I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it

Russell Baker, essayist and observer of the human condition, once confessed with equal parts lament and irony: “I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.” In these words, he speaks not only of his personal estrangement from contemporary verse, but of a larger truth: that poetry, when it loses the human voice, ceases to be a bridge and becomes a riddle. Poetry that withdraws into obscurity, as though written only for secret initiates, risks alienating the very souls it was born to serve.

The origin of this complaint lies in the transformation of poetry during the twentieth century. With the rise of modernism and its successors, verse often broke away from rhythm, clarity, and shared experience. Poets, in their pursuit of innovation, sometimes embraced obscurity, fragmentation, and private symbolism. For the devoted scholar, these experiments could dazzle; but for the common reader, they often seemed like cryptic codes, impossible to decipher. Baker, whose life was spent in journalism, cherished clarity, directness, and connection. To him, new poetry seemed less like song and more like static—strange signals from distant minds.

This was not the first time such a lament was heard. In the days of Alexander Pope, poetry was valued for wit and elegance, accessible to the educated classes. Later, Wordsworth revolted against that refinement, insisting that poetry must be written “in the language really used by men,” so that shepherds and children might feel its truth. His movement was itself a correction against obscurity, a return to simplicity. Baker’s words echo Wordsworth’s cry: poetry should be a language of communion, not of alienation, a lamp for the weary, not a cipher for the few.

The image of “lonely aliens in a hostile world” is especially striking. It captures the way modern poetry, in its isolation, can sometimes mirror the very alienation of the modern age. But if poetry merely replicates loneliness without offering connection, it deepens despair instead of lifting it. True poetry may arise from solitude, but it speaks outward, reaching toward another human heart. When it becomes nothing more than secret code, it betrays its highest calling.

Yet, in fairness, Baker’s critique also carries a paradox. For there are those who find beauty even in difficulty, who see in fractured lines the reflection of fractured times. Obscure poetry may alienate some, but it may also console those who feel alienated already, those who recognize themselves in its strangeness. Here lies the tension: should poetry comfort the many, or speak to the few who share its coded language? Baker answers firmly—the former. Poetry, he implies, should be a banquet open to all, not a whisper in the corner.

The lesson for us, then, is this: poetry must strive for balance. It must dare to innovate, but never at the cost of abandoning its audience. It must honor complexity, but not drown in obscurity. For what gives poetry its eternal power is not cleverness but connection—the ability to say what others feel but cannot name, to reveal the hidden music of the heart. Let poetry be strange if it must, but let it also be human. Let it be both deep and clear, both challenging and welcoming, a bridge across solitude rather than a code locked in silence.

Practically, this means cultivating clarity in expression, whether in poetry or in life. When you write, speak, or create, ask: does this reach another soul, or does it only speak to myself? Strive to tell the truth plainly, yet beautifully. Read widely—not only the obscure poets, but those whose words endure because they speak across centuries to all kinds of hearts. And in your own living, remember that true art, like true love, is not meant to be hoarded but shared.

Thus Russell Baker’s lament stands as both critique and counsel: “Poetry began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.” Let us not allow our words, our art, or our lives to become alien codes. Instead, let us seek to make them bridges, songs, and lights—for in doing so, we keep alive the eternal purpose of poetry: to connect, to console, to reveal the beauty and sorrow of being human.