Concrete poets continue to turn out beautiful things, but to me

"Concrete poets continue to turn out beautiful things, but to me they're more visual than oral, and they almost really belong on the wall rather than in a book. I haven't the least idea of where poetry is going." — so spoke James Laughlin, the visionary founder of New Directions Publishing, who shepherded some of the greatest voices of the twentieth century into print. In this saying, he gazes upon the shifting face of poetry, uncertain of its future, yet aware of its transformation. His words carry both admiration and bewilderment: admiration for the beauty of concrete poetry, bewilderment at its departure from tradition, and humility before the mystery of where the art of words will wander next.

Concrete poetry, born in the twentieth century, sought to fuse word and image. Unlike traditional verse, meant to be heard, concrete poems were meant to be seen. Letters, lines, and shapes were arranged to form visual patterns, sometimes resembling the very subject of the poem. A poem about a star might itself take the shape of one; a poem about silence might scatter letters across a white page. These works carried power, but it was a power of the eye, not of the ear. Laughlin, who cherished the oral and musical heritage of poetry, saw in this a shift: poetry leaving the voice and entering the wall, leaving the breath and entering the realm of image.

History echoes this transformation in other arts. When the Greek chorus gave way to the modern stage, much was lost and much was gained. The choral voice, collective and sung, was replaced by dialogue between individuals. Likewise, when medieval manuscripts, rich with illuminated letters, gave way to the printed book, the visual splendor faded but accessibility increased. Every age reshapes poetry according to its tools, its vision, its hunger. Laughlin’s uncertainty — "I haven't the least idea of where poetry is going" — is not weakness but wisdom, for he recognizes that poetry is alive, never fixed, always in motion.

One might recall the moment when Ezra Pound, whom Laughlin himself published, called for poetry to "make it new." Pound’s command unleashed a flood of experimentation: free verse, imagism, modernism in all its forms. Yet even Pound, bold as he was, could not have foreseen every path poetry would take — from the oral eruptions of the Beat poets to the visual experiments of the concrete poets. Laughlin’s humility reflects the truth that poetry belongs to no one age alone. It changes as human consciousness changes. To seek to imprison it is to misunderstand its very nature.

But his words also remind us of a tension: is poetry to be read with the eyes, or heard with the ears? For centuries, poetry lived by voice — sung by bards, recited by prophets, chanted by priests. It was an oral art before it was ever written. Concrete poetry, though striking, seemed to Laughlin to abandon this lineage. To place poetry upon the wall is to turn it into art object rather than living sound. The question he raises is not only where poetry is going, but what poetry is at its core: sound, sight, or something greater that encompasses both?

What lesson, then, can we take? It is this: do not cling too tightly to one form of poetry, nor despair when its paths diverge from tradition. Every generation remakes poetry in its own image, and though we may not always understand, we must remain open to its evolution. To stand in judgment is easy; to remain in awe is harder, yet wiser. Laughlin’s humility — admitting he does not know where poetry is headed — is itself a teaching. For art is not a fixed destination but a wandering pilgrimage, always searching, always remaking itself.

Practical action follows: listen and look. Do not confine yourself to one way of experiencing poetry. Read it on the page, but also hear it aloud. Gaze upon the poems that shape themselves as images, but also taste the rhythm of spoken verse. Teach children both the sight and the sound of poetry, so they may carry both traditions forward. And when you encounter new forms that baffle you, remember Laughlin’s wisdom: it is not your task to know where poetry will end, but to walk alongside it as it journeys.

Thus, his words remain a reminder for all who love poetry: it is a river, not a monument. Its course bends, its waters shift, and no one can say where it will end. Concrete poetry, visual and striking, may belong to the wall; oral poetry, musical and ancient, belongs to the ear. But poetry itself belongs to the human spirit, forever restless, forever changing. And so, let us not demand certainty of its path, but rejoice that it still flows.