But I am not political in the current events sense, and I have

Hear the voice of Diane Wakoski, who proclaimed with clarity: “But I am not political in the current events sense, and I have never wanted anyone to read my poetry that way.” In this statement we see the resistance of a poet to being bound by the fleeting news of the day. She distinguishes between the eternal work of poetry, which seeks the truths of the human spirit, and the shallow tide of headlines and politics, which rise and fall with the passing moment. Her words are not contempt for the political, but a defense of the deeper calling of art: to live in the realm of timelessness, not in the dust of daily quarrels.

The ancients understood this division well. When Homer sang of Troy, he was not reporting on a war as a historian might; he was revealing courage, wrath, love, and fate—eternal truths that outlasted the battles themselves. When the psalmists wrote, they did not speak only of the political struggles of Israel, but of the soul’s thirst, the anguish of exile, the longing for God—things every generation could understand. Wakoski places herself in this lineage: her poetry does not wish to be chained to headlines, but to endure like flame in the dark.

Yet her words also echo the struggle of every artist in an age of turmoil. For readers often want poets to become prophets of current events, to give them weapons for causes or slogans for banners. Wakoski resists this, not because she denies injustice, but because she refuses to let her art be reduced to commentary. True poetry, she suggests, must speak to the depths of being. If it is read only as reaction to politics, it is diminished, stripped of its universality, made temporary.

History shows us this truth in many examples. Consider Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. To some in Athens, it may have seemed a play about civic responsibility and leadership. But its true power lies deeper: in the inevitability of fate, the blindness of pride, the frailty of human knowledge. Its message outlasted the politics of its time, still moving us centuries later. If we read it only as a reaction to Athenian politics, we would miss its eternal meaning. So Wakoski warns: to reduce poetry to politics of the moment is to rob it of the breadth of its voice.

Still, she does not deny that poetry can have political resonance. She acknowledges that readers may bring their own interpretations, their own causes, to her lines. But she herself insists on distance from the “current events sense.” Her poems are not written to be slogans or pamphlets. They are crafted as windows into the human condition, not billboards for passing disputes. In this way, she asserts the independence of the poet’s calling: art must remain larger than politics, or it will wither when the headlines change.

The lesson for us is profound. Do not chain poetry—or any form of art—only to the urgency of the moment. If you write, seek to capture truths that will endure long after newspapers have yellowed and been forgotten. If you read, do not look only for reflections of today’s battles, but for deeper echoes that sustain the spirit across ages. The political will pass; the poetic, if true, will remain.

Practical actions follow. When writing, ask yourself not only “What does this mean today?” but “Will this speak tomorrow, and a hundred years from now?” When reading, search beneath the surface for universal meaning, not only slogans for the hour. And in life itself, strive to live in such a way that your words and deeds rise above mere reaction, and touch something eternal.

Thus Wakoski speaks as a guardian of the timeless. She is not political in the current events sense, for her vision is deeper than headlines. She defends the dignity of poetry as a vessel of eternal truths, truths that feed generations. Let us honor her teaching: to let poetry be larger than the present, to write and to read as though seeking eternity, not merely echoing the hour.