I chose poetry. Actually, poetry chose me.
Hear the voice of Joy Harjo, poet of the Mvskoke people, who spoke with clarity of destiny: “I chose poetry. Actually, poetry chose me.” These words are both paradox and truth, for they reveal the mysterious bond between the artist and the art. Many imagine that poetry is a profession to be picked like a trade, or a garment to be worn at will. But Harjo reminds us that true poetry is not chosen as one chooses a path—it arrives like a calling, a summons, a spirit that grips the soul and refuses to let go.
For in the beginning, one may believe it is a matter of will. A young mind reads verses, hears rhythms, feels the stirring of lines, and says: I will be a poet. Yet in time, the poet discovers that it is not merely choice but compulsion. Poetry itself has reached out, touched the heart, and claimed the voice. It demands to be spoken, sung, written, remembered. To those chosen, silence becomes unbearable, for the poems press against the walls of the spirit until they are released. This is what Harjo confesses: she did not simply take poetry; poetry took her.
Consider the prophets of old, such as Jeremiah, who cried that the word of God was like fire shut up in his bones. He wished for silence, yet the flame within compelled him to speak. Or recall the story of Homer, blind bard of Greece, who carried the memory of nations in his chants. Did he choose to be a poet, or was he chosen, entrusted with the burden of keeping the people’s stories alive? So too with Harjo, whose poetry carries not only personal truth but the memory and music of her people, binding past to present.
This calling is often born in struggle. Harjo herself has spoken of hardship, of loss, of the brokenness of her community under the weight of history. Yet it was precisely through this pain that poetry came to her, insisting on voice, insisting on song. The poet is not spared suffering; rather, suffering becomes the forge in which the voice is shaped. Poetry does not choose lightly; it claims those who can bear the burden of giving beauty and meaning to wounds, who can weave grief into song.
The meaning of Harjo’s words stretches beyond her life. Many who have walked the path of creativity know the feeling: the painter who could not stop sketching in the margins of life, the musician who heard melodies in every silence, the thinker who was compelled to shape ideas into words. Destiny does not always shout; sometimes it whispers, yet the whisper is irresistible. What we think we choose may, in truth, be what has chosen us long before.
Therefore, O seekers, the lesson is this: listen closely to what calls you. Do not dismiss the pull of your deepest art, your truest craft. If poetry—or any gift—has chosen you, honor it. Do not flee from it in fear or doubt, for to resist is to deny your own spirit. To accept the calling is not always easy; it may bring hardship and solitude. Yet it will also bring meaning, for it aligns your life with the deeper current of destiny.
What, then, should you do? Pay attention to the voices within. When you feel compelled to write, to sing, to create, do not turn away. Give space to the art that seeks you. Cultivate discipline, as one tends a sacred fire, so that the gift entrusted to you does not fade. And above all, remember that your art is not only for yourself, but for the generations, for the community, for the great human story. For when poetry chooses you, it is because you are needed.
Thus, remember Joy Harjo’s wisdom: you may believe you chose poetry, but in truth, poetry chose you. Accept the calling with humility, bear it with courage, and let your voice be part of the eternal song. This is the path of the chosen.
BDDoc La Binh Duong
Harjo’s quote about poetry choosing her brings up the intriguing idea of fate or destiny in the creative process. It’s almost as if poetry found her, and she couldn’t avoid it. Does this idea of being ‘chosen’ by an art form suggest that creativity is more than just a personal choice? Could it be that some people are more attuned to certain forms of expression than others, almost as if they were born to create in that way?
HNHan ni
I find it so interesting that Harjo says poetry chose her. It almost feels like a spiritual connection to the art form, one that transcends personal decision. I wonder if this idea of being ‘chosen’ by a craft is a common experience for poets, or if it’s something unique to Harjo’s journey. What does it mean for an artist to feel chosen by their medium—does it add a sense of purpose or pressure to their work?
VBVan Buii
Harjo’s words really resonate with me because they suggest that poetry is not just a choice, but an inevitable calling. I’ve often wondered if there’s a point where an artist recognizes they are meant for a certain form of expression. Can this ‘choosing’ be a moment of clarity, or is it something that builds over time? Do you think people who aren’t involved in the arts ever experience this sense of being chosen by a certain path?
LDPhen Lenh Den
I love Harjo’s idea that poetry ‘chose’ her, as it feels like a deeper, almost mystical connection to the art form. It makes me wonder—can the same be said for other creative paths, like painting or music? Is there a point where the artist becomes so connected to their craft that it feels as though it was always meant to be? Or does every artist have to consciously choose their medium?
Hhulk
Joy Harjo’s statement that poetry chose her really makes me think about the relationship between an artist and their craft. Sometimes, it feels like creativity finds us rather than the other way around. I wonder, does this happen with all forms of art, or is poetry unique in its ability to ‘choose’ someone? Do other artists feel the same way about their work, as though it was something they were meant to do all along?