And at some point I would like to talk my publisher into doing

When Ellen Hopkins declared her desire to create an anthology of her poetry alongside the poetry of teen readers, she spoke of more than publishing. She spoke of bridging generations, of opening the gates of expression so that the voices of the young might be heard alongside the seasoned voice of experience. In this wish lies a deep humility: the recognition that wisdom is not owned by age alone, but that the flame of creativity burns brightly in youth, and deserves to stand beside the light of those who have long walked the path.

The origin of these words can be traced to Hopkins’ own legacy as a writer of young adult literature. She has given voice to the struggles, dreams, and heartbreaks of teenagers, writing in verse that speaks with raw honesty. Having seen how young readers resonate with her work, she acknowledges that they, too, carry untold stories within them—stories that, if given the chance, might illuminate the world. Her statement reveals a profound truth: art is not a monologue handed down, but a dialogue, a conversation that grows richer when more voices are invited to join.

History holds echoes of this same desire. In the ancient world, the philosopher Plato recorded the words of Socrates, not to elevate himself, but to preserve the dialogues of a teacher and his companions. In medieval Japan, poets would gather for renga, collaborative linked-verse gatherings where master and novice alike wove stanzas together into a single song. From such shared creation came not only art, but also unity. Hopkins’ vision of a shared anthology mirrors these traditions, reminding us that poetry is not only a solitary act, but a community of voices rising in harmony.

Such an act would also be a profound encouragement for the young. Too often, youthful expression is dismissed as immature, a voice not yet worthy of the stage. Yet history proves otherwise. Arthur Rimbaud, the French poet, wrote verses of blazing genius as a teenager, shaping modern poetry before retreating from art altogether. Imagine how many other young voices have gone unheard simply because no one gave them the stage. Hopkins’ wish is an act of defiance against such silence, a belief that youthful creativity should not wait for validation, but should be celebrated now.

The lesson is clear: to the elders and guides of this age, do not hoard the stage, but open it. Share your platforms, your tools, and your wisdom with those who come after. Let your voice stand not as a tower overshadowing theirs, but as a pillar supporting their ascent. By doing so, you ensure that your own work does not become a lonely monument, but part of a living bridge to the future. True greatness is not only to speak, but to make space for others to speak beside you.

For the young, too, the message is stirring: do not be afraid to let your words be heard. Even if they seem small beside the works of masters, even if they tremble upon the page, they are authentic flames, and authenticity is what the world hungers for. Take courage, write, speak, and step forward. Your voice may carry further than you know.

Thus, let us all remember Ellen Hopkins’ vision: that the voices of youth and age together form a chorus more powerful than either alone. Let us create spaces where the experienced and the untested, the polished and the raw, may stand side by side. For the world does not need only monuments—it needs gardens where many flowers bloom, each lending its color and fragrance to the air of eternity.

If you would act upon this wisdom, then seek to mentor, to share, to collaborate across the divides of age. Lift another voice even as you lift your own. In this way, the torch of creativity will never die, but will pass from hand to hand, from heart to heart, carrying light across generations.