his is a question that comes up from time to time in drawing rooms and lecture halls and at literary festivals across this country and there is a fairly standard answer: yes, poetry is either dead or dying. A myriad reasons are presented: young people are reading less and less; they are not committing themselves to serious academic study of poetic nuances and devices; the education system no longer teaches the humanities with the required rigour; and social and governmental institutions no longer play the role of patron to the arts and literature the way they used to.

This is combined with the idea that, on the literary landscape today, there appears to be no figure of century-defining proportions like the great bards of centuries past. “Who is the Faiz, Rashid or Josh of our century?” cynics may ask. These factors combine to paint a picture where poetry is on its deathbed and struggling for breath.

As a young person in Karachi, however, I have often found myself in environments of “intense poeticism” that make me question these conclusions altogether.

One such environment I had the pleasure of immersing myself in was the annual Sakinaan-i-Shehar-i-Quaid Aalmi Mushaira, earlier this year. A prominent feature of Karachi’s cultural landscape, the event this year was graced by fifty poets from across the Urdu-speaking world. As per tradition, it began at around 10pm and extended into the early hours of the following day.

The incredibly visceral atmosphere at this event made it a true festival (mela) held in joyous celebration of poetry and literature – an event that could never take place in a society where poetry was dead or dying. For one, the sheer magnitude of the occasion is worth noting. This annual mushaira has consistently drawn audiences of between 10,000 and 15,000 people each year; and this year was no exception. The attendance of ten thousand people at a poetic symposium featuring some of the most critically acclaimed writers should, in itself, be considered a major cultural achievement for Karachi.

For contrast, in the English-speaking world, even Pulitzer Prize-winning poets often struggle to fill modest conference halls at poetry readings; an audience of ten thousand would be the stuff of dreams. And it was not just the size of the mushaira that was invigorating, but also the passionate engagement of the audience. In line with the tradition of such events, the audience played an integral role in the artistic presentation of the verses. Their appreciation was liberal – not just in the form of traditional daad, but also through clapping and hooting.

Those in attendance included members of Karachi’s literary and political elite. A noticeable majority comprised young people, who were also the most engaged and passionate. Even in the early hours of the next day, the hall beamed with festivity as cups of chai and packets of chips were passed around, and audience members leapt from gaotakiyas to commend a particularly powerful she’r.

Nostalgists may yearn for the early days of this event in the 1980s, when it would fill the even grander National Stadium, seating forty thousand people, and feature great poets from across the border like Kaifi Azmi and Majrooh Sultanpuri. Still, the gleam of our past must not blind us to the beauty of our present. The Sakinaan-i-Shehar-i-Quaid Mushaira is one of countless events held across the country nearly every week. These gatherings are not reserved for an educated elite but are an integral part of the vibrant cultural lives of ordinary people, for whom poetry remains a means of artistic, religious and cultural expression.

Even when capitalists want to sell us a bottle of cola or a packet of biscuits, they must borrow a verse or two from Ghalib, Iqbal or Munir.

Another sign of poetry’s enduring relevance can be found in the somewhat unlikely realm of marketing. Over the past year, I have come across several instances of poets and poetry being used in advertising campaigns in Pakistan. Last year, a biscuit brand ran a campaign featuring boxes adorned with portraits and verses from some of the greatest poets of our tradition, including Allama Iqbal, Mirza Ghalib, Jigar Muradabadi and Mustafa Zaidi. These poets appeared on billboards at prominent locations across the city, and their verses – rendered in fine nastaliq script – adorned television screens, social media feeds and cookie packaging.

Another example I encountered this month was a ride-hailing service, somewhat ironically, quoting MunirNiazi’s well-known verse, “hamesha dair kar deta hoon main,” on a billboard advertisement. This is in addition to the countless musical renditions of classical poetry sponsored by popular beverage brands.

While the artistic merit and intention behind such campaigns may certainly be up for debate, they nevertheless point to the extraordinary fact that ours is a society where poetry is so deeply embedded and widely cherished that even when capitalists want to sell us a bottle of cola or a packet of biscuits, they must borrow a verse or two from Ghalib, Iqbal or Munir.

Even in the annals of politics, poetry is widespread. If you were to sit through a session of parliament and begin counting verses, you would find that, more often than not, politicians lace their speeches with lines of poetry. At jalsas too, it is not uncommon to hear a verse from Faiz or a nazm by Habib Jalib. Political campaigners and marketing agencies are by no means altruistic organisations committed to the spread of art and poetry; they are often backed by meticulous research, aimed at conveying a message to large groups of people in the language that best appeals to them. Put simply, they sell what sells best – but what is extraordinarily refreshing is that, in this country, what sells best is a beautiful verse.

