Poetry is useless.
That's the prevailing sentiment in our culture, as far as I can tell. CEOs and lawyers rule the world. Policemen protect property and keep the peace and provide material for television dramas. Athletes and rock stars and movie stars make tons of money and provide material for gossip columns. But poets? Who cares? "It is difficult to imagine a world without movies, plays, novels and music, but a world without poems doesn't have to be imagined," as Newsweek said way back in 2003, when a large gift to Poetry magazine was supposed to change the face of poetry but, unsurprisingly, didn't. A 2002 Survey of Public Participation in the Arts found that about 14 percent of the people in the U.S. read poetry, which seems generous. To compare poetry to other art/entertainment genres on Google Trends is to see the obvious. Poetry doesn't move public conversation; its only use, the thinking goes, is to give some handful of people tenure so they can spend their days in the ivory tower endlessly recycling their unentertaining irrelevance.
Oddly, this isn't just the position of outsiders. It often seems to be the position of poets themselves. In a recent speech at the Yale Political Union called "What Use Is Poetry?", for example, acclaimed poet and scholar Meena Alexander makes a kind of virtue out of uselessness. In answering the title question, she declares, "I thought: nothing, there is nothing I can say." She then turns that reaction into a poem, which ends:
Standing apart I looked at her and said –
We have poetry
So we do not die of history.
I had no idea what I meant.
Poetry, then, is contrasted with history and the world; it's outside cause and effect and even reason. ("I had no idea what I meant.") We look to poetry, Alexander says, for "what is deeply felt and is essentially unsayable." The use of poetry is to value those things that are unpragmatic and unmundane. Poetry is valuable precisely because it's not historical/political/economic—because it isn't part of the world of cause and effect.
Even without Alexander's painful reliance on clichéd phrases like "deeply felt," this is all familiar, of course. The romantics, a la Shelley's "Defence of Poetry," ("A poet participates in the eternal, the infinite, and the one; as far as relates to his conceptions, time and place and number are not") insisted on poetry as the spontaneous lyrical expression of inner truth in contrast to folks like Pope and Swift and John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, who were more interested in satire or politics or sheer filthiness. The romantics won, the satire and filthiness lost, and now, generations later, "poetry" presumes to deliver the same lyrical emotion and the same inner truth, although the spontaneity looks a little threadbare.
"There have been moments in our shared human history in particular parts of the world where poets and also singers have been banned," Alexander says.
But why? What is there to fear? Precisely this: the force of the quicksilver self that poetry sets free—desire that can never be bound by laws and legislations. This is the force of the human, the spirit level of our lives.
Poetry is always already revolutionary, then. What it says hardly matters. Poetry is useful because of its useless essence, not because of its individual meaning.
Of course, this is nonsense. When poets or writers have been persecuted, it's generally not because of some abstract contradiction between tyranny and poetry. It's because the persecuted poets said specific things the tyrants didn't want to hear. Anna Akhmatova faced persecution not because she was a poet, but because her poetry was explicitly anti-Stalinist. In contrast, Pound and Mussolini got along swimmingly. Vitor Jara was murdered because he took a stand with Allende, but the British Empire didn't have a problem with Kipling.