rather than activism.
TNnguyen hoang thanh ngan
I can’t help but read this with a sense of irony. We live in an age obsessed with instant results, yet poetry—slow, introspective, demanding—still persists. Maybe it’s proof that humans have an irrepressible need to reflect and connect beyond consumption. But I wonder, who are the people writing this poetry? Are they outsiders to mainstream culture, or are they quietly participating in it while still longing for something deeper?
NTNguyen Thuan
Strand’s words make me think about how disconnected modern life feels from the contemplative spirit that poetry often requires. With our attention constantly pulled in a hundred directions, it’s surprising anyone has the patience to write, let alone read, poetry. But maybe that’s the point—it becomes an act of rebellion against the pace of modern culture. Do you think writing poetry today is an escape, a protest, or simply a form of survival?
TNTai Nguyen
I find this quote intriguing but also a bit pessimistic. It assumes that material comfort and poetic creation are somehow at odds, but are they really? Could it be that poetry thrives precisely because people crave something beyond surface pleasures—a way to find meaning amid abundance? I’d like to ask whether the very boredom and emptiness created by constant gratification might actually inspire people to write more poetry, not less.