Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Charles Harper Webb’s "To Make My Countrymen Love Poetry" is a satirical, hyperbolic meditation on the cultural indifference to poetry and the imagined extremes required to make it indispensable. Through increasingly absurd exaggerations, Webb envisions poetry not as a neglected art form but as an object of obsession, power, and even danger. The poem operates on a playful yet critical level, revealing both the societal apathy toward poetry and the fantastical, almost dystopian scenarios necessary to make people care. It is at once a celebration of poetry’s potential and a lament for its diminished role in public life.

The poem begins with the premise of a “priceless poem”, so valuable that burglars break into the speaker’s home three times a day in search of it. The escalation continues as bankers beg to safeguard it, women prefer it to jewelry, and even mafiosi cling to the armored car transporting it. The idea that poetry, often deemed impractical, could attain such monetary and social value turns conventional expectations on their head. The absurdity deepens when the speaker’s own bodyguards mug and strip-search him, demonstrating that even those meant to protect him are powerless against the allure of his verse. The phrase “but didn’t torture me / For fear I’d change one syllable” implies that the poem is so perfect, so sacred, that even its persecutors dare not alter it. The section reads as both a mockery of materialism and a yearning for a world where poetry holds such cultural weight.

From material obsession, the poem moves to poetry as political dynamite. The “incriminating poem” is so damning that it triggers death threats, police raids, and desperate legal interventions. The speaker’s entire social circle bribes him for redactions, underscoring how a single poetic truth, in this imagined world, could dismantle power structures. This notion speaks to poetry’s historical role in revolution—where poets have been censored, exiled, or executed for their words—but Webb amplifies this to a ridiculous extreme, highlighting the contrast between poetry’s real-world marginalization and its hypothetical omnipotence.

The “atomic poem” extends the stakes further, suggesting a work so potent it must be stored in a military silo, capable of curing cancer yet inducing leukemia in those who memorize it. This paradox—poetry as both salvation and destruction—illustrates the dual nature of language, capable of enlightenment and devastation. The notion that traders would offer missiles for the poem, and that those who recall even a single line “could not stop shaking”, reinforces poetry’s supposed danger in this exaggerated reality.

Webb’s vision then shifts to secrecy. The “Top Secret poem” is so classified that even the CIA knows only rumors of its existence. It is a text beyond presidential clearance, making the speaker an object of espionage. The paranoia intensifies—“Every woman I slept with was a spy”, “I couldn’t eat a bowl of Raisin Bran without / Chipping molars on some flake-size bug”—a nod to the Cold War era’s infiltration fears. This absurdity not only mocks the extreme lengths governments take to control knowledge but also implies that poetry, if truly powerful, would be subject to the same fears as nuclear weapons or state secrets.

The “narcotic poem” turns poetry into a controlled substance, more addictive than any drug. “A single word, / Cut with a hundred neutral letters, sold / For thousands on the street”—a line that hilariously plays on the language of drug dealing while suggesting that poetry, in this alternate reality, has become the most sought-after high. Addicts die of overdoses, “died smiling, / Died fulfilled”, implying that poetry, unlike conventional drugs, provides a kind of ultimate, transcendent experience. The speaker’s reference to traditional narcotics—“cocaine, heroin, speed, / Reefer, LSD”—further emphasizes how poetry, in this world, has eclipsed every other source of escape and euphoria.

The “prophetic poem” shifts poetry into the realm of absolute knowledge. The speaker’s poem is so accurate that reporters use it as a source, eliminating journalism’s purpose. Gambling ceases because he predicts outcomes with certainty, elections are abolished, and entire religions form around him. The transformation of poetry into divine scripture satirizes the way people seek absolute certainty in belief systems while ignoring the ambiguity and depth of actual poetry. The speaker, in this reality, is no longer a poet but an oracle, reducing art to mere prediction. The irony is clear: if poetry became purely functional, its imaginative and interpretive richness would be lost.

The final section envisions “an extraterrestrial poem”, a work of such universal power that it halts violence, reconciles enemies, and even reverses climate destruction. In this imagined utopia, “people stopped burning / Coal and gas and oil and wood”, instead gathering near the poem for warmth. The idea that poetry could replace energy sources underscores how completely undervalued it is in modern society—only in the realm of extreme fiction could it become as necessary as fuel or shelter. The final image—“opened first their jackets, then their hearts”—suggests that poetry, in its highest ideal, could lead to both literal and figurative warmth, fostering openness and human connection.

"To Make My Countrymen Love Poetry" is an extravagant, humorous, yet deeply melancholic reflection on poetry’s place in the modern world. By constructing outlandish scenarios where poetry commands ultimate value—whether as a priceless treasure, a weapon, a drug, a divine revelation, or a force of cosmic harmony—Webb highlights the absurdity of its actual neglect. The poem serves as both a fantasy and a critique, a longing for poetry’s recognition wrapped in biting satire. Ultimately, Webb suggests that while such transformations are unlikely, the desire for a world where poetry matters deeply is very real.

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