Auden said poetry makes nothing happen. But I wonder if the

Carol Ann Duffy, poet of clarity and fire, once mused with defiance: “Auden said poetry makes nothing happen. But I wonder if the opposite could be true. It could make something happen.” In these words she wrestles with the famous claim of W. H. Auden, who in his elegy for Yeats seemed to reduce poetry to a thing of private consolation rather than public power. Yet Duffy, with the wisdom of her age, pushes back. She dares to imagine that poetry, far from being impotent, can be a spark that sets change in motion, that stirs hearts, shifts thought, and awakens the sleeping spirit of a people.

The origin of this reflection lies in the tension between two truths: poetry may not legislate, build empires, or command armies, but it can shape the imagination through which all human action flows. Auden’s phrase “poetry makes nothing happen” was itself a paradox, suggesting that poetry does not directly alter events, yet still matters deeply. Duffy, inheriting this tradition, insists that the matter cannot rest there. For history shows us that poetry has indeed made things happen: it has kindled revolutions, comforted the oppressed, preserved cultures, and called tyrants to account.

Consider Pablo Neruda in Chile, whose verses gave voice to the voiceless and strengthened the resolve of workers and peasants. His words were more than song—they were weapons of the spirit, rallying his people to stand against injustice. Or think of Maya Angelou, whose poem And Still I Rise became an anthem for resilience and dignity, echoing across generations and giving strength to those crushed under prejudice. Were these “nothing”? No—they were tremors that shook the foundations of society, making hearts braver, minds freer, futures possible.

Even further back, history shows us the force of poetry as prophecy. The Psalms of David, sung for millennia, carried comfort and conviction through centuries of suffering. The Homeric epics, recited across the Greek world, unified a culture around shared stories of heroism and loss. The songs of the troubadours carried ideals of love that reshaped medieval thought. These poems may not have moved armies like generals, but they moved hearts—and hearts, once moved, move the world.

The meaning of Duffy’s question is therefore bold: she challenges us not to underestimate the power of art. Poetry may not write laws, but it can change the spirit in which laws are written. It may not till the soil, but it can plant the seeds of justice. It may not strike the chains, but it can awaken the longing for freedom. Poetry, in this sense, is the invisible catalyst of action, the wind that bends the course of history though unseen.

The lesson for us is to treat poetry not as decoration, but as power. When you read, do not say, “This is only words.” Remember that words are the roots of thought, and thought is the root of action. The revolutions of nations, the transformations of societies, often begin in the quiet of verse, whispered into the hearts of men and women who later rise to act. To dismiss poetry is to dismiss the seed because it does not yet look like the tree.

Practically, this means seeking out poetry that awakens and inspires. Share it when silence is heavy. Write it when truth must be spoken. Carry it into your own struggles, whether private or public. For in doing so, you participate in the long tradition Duffy invokes—the tradition of those who believed that words matter, that imagination matters, that beauty and truth together can shape destiny.

Thus Duffy’s words shine with courageous possibility: “It could make something happen.” Let us not surrender to cynicism. Let us remember that every great movement of spirit, from the abolition of slavery to the fight for civil rights, had its poets. And let us add our own voices to that eternal chorus, believing as she does that poetry can indeed make something happen—something that echoes, something that endures, something that changes the world.