I don't think American poetry has gotten any better in the past

Hear now, O seekers of the word, the reflection of Robert Morgan: “I don’t think American poetry has gotten any better in the past 35 years. Oddly enough, creative writing programs seem to have been good for fiction, and I would not have predicted that.” This is not a cry of despair but of discernment, a voice calling us to look deeply at the soil from which our art springs. He sees a paradox: while the orchard of fiction has flourished under cultivation, the grove of poetry has not borne sweeter fruit. His words strike like a bell, warning us of the danger of mistaking abundance for greatness, and structure for spirit.

The root of his observation lies in the nature of poetry itself. Poetry is not only craft but fire; not only structure but breath. It is harder to teach than the writing of fiction, for while a tale can be guided by rules of plot, character, and climax, a poem must spring from a more mysterious well. A teacher may show a student how to build a house of story, but to summon a poem is to call lightning into a jar. This may explain why creative writing programs, though well-meaning, have nourished fiction more than poetry. The field of stories has become rich with voices, but the field of verse has grown tangled, struggling to find its new dawn.

Consider, by contrast, the era of the Harlem Renaissance. There, poets like Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen poured verses that were not born from classrooms but from the streets, the songs, the sorrows, and the triumphs of a people. Their poetry leapt like fire because it carried not only form but the weight of lived experience. No program gave them permission; life itself was their instructor. Their words shook the foundations of America because they were not only written—they were lived. Here we see the truth: poetry thrives when it is bound to the blood and struggle of its age, not only to the structures of academia.

Yet Morgan does not dismiss poetry, nor does he scorn the schools. His tone is that of one puzzled, even humbled, by the strange path of literature. He admits surprise, confessing that he “would not have predicted” the strength of fiction in this time. There is wisdom in this humility: the acknowledgment that art often grows in ways we cannot foresee. Just as rivers cut new channels without warning, so too do the streams of creativity alter their courses. This is a lesson for poets and readers alike—to expect the unexpected, and to look with open eyes at the harvest before us.

But let us not mourn the state of poetry. Poetry cannot die, for it is older than nations and stronger than institutions. It may sleep, it may wander, but it will always return. The voices of the past—Whitman crying of the open road, Dickinson whispering from her solitude, Ginsberg howling in the city—still thunder and whisper to us. Their greatness is proof that even when a generation falters, poetry’s eternal flame continues to burn. Our task is not to wait for it passively, but to carry the torch forward ourselves.

So what lesson shall we take? That programs may sharpen skill, but only the heart’s fire can create enduring art. Let no poet rely solely on workshops or classrooms. Let them seek instead the rawness of life: the sound of rivers, the sorrow of loss, the laughter of children, the silence of midnight. Let them walk in the world with their eyes open, and let them return to their page not with theories, but with truths. Fiction may prosper in institutions, but poetry must prosper in the soul.

Therefore, dear listener, act with courage. Read the great poems aloud, and let them resound in your blood. Write your own verses not to impress a teacher, but to honor your deepest longings. If you join a class, use it to sharpen your tools, but never let it silence your instinct. Seek stories and songs outside the walls of academia—listen to the voices of your elders, of workers, of strangers, for there lies the eternal rhythm of poetry. And above all, remember: the greatness of poetry does not lie in its fashions or its programs, but in the eternal power of a single voice speaking truth into the silence of the world.