Where have all the poets gone?

I often wonder where all the poets have gone? Over the past few decades, the interest in poetry, whether writing it or reading it, has declined. This is not an incremental decline but a substantial decline. Just a few decades ago it was considered manly to write and recite poetry. The man who did not know a few Shakespeare sonnets and had the ability to discuss their meaning and value was considered uncouth and uneducated. Indeed, being a member of a salon where ideas and poetry were discussed, deconstructed, and valued was considered a worthy pastime. Can you imagine the response one would get if one called his male friends and invited them over for an evening to discuss Robert Frost's works or those of Edna St.Vincent Millay? I suspect most would suddenly discover long-delayed commitments to take there wives shopping.

We claim to be a highly-efficient society. If so, why would we abandon a form of communication that has the ability to express complicated thoughts and ideas with minimal energy or space. Take Frost's famous poem:

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Is there a more succinct way to express the dichotomy between the pull of modern life with the pressure of family, friends, and career (miles to go...) and the desire for a simpler life represented by nature (woods). One could fill volumes of prose to say the same thing Frost achieves with a few simple lines. Of course, there are many interpretations of the esoteric meaning of this poem... some say it's a metaphor for death, others claim it is a simple story. Therein lies the beauty of poetry. It demands that the reader participate by interjecting their own history and views into the meaning of the poet's work.

Here's my favorite... a few lines from Edna St,Vincent Millay's

Renascence

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the soul is high
Above the world is stretched the sky,
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
and let the face of god shine through.

How many pages of effort would it take to explain the power of vision and the capacity of man to determine the depth and scope of life?

So, back to my original question... Where have all the poets gone? Are they writing rap tunes or the repetitive refrains of most rock songs? Are they confined to Slam sessions in dreary bars? Have we abandoned the ability to express thoughts with efficiency and emotion because someone might call us a sissy? Has the mind-numbing plethora of 24-hour news and sports so dulled our sensibilities that we no longer value careful and thoughtful expression? Is the rapier sharp reasoning of poetry just too much for minds hammered for so long with the obvious?  I wish I knew.