I don't like political poetry, and I don't write it. If this
I don't like political poetry, and I don't write it. If this question was pointing towards that, I think it is missing the point of the American tradition, which is always apolitical, even when the poetry comes out of politically active writers.
Hear the strong and unflinching words of Diane Wakoski: “I don’t like political poetry, and I don’t write it. If this question was pointing towards that, I think it is missing the point of the American tradition, which is always apolitical, even when the poetry comes out of politically active writers.” This saying, bold as iron, speaks to the heart of what poetry truly is. For poetry is not the voice of the state, nor the servant of banners and crowns; it is the cry of the human spirit, untamed, unchained, belonging to no party and no cause. Even when a poet burns with political fire, the true poetry that emerges is not bound to law or platform, but to the eternal and the personal, the music of the soul.
The ancients too wrestled with this question. In Athens, the dramatists often reflected the struggles of the city, yet their works endure not because they were tied to one political hour, but because they revealed the universal struggles of man. Sophocles did not write to defend a party, but to illuminate the tragic collision of law and conscience. So it is in Wakoski’s vision of the American tradition: the poet may live amid politics, may fight or speak in the streets, yet the poetry itself transcends these movements, rising above the moment to reach toward timeless truth.
Consider the example of Walt Whitman, whose Leaves of Grass emerged in a time of turmoil, on the cusp of the Civil War. Whitman himself was politically active, caring for wounded soldiers and believing passionately in democracy. Yet his poetry does not descend into political speech. It sings instead of the body, the soul, the vastness of America, the unity of mankind. His verses echo not as propaganda, but as an eternal hymn. Thus, though he lived in politics, his poetry soared beyond it. Wakoski’s words find their proof here: even the politically active writer produces work that, in its deepest form, is apolitical, reaching for the eternal over the temporary.
The origin of her teaching lies in the essence of poetry itself. Poetry is the language of the inner life, the mirror of the soul. Politics shifts with the seasons, but the soul remains bound to its questions: love, death, truth, longing, and hope. If poetry chains itself to politics, it risks being forgotten when the moment passes. But if poetry speaks from the eternal heart, it will be remembered long after kingdoms fall and governments fade. Wakoski defends this timelessness, declaring that the American poetic voice is not a voice of political creed, but of personal revelation.
Yet this is not to say poetry is blind to the times. Rather, it absorbs the age into its deeper currents, transforming the moment into myth, the event into symbol. When Ginsberg cried out in Howl, his anguish carried political overtones, yet his poem endures not because it argues, but because it sings the raw spirit of a generation. That is why Wakoski warns against mistaking political poetry for true poetry: the first may vanish with the age it serves, but the second belongs to eternity.
The lesson is this: if you would write poetry, do not bind your voice to banners, nor yoke your lines to fleeting causes. Write instead from the core of your being, from the universal questions that live in every human chest. Let politics pass through you, yes, but let it be transmuted, refined into something deeper, something that speaks beyond the age. In this way, your poetry will not be bound to a season, but will remain as the eternal flame of the human condition.
Practical steps follow clearly. If you are stirred by events of the world, write of them not as slogans, but as symbols. Seek the universal in the particular; turn the fleeting moment into timeless insight. When tempted to preach, remember instead to sing. And when you read, seek not the rhetoric of the day, but the whisper of eternity hidden beneath the words. In this way, you will carry on the American tradition Wakoski describes: a poetry that transcends politics, even when born from politically restless hearts.
Thus, Diane Wakoski’s words stand as a guide: the poet may dwell in history, but poetry itself belongs to eternity. Let your voice rise beyond faction and ideology, and let it carry instead the unchanging music of the soul. For when all nations and parties have passed away, it is this voice that shall remain, still speaking, still singing, still alive.
PTNguyen Phuong Thanh
Wakoski’s claim about the American poetic tradition being 'apolitical' really intrigues me. I wonder if she’s referring to a stylistic independence rather than a literal absence of politics. Maybe she sees American poetry as rooted in individual perception rather than collective ideology. But can we say that Whitman, Dickinson, or contemporary poets like Claudia Rankine are apolitical? Her definition seems narrow, though it does raise a compelling question about where personal expression ends and political commentary begins.
HDPham Thi Huynh Duyen
This quote makes me think about the tension between artistic purity and social responsibility. Wakoski seems to value poetry that stands apart from political agendas, but is that detachment a privilege? For some poets, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, political realities are inseparable from lived experience. I’d like to ask her whether she believes poetry loses artistic merit when it engages directly with politics, or if she’s reacting against a certain kind of didactic writing.
PANghiem Phu Anh
I find Wakoski’s position fascinating, though I don’t entirely agree. It’s true that much of American poetry values introspection and personal truth, but can we really separate art from politics? The act of choosing what to write—or not to write—can itself be political. Maybe she means that American poets often approach politics through the personal, rather than through slogans or manifestos. Still, I wonder whether she’s underestimating poetry’s power to influence public consciousness.
TNNGUYEN THI THANH NHAN
Wakoski’s statement challenges me to think about whether poetry can ever truly be apolitical. Even when a poem doesn’t address politics directly, isn’t it still shaped by the culture and values of its time? I’m curious what she means by the 'American tradition' being apolitical—does she see American poetry as more focused on individuality and personal experience than on collective or political struggle? That seems debatable, especially given writers like Ginsberg or Hughes.