Civic poetry is public poetry. It is political poetry. It is

"Civic poetry is public poetry. It is political poetry. It is about the hard stuff of life: money, crime, gender, corporate excess, racial injustice. It gives expression not just to our rites but also to our problems and even our values; these poems are not about rustic vacations." Thus spoke Alissa Quart, piercing through the veil of sentimental verse to remind us of poetry’s ancient and unshakable duty. For civic poetry is not an escape into fields and flowers, nor is it merely a private murmur of the heart. It is a cry in the public square, a voice raised against injustice, a mirror held before society so that it must confront its own image, however grim.

The ancients themselves knew this role well. In Greece, the poet was not only a singer of myths, but a commentator on the life of the polis. Political poetry rang out in the plays of Aristophanes, who mocked the corruption of leaders, and in the tragedies of Sophocles, where kings and citizens alike were confronted with the weight of justice. Poetry was never divorced from the hard stuff of life; it was always a means to bind the community, to instruct, to rebuke, to awaken. Quart’s words call us back to this sacred origin: poetry as a tool of conscience.

History echoes this truth again and again. Consider Pablo Neruda of Chile, who used his verse not only to sing of love and beauty but to denounce oppression and tyranny. His public poetry was not about gentle scenes of rest, but about workers’ struggles, political betrayals, and the fierce hope for justice. Though his words placed him in danger, they also gave voice to millions. Here we see Quart’s teaching: poetry that matters is not retreat but engagement, not escape but confrontation.

Or recall the voices of the Harlem Renaissance—Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Gwendolyn Brooks. Their poetry did not sing of vacations or detached beauties. It sang of racial injustice, of poverty, of dreams deferred. It carried the fire of a people demanding to be seen and heard. Their lines remain etched in history because they dared to confront the structures of power with the enduring weapon of truth spoken in rhythm and rhyme. This is civic poetry at its highest: the poetry of survival and resistance.

Quart’s words also carry a warning against the temptation to make poetry only an ornament, a pleasant pastime for the privileged. She reminds us that poetry is not only about rites and rituals of joy, but also about the problems that plague society—crime, corruption, exploitation, inequality. To write of these is not to diminish poetry, but to fulfill its noblest calling: to give shape to collective pain, to transform suffering into song, and to kindle solidarity among the people.

The lesson for us is clear: if we would be poets—or even if we would simply be readers who listen—let us not shrink from the dark and the difficult. Let us read and write about the structures that bind us, the injustices that wound us, the values that define us. Poetry that avoids these things may soothe, but poetry that confronts them may transform. To embrace civic poetry is to accept poetry’s ancient role as both healer and herald, critic and celebrant, prophet and companion.

Practically, this means raising your voice in whatever way you can. Write of what you see in your streets, your schools, your workplaces. Do not fear to address the forbidden subjects—money, power, race, gender—for these are the very realities that demand a poet’s light. If you cannot write, then read and share such poetry, amplifying its voice in the public square. Let poetry be not a retreat from life but a deeper entrance into it.

So remember, children of tomorrow: civic poetry is not silence, nor retreat, nor the soft lull of pastoral escape. It is the living voice of the people, grappling with the fire and stone of their existence. It is the bridge between private grief and public change. Heed Quart’s wisdom—write not only of peace, but of struggle; not only of beauty, but of justice. For only then will poetry fulfill its highest calling: to be not the language of escape, but the language of awakening.