I see poetry as spiritual medicine.

The words of Mahmoud Darwish, forged in exile and longing, descend upon us with the weight of both pain and healing: “I see poetry as spiritual medicine.” In this truth, Darwish reminds us that the poem is not a luxury, nor a mere play of words, but a remedy for the wounds of the soul. It is medicine not for the body but for the spirit, a salve against despair, a balm for the heart that has been torn by grief, injustice, and loneliness. For him, who carried the sorrow of a displaced people, poetry was more than expression—it was survival.

The ancients knew this healing power well. The hymns of the Vedas, the psalms of David, the chants of indigenous tribes—all were woven not simply for beauty, but for medicine. They calmed the restless heart, gave courage to the warrior, consoled the mourner, and bound the community in a shared rhythm of hope. The Greeks even spoke of catharsis—the cleansing of the spirit through art. Just as herbs and roots heal the flesh, so do words, when placed with care and rhythm, heal the unseen depths of the human being.

Darwish’s insight was born in the crucible of suffering. A Palestinian poet, he lived through exile, loss of homeland, and the weight of collective grief. In his poetry, he gave voice to the anguish of his people, yet also offered them strength, dignity, and endurance. His poems were not escapes from suffering but remedies for it: they acknowledged the wound, named it, and in doing so, gave those who shared his pain a sense that they were not alone. Thus, his words became spiritual medicine—a medicine of solidarity, of memory, and of hope.

History gives us other examples of this truth. Consider the songs of the African American slaves, the spirituals born in the cotton fields. These were not mere laments but healing chants, strengthening the weary, lifting the despairing, and carrying hope across generations. Or think of the war poets of World War I—Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon—whose lines did not erase the horror of the trenches but offered soldiers a mirror in which they recognized their pain, and through recognition, found the dignity to endure. In each case, the poem served as medicine: not curing the wound, but making it bearable.

To call poetry “spiritual medicine” is also to recognize that it does not only heal the wounded, but strengthens the whole being. Just as a tonic restores balance, so too does verse restore clarity of vision. In moments of confusion, poetry brings order. In despair, it awakens beauty. In arrogance, it humbles. The poet, then, is not simply a writer, but a healer of the unseen—a physician of the spirit whose tools are words instead of herbs, rhythm instead of scalpel, truth instead of ointment.

The lesson is eternal: when the soul is wounded, seek not only silence but words—words that remind you of beauty, of justice, of the endurance of the human spirit. Do not underestimate the healing power of poetry, for it has guided civilizations through storms of despair and raised broken hearts into song. To read or to write verse is not indulgence; it is to drink medicine for the heart.

Practical actions follow: when grief or confusion weighs heavily upon you, turn to poetry. Read the verses of those who suffered before you and overcame. Write your own lines, even if clumsy, for in the act of naming sorrow, you weaken its hold. Share poems with others, for medicine is strongest when given in community. Above all, carry within you the knowledge that words can heal. Let them flow like water into dry places, and like Darwish, let your poetry become spiritual medicine, both for yourself and for those who walk beside you.