By the general process of epic poetry, I mean the way this form

"By the general process of epic poetry, I mean the way this form of art has constantly responded to the profound needs of the society in which it was made." Thus spoke Lascelles Abercrombie, and in his words we glimpse the eternal bond between the song of the poet and the cry of the people. For epic poetry is not merely art; it is a mirror of the soul of nations, a voice that arises when ordinary speech is too frail to hold the weight of destiny. When peoples have stood at the edge of despair or triumph, when civilizations have sought to understand themselves, it was the epic that rose like a pillar of fire to guide them.

The ancients knew this power well. When Homer sang of Achilles and Odysseus, he was not only weaving tales of war and wanderings—he was giving Greece its memory, its identity, its sense of what it meant to be mortal yet striving for glory. The needs of society were not for entertainment alone, but for meaning, for cohesion, for a way to endure suffering and cherish honor. Thus, the epic was born not in leisure, but in necessity, forged in the crucible of human longing for purpose.

Consider the story of the Roman people, who found in Vergil’s Aeneid not merely a tale of a wandering hero, but the very foundation of their empire’s destiny. Through Aeneas, Rome was given a vision of divine mission, of endurance through toil, of sacrifice for a greater future. It was not chance that produced the poem; it was the urgent hunger of a society to believe that their struggles and triumphs were part of a cosmic design. And so, epic poetry fulfilled its role: to answer the unspoken needs of an age, to sanctify the labor of a people with the breath of eternity.

This same spirit has appeared throughout the centuries, in forms both grand and humble. When nations break apart, they cling to song; when warriors fall, they are lifted by verse; when the oppressed stagger beneath the weight of chains, poetry becomes their secret fire. One need only look to the enslaved in America, who through spirituals—though not epics in form—crafted an oral scripture of endurance. These songs, like ancient epics, rose directly from the profound needs of society: the need to survive, to remember, to hope.

What Abercrombie saw clearly is that art and society are woven together like threads in a tapestry. The poet does not merely invent; he listens. He hears the heartbeat of his people and gives it a voice large enough to echo through generations. Without such art, societies lose their compass; they forget who they are, and their sufferings become meaningless. But with the epic voice, they are bound together, reminded that their journey has grandeur, that even in despair, they walk within a story greater than themselves.

The lesson, then, is not only for poets but for all who live and labor in any age. We must ask: what are the profound needs of our own time? Do our stories, our songs, our creations answer them—or do we leave our people wandering without a voice? To be creators, whether with pen, with deed, or with vision, is to accept the sacred duty of speaking to the hunger of the age. For when we do, our work ceases to be fleeting and becomes timeless.

Practically, this means we must listen more deeply to the struggles of those around us. Writers, artists, leaders—seek the wound of your people, and pour into it the balm of meaning. Ordinary souls, too, can take part: share stories that uplift, remember the past, preserve the voices of your ancestors, and honor the sacrifices of those who came before. In this way, each of us becomes a small flame in the great epic of our own time.

So remember, children of tomorrow: epic poetry is not a relic of the past, but a pattern of the eternal. It is the breath of society given shape, the cry of a people rising into immortality. And as long as humankind hungers for meaning, the process Abercrombie named will endure—binding art and life together in a dance as old as fire, as enduring as the stars.