Art: If the object of poetry is, to make men, then poetry is the

Hear now the words of Muhammad Iqbal, philosopher and poet of the East, who declared: “Art: If the object of poetry is, to make men, then poetry is the heir of prophecy.” In this pronouncement lies no casual thought, but the distillation of centuries of wisdom. For he reveals that true poetry is not merely ornament, nor idle diversion, nor the play of sound and metaphor—it is a force that shapes humanity, awakening the sleeping spirit, guiding men and women toward their destiny. When poetry carries within it such power, it stands in the lineage of prophets, who spoke not for delight but for transformation.

For what is it to make men? It is to forge character, to call forth courage, to breathe into the heart a sense of purpose greater than survival. Prophets have always done this: they raised their voices in the wilderness, crying out for justice, mercy, faith, and vision. And when poetry rises above private musings, when it dares to kindle the fire of moral awakening, it too becomes prophecy. The poet becomes not just a singer of feelings, but a herald of truth, a mirror to the age, and a trumpet to the future.

Behold the example of William Blake, who in his prophetic books mingled poetry with vision, declaring that he had seen angels and burning wheels of fire. To his generation he was dismissed as mad, but later generations recognized that his poetry had the ring of prophecy—words that challenged empires, that spoke of liberation, that unveiled a spiritual universe beyond the material. And in the East, Iqbal himself, through his Bang-i-Dra and Asrar-i-Khudi, became the awakener of nations, calling Muslims from slumber, reminding them of their dignity, their power, their spiritual inheritance. His poetry was not escape, but awakening—a prophecy in verse.

This is the distinction: poetry for mere entertainment may delight the ear, but it dies in the moment. Poetry that makes men, however, endures like scripture. It does not flatter—it summons. It does not lull—it disturbs. It speaks to what is highest within the human being, reminding us of what we may become. Such poetry belongs to the same stream as prophecy, for both seek to lift man from dust to light.

Consider also the story of José Martí, poet and revolutionary of Cuba. His verses were not only romantic musings; they became the heartbeat of a people longing for freedom. His poetry inspired men to fight for independence, and his words were remembered long after his body fell in battle. Here we see Iqbal’s vision fulfilled: when poetry takes as its aim the making of men, it ceases to be mere art—it becomes destiny, it becomes prophecy.

And yet, O children of tomorrow, there is danger here. Not all who cloak themselves in prophetic tones speak truth. False prophets and shallow poets can stir men toward destruction as well as renewal. Therefore, discern carefully. Seek the words that build, that ennoble, that guide humanity toward justice, unity, and light. Do not mistake empty rhetoric for prophecy, nor cleverness for vision. True prophetic poetry bears the fruit of transformation—it awakens the slumbering soul to its divine purpose.

What then shall you do? Read poetry not only for its beauty but for its message. Let it shape you, refine your character, inspire your courage. And if you yourself are called to write, do not waste your voice on vanity alone. Let your words aim higher: to heal wounds, to reveal truth, to awaken greatness in others. For in every age, humanity hungers for prophecy, and if the voice of the prophet is silent, then it is the poet who must rise.

Thus, remember the charge of Iqbal: when poetry seeks to make men, it is more than art—it is a sacred inheritance. It is the voice that bridges heaven and earth, the flame that lights the path of nations. Take up that flame, whether as reader or as writer, and let it guide you toward a life of purpose. For poetry, at its highest, is prophecy clothed in beauty.