Traditional matter must be glorified, since it would be easier
Traditional matter must be glorified, since it would be easier to listen to the re-creation of familiar stories than to quite new and unexpected things; the listeners, we must remember, needed poetry chiefly as the re-creation of tired hours.
Hear the thoughtful words of Lascelles Abercrombie: “Traditional matter must be glorified, since it would be easier to listen to the re-creation of familiar stories than to quite new and unexpected things; the listeners, we must remember, needed poetry chiefly as the re-creation of tired hours.” In this teaching lies a reminder of the ancient purpose of art: that it was not first for shock, nor for novelty, but for comfort and endurance. The poet’s task was to lift what was already known, to clothe the familiar in beauty, and to make the weary spirit glad again.
The ancients themselves understood this instinctively. When the Greeks gathered to hear Homer, they did not come to be surprised by new plots. They already knew of Troy and of Odysseus’ wanderings. They came instead to hear these stories glorified—sung with rhythm, woven with imagery, lifted into a majesty that made the old tales feel eternal. For after the long labors of the field, or the grief of war, the people needed not strange puzzles, but the comfort of familiar stories that connected them to ancestors, to gods, to the unbroken chain of memory.
This truth has echoed through history. In the Middle Ages, wandering minstrels retold the legends of Arthur and Roland, not because their audiences craved novelty, but because they craved recognition. The tired peasant, resting after toil, found joy in hearing the same heroes lifted high again. In Shakespeare’s age, too, the playwrights often drew from well-known chronicles and myths, yet through their art they breathed new life into what was already loved. Poetry, then, was not merely invention, but the eternal art of renewal.
Abercrombie points us to something profound about human nature: that when our bodies are weary, our souls seek not confusion but clarity, not strangeness but recognition. The re-creation of tired hours is not laziness—it is survival. A tale known already is like bread, familiar yet sustaining; told again with splendor, it becomes a feast for the heart. The traditional matter binds the community together, for all listeners know the story, all can enter into its rhythm, all can find solace in its repetition.
Yet this does not mean the poet is without challenge. To glorify the traditional is not to repeat it plainly. It is to lift it higher, to adorn it with new light, to find in the old tale the eternal truth that makes it radiant for every age. This is why Homer, though telling well-known stories, remains immortal; why Dante, though retelling the Christian vision of Heaven and Hell, created a world that still burns in our imagination. The task is not to invent entirely new matter, but to make the old matter new in beauty.
The lesson for us is clear: do not despise the familiar. In a world that often worships novelty, remember that the heart is sustained by recognition, by stories told and retold until they become part of our being. If you write, do not fear to draw from the wells of tradition—myth, scripture, history, family memory. If you listen, do not scorn a story you already know, for in its retelling you may find new comfort. For poetry, at its root, was always meant to be not only revelation but restoration.
Practical steps follow. Read aloud the old stories to children, not because they do not know them, but because they must hear them again. Let your own writing weave fresh beauty into the patterns of tradition. When weary, turn not to endless novelty, but to verses that have stood the test of time—the Psalms, the epics, the folk songs of your people. These will not confuse you but renew you. In this way, poetry fulfills its ancient role: the re-creation of tired hours into something luminous, hopeful, and alive.
Thus Abercrombie speaks with wisdom: the poet’s strength is not always in newness, but in glorifying the traditional matter, in giving dignity to what is already known, and in turning the fatigue of life into the delight of shared memory. Let us, then, honor the old stories and let them be reborn in each generation, that through them we may rest, rise, and live more fully.
CPChien Phan
Abercrombie’s reflection feels rooted in an era when poetry was shared aloud, and audiences sought relaxation rather than intellectual strain. It makes me think about how the social function of art changes over time. Do we still approach poetry as a form of rest, or has it become a tool for analysis, identity, and resistance? If poetry once soothed tired minds, what does it do now—to minds that are tired in different ways?
TULe ho thuc uyen
There’s a gentle wisdom in this quote that I find appealing. It acknowledges human fatigue and the way we seek refuge in stories we already love. Yet, part of me resists the idea of glorifying only traditional matter. Isn’t part of the poet’s duty to renew our sense of wonder by reshaping what’s familiar—or even breaking from it entirely? Maybe the challenge is finding a balance between recognition and revelation.
TANguyen Thi Thuy Anh
I find this perspective quite interesting because it suggests that poetry once had a communal, almost therapeutic function. The poet was less an innovator and more a storyteller who kept traditions alive. It makes me wonder: were early poets consciously preserving culture, or simply giving people what they needed to feel human after long days? Perhaps that’s the essence of all great art—it reawakens something familiar in us, even when it’s new.
HVluong ha vy
Abercrombie’s idea that poetry was meant to re-create tired hours makes me question the balance between art as entertainment and art as transformation. If poetry’s original purpose was to ease exhaustion through familiarity, how has that evolved in modern times? Today, many poets write to confront discomfort or provoke reflection. Have we moved too far from the restorative quality he describes, or has our sense of what’s 'comforting' simply changed?
HHThe Huy Huy
This statement fascinates me because it touches on the psychology of audiences. People often turn to poetry or stories for solace, not disruption. I can understand that—it’s soothing to revisit something known after a weary day. But then, what is the poet’s role? Should they prioritize comforting the listener or awakening them with something new and difficult? It feels like a tension between art as rest and art as revolution.