Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be
Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others.
The words of Antonin Artaud strike like fire against parchment: “Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others.” In this fierce declaration, we hear not contempt for poetry itself, but rebellion against the prison of tradition. Artaud, the prophet of avant-garde theatre, sought to break chains, to tear down idols, to make art something alive and burning rather than embalmed. His words are the cry of one who would see poetry not as relic, but as flame—never fixed, never stagnant, but always in motion, always consuming the old to make space for the new.
The ancients knew this cycle of creation and destruction. Heraclitus, the philosopher of fire, taught that the world is born of eternal flux, that nothing endures without transformation. The phoenix of myth burns itself to ash only to rise again renewed. Artaud’s vision belongs to this same lineage: he demands that the voices of the dead poets, though honored, must not choke the voices of the living. If their words remain frozen on the page, they risk becoming monuments to stagnation rather than sparks for renewal.
To say that written poetry should be destroyed is not to deny its value, but to insist that its value lies in its immediacy, its power to strike the heart in the present. Once it has touched us, Artaud suggests, we must move forward, not linger in worship of the past. The sacred danger is this: if we cling only to what has been written, we silence what has yet to be spoken. In his radical way, Artaud is reminding us that art must breathe, must evolve, must give birth to new visions.
Consider the Renaissance. The scholars of that age uncovered the manuscripts of antiquity—Plato, Aristotle, Virgil—and for a time, they bowed in reverence before the ancient masters. Yet it was only when they dared to go beyond imitation, when men like Michelangelo, Shakespeare, and Galileo moved past the dead poets and created anew, that the age truly came alive. They did not destroy the past, but they refused to let it enslave them. They let it fertilize their own creations rather than smother them.
Artaud’s cry is particularly rooted in his own struggle against conventional theatre and literature. He saw the stage of his time as dead, a museum rather than a living temple. By calling for the destruction of written poetry, he called for a rebirth of the spoken word, the acted word, the embodied word—a poetry that lives in the body, in the voice, in the air between people, not only in ink on a page. His revolution was not against beauty, but against lifelessness.
The lesson we draw is not to burn the books of our ancestors, but to refuse to let their greatness paralyze us. Respect the past, but do not bow so deeply that you forget to rise. Learn from the dead poets, but then write your own lines. Poetry must be a river, not a stagnant pond; it must flow from one generation to the next, carrying echoes of the past but always surging forward with new force.
Practical actions follow: read the classics, but do not stop there—write your own. Do not treat old works as untouchable relics, but as conversations that demand a response. Share your words aloud, bring them into life, and do not be afraid to challenge tradition. Create space for new voices, especially those unheard or silenced by the weight of history. In this way, you honor the spirit of Artaud: letting the past nourish the present, but never allowing it to bury the future.
Llinh
I understand Antonin Artaud’s desire to move past 'dead poets' and make space for new voices, but how do we reconcile this with the respect we give to classic works that have shaped literary history? Can we truly move forward by abandoning the old, or is there value in holding onto works that challenge and continue to provoke new generations of readers? Where do we draw the line between embracing the new and honoring the past?
TMHanh Le Thi My
This quote makes me question how we value literature and art. If poetry should be destroyed after reading it, does that mean it should be seen as something purely transient, valuable only in the moment of engagement? Does this perspective diminish the role of literature in preserving ideas and emotions over time, or does it suggest a need to make room for fresh, untapped creativity without being bogged down by past works?
NNguyen
Artaud’s view on the fleeting nature of poetry seems radical, but it raises a valid point about the ephemeral nature of art. Do we, as readers and creators, sometimes hold onto old works for sentimental reasons, and in doing so, prevent new forms of expression from being born? Could his approach to allowing the 'dead poets' to make way for others lead to a refreshing, more dynamic cultural dialogue, or would we lose valuable lessons from the past?
NMNguyendang Mau
I find Artaud’s perspective on poetry fascinating, though I disagree with it. He seems to suggest that once poetry has been read, it should be discarded. Is this a critique of how we idolize certain poets or works, holding them in place as timeless monuments? Could this approach free new voices and new works from being overshadowed by the old, or does it risk losing the depth and wisdom that accumulated over time?
HDHoang Diem
Antonin Artaud’s quote about destroying written poetry after reading it once is quite provocative. It seems to challenge the traditional reverence we have for literature. But why destroy something that has the potential to inspire over and over again? Do you think poetry, or any art, can only live in the moment of its creation or first reading, or does it hold more value when revisited and reflected upon over time?