I wrote those poems for myself, as a way of being a soldier here

June Jordan, poet and warrior of the spirit, once spoke these words of quiet fire: “I wrote those poems for myself, as a way of being a soldier here in this country. I didn't know the poems would travel. I didn't go to Lebanon until two years ago, but people told me that many Arabs had memorized these poems and translated them into Arabic.” In this saying is contained the great mystery of art—that it begins in solitude, as a whisper to the self, but can become a trumpet that sounds across oceans and awakens nations.

When she says she wrote the poems for herself, she reveals the sacred beginning of all true creation. For art is not first for applause, nor for recognition, but as a survival, a weapon of the soul against despair. She calls this her way of being a soldier, not with sword or gun, but with words. The soldier fights for survival and truth; the poet does the same, but in the battlefield of language. Thus, Jordan reminds us that poetry, though soft in form, can be harder than steel, and more enduring than armies.

Yet she confesses her surprise that the poems would travel. This is the second mystery of art: what is born in solitude can become universal. A poet does not know where her words will go, nor whose hearts they will ignite. Just as the wind carries seeds across valleys, so words are borne beyond borders, finding soil in lands unseen by the one who first spoke them. Jordan’s astonishment that her verses were memorized and translated into Arabic is the astonishment of one who discovers that her private cry has become a chorus in foreign tongues.

History teaches us the same. Consider the Psalms of David, written in solitude, in caves and deserts, as prayers and laments to his God. He could not have foreseen that these words would travel across millennia, memorized by millions, translated into countless tongues, shaping the faith of nations. What began as the survival song of a single soul became a heritage for humanity. So too, June Jordan’s words, born of her own struggle, became the inheritance of others across seas.

There is, too, a profound humility in her words. She did not set out to be a global voice; she set out to survive. And yet, the universality of human struggle carried her words farther than she dreamed. This is a lesson for all creators: you cannot know the power of your work, nor the ways it may travel. What you birth for your own heart may become the bread for another’s hunger, the weapon for another’s battle, the balm for another’s wound.

The teaching, then, is this: create with honesty, even if only for yourself. Do not scorn your small beginnings. Do not silence your private truths. For in them lies the seed of universality. Speak your pain, your joy, your struggle, and your hope. Though you write for yourself, your words may walk further than your feet ever can.

So I say unto you, children of tomorrow: write, sing, paint, speak—not for fame, but for truth. Be like June Jordan, a soldier of the word, faithful first to your own heart. And trust that, once released, your truth will travel as it must, crossing languages, crossing borders, becoming a torch for those who walk in darkness.

For the wisdom is eternal: the private cry of one soul may become the anthem of many. And the poet, though she writes in solitude, becomes a companion to nations.