An Essay on Absence and Persistence
by Sarah B. Royal

No one reads poetry.

At least, that’s how it feels.

Poetry is dead.

That thought came to me one afternoon when I walked into the big city bookstore—the kind that feels endless, with aisles stretching like cathedral halls and the air rich with roasted coffee and conversation. I let myself wander, half in awe, half in anticipation. The signs towered above me like promises: Fiction, History, Science, Cookbooks. There were sections for Chinese Lore and Greek Mythology, shelves devoted to Astrology, Travel, Self-Help, True Crime. Every imaginable category had its place.

Except poetry.

I searched floor by floor, scanning every wooden placard, tracing every alphabetized spine. Nothing. Finally, I asked a clerk. They hesitated, as though I had spoken in a dialect long extinct. After a pause, they typed “poetry” into the computer and frowned. “I think I saw it once,” they said.

We wound through the labyrinth of literature until at last, they pointed.

There it was.

Half a row. Unmarked. Tucked between “Drama” and “Miscellaneous.” No label, no spotlight—just a quiet corner that felt like a tomb.

“No label—we must have it on order,” the clerk shrugged.

I said I was surprised by how little there was.

They replied flatly, “No one reads poetry.” And they walked away.

I stood there a long moment, looking at what was left of the art that built civilization. Maybe eight books in total. The covers were sleek and minimalist—titles like Fragments of Thought and Voices of Now. I opened one. The lines drifted across the page like the residue of an overheard conversation. Loose, meandering, barely tethered to language. I could write this in an hour, I thought. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that this was all that remained on the shelf.

Before leaving, I asked the clerk to look up books about poetry—something on poetic form, perhaps. They sighed, typing half-heartedly. After several failed searches and rewordings, they finally found one: Elements and Styles of Poetry with Rules and Examples by Sally Yocom. I wrote the title down, bought a bookmark out of pity, and left.

When I got home, I found the Yocom book online and ordered it. It arrived a week later, unassuming and brilliant—a rare gem of clarity. I read it cover to cover, and then I wrote a poem in every form it contained. It reignited something in me. I even searched for more by the same author, but Elements and Styles of Poetry was her only published work. A single flame in a vast, indifferent dark.

Some weeks later, I visited my cozy local bookstore—the kind with creaky wooden floors, warm lamps, and handwritten staff recommendations taped to each shelf. I searched again, hopeful this time. Yet nowhere did I see “Poetry.” Not under Literature, not under Writing, not even beside the “Local Authors” sign.

Finally, in a dim corner near the floor, I saw it: a scrap of paper, handwritten in blue ink and traced over in black and red. One word: Poetry.

The label hung crookedly above a bottom shelf, half in shadow.

Five books. That was all.

One title caught my eye—The Black Cat. I like black cats. I picked it up, flipped through it, and smiled at the signature inside. A retired engineer turned poet. His verse was sharp, witty, and delightfully disciplined—clever constraint poetry disguised as humor. He wrote about grammar with more grace than many write about love. I laughed aloud, inspired. How had I never heard of him?

At the counter, I couldn’t help asking, “Why are there so few poetry books? And why are they at shoe level?”

The bookseller sighed. “No one reads poetry.”

I read The Black Cat in the car before even leaving the lot. The author, Barrie Gauther, had written only one book—The Black Cat Guide to Grammar through Light Verse. Out of print, unavailable. Another single flame. Another whisper.

Determined, I went next to the library—surely the last sanctuary of the written word would offer better. I searched every aisle. No section labeled Poetry. Nothing between Fiction and History. After what felt like a literary scavenger hunt, I found it at last—half a shelf, wedged between How-to-Write manuals.

Irony or insult, I couldn’t tell.

It sat on the second-to-bottom shelf. The bottom shelf itself was empty—an eerie metaphor.

And then I saw it: The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson.

I nearly laughed with relief. I checked it out immediately, clutching it like treasure.

At the circulation desk, I mentioned how difficult it was to find the section.

The librarian barely looked up. “No one reads poetry.”

Eight weeks earlier, I had asked another librarian if my own poetry books might be shelved in their Local Author section if I donated copies. She’d said yes—they loved supporting local writers. I brought three, signed and labeled, with a note for the head librarian to approve their placement. Weeks passed. Each time I checked, my books weren’t there.

Not in Local Authors.
Not in Poetry.
Not anywhere.

Now they are missing in action.

And I am afraid to ask what became of them.

Because maybe the answer is exactly what I’ve been hearing all along.

No one reads poetry.

Maybe they tossed them out, or maybe they simply forgot. Maybe poetry itself has been misplaced—slid to the bottom shelf of culture, unlabeled, unclaimed, gathering dust in the dark.

And yet, as I hold Emily Dickinson in my hands—her small, sharp lines humming across centuries—I feel the faintest pulse. A heartbeat in the hush.

Maybe poetry isn’t dead after all.
Maybe it’s just buried alive.

Still, walking out of that library, the words repeat in my mind, quiet and true and terrible as a prayer:

Poetry is dead.

At least, that’s how it feels.