I have experienced healing through other writers' poetry, but

Hear, O seekers of truth, the testimony of Marilyn Hacker: “I have experienced healing through other writers’ poetry, but there’s no way I can sit down to write in the hope a poem will have healing potential. If I do, I’ll write a bad poem.” In these words lies a profound paradox: poetry may heal, but it cannot be written as medicine. The moment a poet forces healing into the work, the poem withers. Healing must be the byproduct of truth, not the goal of art. Hacker’s wisdom is born of experience—she has received the balm of words but knows that to manufacture balm is to lose the flame of poetry itself.

The origin of this insight stretches back to the very nature of art. The psalms of David, the tragedies of Sophocles, the verses of Rumi—all have brought healing to countless souls. Yet none were written as prescriptions. David did not say, “I will heal Israel with my song.” He cried his anguish, he shouted his praise, he poured out the raw wine of his spirit—and in that honesty, others found comfort. So too with Sophocles: he told stories of human suffering not to soothe, but to reveal. And yet, by revelation, came healing. Thus Hacker stands in the tradition of the ancients: to write with purpose beyond truth is to risk falsehood; to write truthfully is to open the door through which healing may enter.

Consider the tale of Wilfred Owen, poet of the First World War. He did not write his verses as balm for the wounded. He wrote to show the horror, the pity, the senselessness of war. His lines—“What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?”—were not crafted as therapy. They were truth, raw and unsparing. Yet for generations since, those poems have brought clarity, solace, and even a kind of healing to those who sought to understand loss. Owen proves Hacker’s point: the greatest poems heal not because they aim to, but because they bear the weight of honest vision.

This teaching reveals the essence of bad art. When a poet sets out with the intention, “I will heal,” the work becomes contrived, sentimental, hollow. A poem is not a bandage; it is a flame. If it burns true, it may cauterize wounds, it may warm the cold, it may light the lost. But if the poet shapes the flame only as a lantern of comfort, it will flicker and die. Hacker reminds us that the sacred fire must be honored, not harnessed for design. Poetry is gift, not tool.

And yet, we must not ignore the reality that poetry heals. Hacker herself confesses she has felt its power in the works of others. This is the paradox we must hold: poetry cannot aim at healing, but poetry can heal. Like water that runs freely down a mountain, it nourishes all in its path—but only because it flows without calculation. The river does not decide who to refresh; it refreshes by nature. So too must poetry flow.

The lesson is clear: if you write, write with honesty, not with agenda. Let your words arise from your deepest truth, your anguish, your joy, your awe. Do not sit down with the thought, “This will heal someone.” Sit down with the thought, “This is what burns within me, and it must be spoken.” For it is this authenticity, this raw unveiling, that allows your poem to carry power. The healing will come later, when another soul, walking in silence, stumbles upon your flame and feels its warmth.

In practice, let us act thus: read widely, and allow yourself to be healed by others’ poetry, as Hacker has. And when you write, do so with sincerity, even if the words seem jagged or unkind. Do not censor the fire with thoughts of usefulness. Trust that the truth, spoken plainly and fully, will find its way into the hearts of others. In this way, your writing will not be medicine forced by hand, but medicine given by nature.

So the teaching endures: healing is a gift of poetry, but never its command. Let the poet write with courage, with unguarded spirit, and let the poem fall where it may. If it carries comfort, it is because truth itself has the power to restore. And if you walk this path, your words may one day heal strangers you will never meet, not because you set out to heal them, but because you dared to speak what was real.