The decision to write in prose instead of poetry is made more by

Hear now, O seekers of wisdom, the words of Robert Morgan: “The decision to write in prose instead of poetry is made more by the readers than by writers. Almost no one is interested in reading narrative in verse.” This is not merely a comment upon the habits of literature but a revelation about the shifting desires of the human spirit. For though the ancients clothed their greatest stories in verse, though the epic and the song once ruled over all, today the multitude hungers for prose. It is not that poets have ceased their labor, but that the ears of the people have turned elsewhere.

Long ago, the great tales of humanity were all born in verse. The Iliad, the Odyssey, the Mahabharata, the Epic of Gilgamesh—all flowed in rhythm and chant. This was no accident, but necessity: before writing, memory required the steady beat of meter, the binding of rhyme, to carry stories across generations. The reader was once the listener, gathered at the fire, enraptured by a bard’s voice. In those days, to tell a story in prose would have been to scatter seeds without soil. Verse was the vessel of eternity.

But as the ages turned, the written word multiplied. Scrolls became books, books became presses, presses became endless pages for countless eyes. The reader no longer relied upon the voice of the bard but upon the quiet labor of their own eyes. In this transformation, prose triumphed. Its freedom from strict rhythm allowed it to stretch like an open plain, carrying detail upon detail, giving scope to vast characters and subtle landscapes. It became the favored form, not because it was stronger, but because it was easier for the many to consume.

Consider the fate of John Milton, who in the seventeenth century dared to write Paradise Lost in blank verse. His epic was mighty, echoing the grandeur of Homer and Virgil. Yet even as his work soared, prose narratives—like the novels soon to come—were rising in power. By the eighteenth century, Defoe and Richardson found vast audiences not with poems but with novels. The readers had spoken, and the age of prose began its reign. What Morgan observes is simply the inheritance of that turning tide: that even today, the hunger of the people shapes the destiny of writers.

Yet let us not think that poetry has failed. Its role has changed. Where once it carried the burden of the entire story, now it pierces the heart in shorter measure. Poetry has become the lightning bolt rather than the sky, the seed rather than the harvest. It may no longer be the vessel of long narrative for the many, but it still carries the power to distill truth into a few unforgettable lines. In this, poetry retains its ancient fire, even if its crown as the keeper of stories has passed to prose.

What lesson, then, shall we take? That art is never only the will of the artist, but also the thirst of the people. To ignore the reader is to sing into silence. Yet to serve only the reader is to risk the loss of one’s soul. The true creator must walk between: shaping their work with an ear to the world, yet keeping their heart’s voice alive. Writers must understand that while prose may reach the multitude, poetry still nourishes the spirit, even if for fewer souls.

In practice, let us act with balance. Read prose to understand the world’s stories, but read poetry to understand the world’s soul. If you are a writer, do not scorn one form for the other. Use prose when the tale demands breadth; use verse when the vision demands intensity. And above all, remember that the destiny of literature is shared: it is not only the writer who shapes it, but the countless unseen hands of those who read, who hunger, who listen.

Thus the teaching is clear: respect the power of the reader, but do not abandon the fire of poetry. For even if few seek the song of narrative verse, those who find it will treasure it as a rare jewel. And in this way, the poet’s voice, though quieter in the age of prose, will never be silenced, but will endure as the secret heartbeat of human speech.