Similar trends can be observed on social media, where TikTok edits featuring poetry are intensely popular; or on Instagram, where one often encounters the curious phenomenon of sha’eri memes. Here, verses by poets such as Ahmad Faraz and Jaun Eliya are juxtaposed with the everyday concerns of young people – to great comedic effect. Many of these posts garner thousands of likes and shares. This, too, stands as testament to the enduring legacy of our poetic tradition and its remarkable ability to re-invent itself time and again.

Commenting on the general decline of poetry as a popular medium in the Western world, many scholars and commentators have identified the advent of Modernism after World War I as the defining moment that shifted poetry from the public to the private sphere, subsequently heralding its decline into relative obscurity. While the modernist movement undoubtedly produced giants of world literature like TS Eliot, it also signalled a poetic trend towards more obscure devices and a greater fascination with individual rather than collective concerns. Lamenting the state of contemporary poetry in a piece for Harper’s Magazine, the scholar Mark Edmunds on poignantly observed that “few consequential poets now... are daring still to pronounce the word ‘us’.” This general shift in pronouns from “us” and “we” to “me” and “I” in 20th- and 21st-Century English poetry largely reflects a broader trend towards individualism in Western society. A Newsweek article from 2010 comments that around the 1980s, Western society became “intensely prosaic.”

Perhaps the reason why poetry continues to survive in our society is because, despite everything, ours remains intensely poetic.

This intense poeticism stems from the fact that the realm of poetry in our society is vast and communal, not constricted and personal. Here, poetry as a medium – and the themes deemed poetic – are not reserved for an educated elite. Rather, there exists a direct and, indeed, somewhat democratic relationship between the poet and their audience. Contemporary poetry from our region has largely evaded the individualistic turn of artistic concerns that has characterised much of the West.

Poetic concerns in critically acclaimed Urdu poetry – such as that of Iftikhar Arif or Anwar Sha’oor – continue to maintain a strong societal consciousness. While there may be a modernist trend in Urdu poetry, the tradition as a whole largely avoids excessive obscurity and takes great pleasure in traditional metaphors and the expression of age-old emotions. Unlike modern Western poetry, which often shuns or seeks to re-invent traditional metres and rhyme schemes, our tradition has largely retained these poetic forms – and the ghazal remains the crown jewel of our literary culture.

Perhaps the most passionate example of communal poetic expression in Pakistani society is found in religious spaces. Across all religious traditions, poetry continues to serve as an axis around which intense spiritual devotion revolves. Shrines across the country come to life as qawwals recite pieces that weave intricate chains of verse, linking centuries and languages from Arabic to Punjabi. The deeply evocative marinas of Mir Andes and Mira Dabber remain staples of Mamalis throughout the Urdu sphere, and the naatiya kalaam of Ahmed Reza Khan – ornamented with Arabic, Persian and Purbi – still echoes across the country during meelad ceremonies. A society in which millions turn to poetry to express their most profound and intense emotions can hardly be considered one where verse is endangered.

If poetry is a means of ascertaining the cultural pulse of a society, then ours is a society defined by an intense yearning for tradition and artistic expression. While poetry may be popular, linguistic skill certainly requires cultivation. Many may enjoy Persian, Arabic or classical Urdu verse in various communal settings, yet few can fully grasp the nuances of their meaning and expression. The celebrated scholar Dr Noman-ul Haq has described this “loss of languages” as an “impairment” that has “mutilated its [our society’s] collective soul.”

In spite of this, all indicators point to an earnest desire among young people to learn and engage with literature. If supported with the resources to learn languages and poetic devices, this generation could come up with extraordinarily exciting literary contributions.

In response to the oft-repeated question of why there is no poet today who can be classed with Mir, Ghalib, or Iqbal, I am reminded of Zehra Nigah – perhaps the greatest living Urdu poet – who described the “throne of greatness” in Urdu poetry as one that is “left vacant for decades, until once in a century someone like Ghalib or Mir may come along to take up the office.” Who knows? Perhaps we will see the next Ghalib or Mir emerge from TikTok or Instagram to take their place on the throne of poetic greatness. The idea may seem fantastical to some, but I, for one, have faith in our society – and in the current of intense poeticism that continues to run through it.

The writer is a freelance journalist