If a poet does not tell the truth about time, his or her work

Hear the words of Eavan Boland, poet of Ireland, who gave voice to the silenced and the overlooked: “If a poet does not tell the truth about time, his or her work will not survive it. Past or present, there is a human dimension to time, human voices within it, and human griefs ordained by it.” This is not a gentle reflection, but a stern command to those who would create. She declares that truth is the only anchor against the waves of time, and that poetry divorced from reality, from the griefs and voices of humanity, will vanish like smoke. Only that which touches the eternal struggle of human life can endure.

The ancients knew this well. The bards of Greece did not merely sing of battles and heroes; they sang of rage, of honor, of loss—of Achilles grieving for Patroclus, of Priam kissing the hand of the man who slew his son. These tales survive because they tell the truth of time: that empires rise and fall, but grief, love, and longing remain unchanged. Homer’s verses are not stone monuments, but living flames, because they hold within them the human voices that echo across centuries.

Boland speaks especially to the danger of falsehood in art. Many write to please fashion, to flatter power, or to impress with ornament. Such works may shine for a season, but when the seasons pass, they are forgotten. For time is merciless to falsehood. Only the poet who dares to write of the real—the hunger of the poor, the sorrow of mothers, the weight of memory—will find their words still alive when generations have come and gone. The truth about time is not abstract; it is the story of our mortality, our brief flame against the vast dark, and our cry to be remembered.

Consider Wilfred Owen, who wrote of the trenches in World War I. His poetry was not clothed in pretty lies about glory and victory; it was filled with gas, blood, and the broken bodies of young men. For this he was condemned by some in his age, but time preserved him. Why? Because he spoke the truth about time, about the human griefs it ordains in war. Today his voice is still heard, more powerfully than generals and kings who boasted of triumph.

Boland herself, writing as a woman in a world of poetry dominated by men, sought to capture the hidden griefs of domestic life: the silences of mothers, the invisibility of ordinary women, the voices long ignored. By writing these truths into her verse, she preserved them against time. She showed that the private life, the household, the overlooked sorrow, is as eternal as battlefields and crowns. In this way, she fulfilled her own dictum, leaving behind words that will not wither.

The lesson is clear: whether poet, artist, or ordinary soul, if you would leave something that endures, let it be grounded in truth. Do not flee from sorrow, for it is common to all mankind. Do not fear time, for though it takes away our days, it also gives weight to our words when they bear honesty. Speak of what is real—your griefs, your loves, your longings—and your voice will echo even when your body has turned to dust.

Therefore, let your daily practice be this: live with eyes open to the truth of time. When you write, paint, speak, or simply remember, do not hide behind illusions. Tell the story of your days as they truly are. Honor the griefs and the joys alike, for both are ordained by life. If you do this, then you, too, will join the chorus of human voices carried forward through centuries, unbroken, enduring, and alive.