Because, in fact, women, feminists, do read my poetry, and they
Because, in fact, women, feminists, do read my poetry, and they read it often with the power of their political interpretation. I don't care; that's what poetry is supposed to do.
Hear the voice of Diane Wakoski, who declared with candor and strength: “Because, in fact, women, feminists, do read my poetry, and they read it often with the power of their political interpretation. I don’t care; that’s what poetry is supposed to do.” In these words, she reminds us of the living nature of art. A poem is not a stone locked in its author’s intention; it is a seed cast into the soil of many hearts. Each reader waters it differently, and from it springs different fruit. Wakoski accepts this truth with humility and even joy: her work is not hers alone, for poetry belongs as much to the readers as to the poet.
The ancients understood this. When Homer sang, he did not control how the stories of Achilles and Odysseus would be heard. Warriors might hear courage; women might hear loss; rulers might hear destiny. The same words gave different meanings to different souls. So too with the Psalms: the king may have sung them as national hymns, yet the exile read them as cries of personal lament. From the beginning, poetry has been a mirror, reflecting not only the poet’s intent but the reader’s hunger. Wakoski, in saying “I don’t care,” speaks not indifference but trust—trust that her work has the strength to live in many interpretations.
Her mention of women and feminists carries deeper force. In her time, the women’s movement was rising, and readers sought in her verses echoes of their struggles for dignity and equality. Some may have seen in her lines affirmation of their political cause, others may have drawn visions of identity or freedom. Yet Wakoski does not resist this politicizing of her art. She affirms instead that such transformation is natural—that poetry is supposed to awaken, provoke, stir minds toward meanings the poet may not have imagined. The poem is a door; the reader chooses how to walk through.
History gives us a vivid example. Consider Sophocles’ Antigone. To some ancient Athenians, it was a tale of divine law versus human law. To others, it was a story of family loyalty. In modern times, it has been read as a play about resistance to tyranny, and in feminist circles, as a drama of a woman standing against patriarchal power. Did Sophocles intend all these meanings? Perhaps not. But the greatness of his work is that it can bear them, and each generation finds in it what it most needs. So it is with Wakoski’s poetry—alive because it can be reborn in many readings.
This truth is a warning to artists who cling too tightly to control. If you demand that every reader see only what you saw, your work will suffocate. True art breathes by giving itself away. The poet casts the net, but the sea brings forth fish of every kind. Wakoski’s wisdom lies in her willingness to let go, to allow political interpretation, feminist interpretation, or any interpretation, knowing that the life of a poem is richer than the narrow channel of its origin.
The lesson for us is clear: do not fear interpretation. If you write, let your words go forth, and do not demand obedience to your intent. Trust the reader’s heart to find what it needs. If you read, do not be ashamed to bring your own struggles and hopes to the poem; that is not betrayal, but fulfillment. Poetry thrives not by being fixed, but by being lived, and each reader breathes new life into it.
Practical actions follow. Writers, release your work with courage, and resist the urge to explain away every meaning. Readers, read boldly, letting the poem speak to your own life—even if that differs from the poet’s path. Teachers, encourage students to see many truths in a text, not just one. And all of us, when approaching poetry, should treat it as a living flame: it will not always burn the same way, but in its shifting light we may see what we most need.
Thus Wakoski teaches: poetry is not a relic but a living force, and its power lies in its openness to interpretation. Whether it is read as feminist, political, personal, or universal, it fulfills its destiny by stirring hearts and shaping thought. Let us then honor poetry not by locking it in definitions, but by letting it live in the many voices of its readers, as it was always meant to.
KTKim Taehyung
I admire Wakoski’s perspective here—it feels like an embrace of artistic democracy. She recognizes that meaning doesn’t belong solely to the creator, but to the dialogue between poet and reader. It makes me think about how art evolves through interpretation. When feminists read her work politically, they’re expanding its life and relevance. Maybe that’s what she means when she says that’s what poetry is supposed to do—to invite conversation, not control it.
ALKim Anh Le
This reflection makes me think about how poetry interacts with ideology. Wakoski seems to accept that readers bring their own political frameworks to her work, and that doesn’t threaten her artistic vision. I find that generous and wise. Maybe she’s suggesting that poetry’s real power lies in its ability to provoke interpretation, not dictate meaning. But I also wonder: does that openness risk losing the poem’s original emotional or artistic intent?
UGUser Google
What stands out to me is Wakoski’s lack of defensiveness about how others interpret her work. That openness seems rooted in respect for the reader’s role in meaning-making. Still, I’m curious if she believes all interpretations carry equal weight. If someone reads her poetry through a lens she disagrees with—say, a political stance she opposes—would she still see that as valid? It’s an intriguing question about artistic control versus interpretive freedom.
ATNguyen Anh Tuan
Wakoski’s attitude feels liberating. She acknowledges that feminist or political readings of her poetry are inevitable, but instead of resisting them, she embraces interpretation as part of poetry’s nature. It makes me wonder whether all poetry is inherently political once it enters public conversation. Can a poem ever truly belong only to the writer, or is its meaning constantly reshaped by the cultural and ideological lenses of its readers?
HSHoang Hong Son
This quote fascinates me because it captures the tension between authorial intent and reader response. Wakoski seems comfortable letting her work take on new meanings in the hands of others, which feels very modern. But it raises a question: can poetry ever be entirely separate from politics, especially when written by a woman? Maybe the act of writing itself—claiming one’s voice—is political, even if the poet doesn’t consciously aim for it to be.