List #68: A Bygone Beauty

Will There Ever Be Great Poetry Again?

Something that has always fascinated me is the way in which art forms and genres thrive and die. One is always hearing reviewers say things like, “He’s the new Stephen King,” or “He’s the next Martin Scorsese,” or “They’re the new Beatles.” But whenever I hear that, I always think: Why should there be a new one? There wasn’t an old one. Who said there would be another? Who even said there would be any more novels or any more movies or any more rock songs? The fact is, certain times call forth certain forms and there’s no guarantee those forms will serve the times to come.

Art forms seem to go through a natural cycle. Something entertains people — a long, written story, say: a novel. Intellectuals dismiss it as mere popular junk. But as the audience grows, the form attracts greater talent. Soon someone like Jane Austen comes along and writes popular novels with real depth and insight. The novel becomes important and popular both. In one small era, you have Dickens, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Zola, Trollope, on and on. Intellectuals intellectualize about it. New novelists novelize intellectually. Serious people read James Joyce and Faulkner, but the audience is now at the movies. Movies are mere popular junk, the intellectuals say. And the process begins again.

After the peak moment, there are still great examples now and then. A new generation or nation might reinvent the form for its own purposes. But for a while at least, other forms and genres take precedence.

And there may be some art forms that disappear forever. I wonder if people will ever paint greatly again. And I wonder if the world can still contain great poetry.