Poetry seems to have been eliminated as a literary genre, and

Hear the sharp yet sorrowful words of Marilyn Hacker, who observed: “Poetry seems to have been eliminated as a literary genre, and installed instead as a kind of spiritual aerobic exercise—nobody need read it, but anybody can do it.” This saying carries both lament and irony, for Hacker, a poet of keen mind and piercing voice, speaks not to mock, but to warn. She points to an age in which poetry, once revered as the highest vessel of wisdom, has been stripped of its dignity and cast aside as pastime—something to dabble in, but not something to honor.

The meaning is profound. Once, poetry was the fire in the temple, the voice of prophets, the record of kings, the very soul of a people preserved in song. But in Hacker’s observation, the world no longer treats it so. It has become exercise without reverence, practice without devotion—something anyone may attempt, yet few will truly study, cherish, or carry into the marrow of their being. In this sense, poetry has been uprooted from its sacred ground and replanted as a hobby, a gesture, a fleeting act of self-expression.

And yet, hidden in this lament is a paradox of hope: that while the sacred weight of poetry has diminished, its accessibility has widened. No longer does one need the approval of kings or academies to raise their voice in verse. Anyone, in any place, may attempt to sing. But if all sing without listening, if all write without reading, then the tradition that gave poetry its power fades. It becomes a scattered chorus with no memory of its ancestors, no echo of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, or Hughes.

Consider the story of the Harlem Renaissance. There, poets like Langston Hughes and Countee Cullen did not treat poetry as casual exercise, but as the heartbeat of a people rising from oppression. Their verses were not idle, but fierce, carved from suffering, hope, and pride. They read the past, honored the form, and yet made it new with their own voices. In their hands, poetry was not mere activity, but revelation. They show us that when poetry is cherished as art, it uplifts not only the individual but the community, binding generations together.

Thus Hacker’s words are both a critique and a summons. They remind us that to write without reading is to forget the river’s source. To treat poetry lightly is to deprive it of its power to transform, to heal, to endure. But to engage with it deeply—reading, studying, honoring the masters and then adding one’s own song—restores it to its rightful place as a literary genre and as a spiritual inheritance of all humankind.

The lesson for us is clear: do not treat poetry as a trinket, nor as an exercise to pass the time. Approach it as a vessel of truth. Read the voices of those who came before, for they carved paths through the wilderness of existence. Write, yes—but write with reverence, write with awareness, write knowing that you stand in a long line of singers who carried the fire through ages of darkness.

Practical actions flow from this teaching. Read at least one poem each day, not quickly, but slowly, tasting its rhythm, letting its images breathe in your mind. Write with discipline, not merely when emotion stirs, but as practice of the soul. Share verses not for applause, but for communion. Teach others that poetry is not dead, but waiting to be awakened by those who read as well as write. In this way, we restore balance: we keep the art alive, not as an exercise, but as a force.

So let Hacker’s words ring as both caution and call: “Poetry seems to have been eliminated as a literary genre, and installed instead as a kind of spiritual aerobic exercise.” Let us not accept this diminishment. Let us return poetry to its throne—not by forbidding its freedom, but by remembering its depth. For if we read, if we listen, if we honor, then every voice raised in verse shall not be empty exercise, but part of the eternal song of humanity.