If poetry should address itself to the same needs and

Hear, O seekers of wisdom and wonder, the voice of Wallace Stevens, who proclaimed: “If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.” These words are not spoken lightly, but with the weight of one who understood the power of words to move nations and shape civilizations. Stevens, that modern prophet of imagination, suggests that poetry, when it dares to speak to the deepest human longings, could carry the same universality as scripture itself.

For what is the Bible, if not a vast library of human struggle and divine encounter? It speaks to hunger and thirst, to exile and homecoming, to guilt and forgiveness, to life and death. It is read not because it is old, but because it speaks eternally to the hopes and fears of the human soul. Its distribution has circled the earth not through clever marketing, but because its words touch the places where humanity is most vulnerable and most exalted. Stevens, in his boldness, imagines a poetry that could do the same.

Consider that in ancient times, Homer’s epics were more than entertainment; they were sacred repositories of meaning for the Greek people. In his verses they found courage, grief, longing, and fate. For centuries, they served as scripture of a kind, guiding identity and culture. Likewise, the Vedas in India or the Tao Te Ching in China were poetic works that transcended literature, speaking to the fundamental rhythm of existence. Thus, history itself confirms Stevens’s insight: poetry, when aligned with the elemental needs of the human soul, becomes scripture.

But he also implies a critique: that much of modern poetry has withdrawn into obscurity, content to speak only to itself or to the learned few, rather than to the multitude. If it fails to address the raw needs of the human heart, then it cannot rival scripture in scope. For people do not hunger after cleverness; they hunger after meaning. They do not thirst for riddles; they thirst for hope. The poet, therefore, must decide whether to remain in the tower of self or to descend into the marketplace of humanity, bearing words that heal, uplift, and reveal.

We see this truth in the life of Langston Hughes, whose poetry reached beyond bookshelves into the lives of ordinary men and women. He wrote not for scholars but for the people, giving voice to the sorrows and aspirations of African Americans. His words were read and recited because they addressed real fears and genuine hopes. In them, people found themselves mirrored and dignified. Hughes’s poetry traveled widely, not unlike scripture, because it fulfilled a spiritual and emotional hunger.

Thus, Stevens points toward a possibility: that poetry, by embracing universality, might again walk hand in hand with sacred texts in guiding humanity. Imagine a verse that speaks to a widow’s grief, a prisoner’s despair, a child’s wonder, a lover’s devotion, a worker’s fatigue. Imagine a poetry that consoles as the Psalms, that questions as Job, that inspires as the Gospels. Such poetry would not be confined to classrooms but would live in the mouths of millions, passed from heart to heart like bread in times of famine.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, the lesson is clear: if you are a poet, write not only for yourself but for the world. Let your words be rooted in the shared needs, hopes, and fears of humanity. And if you are a reader, seek poetry that speaks beyond ornament, that awakens the soul and gives strength for living. For Stevens has shown us that poetry can aspire to more than beauty—it can aspire to universality, to distribution, to becoming the shared language of the human heart.

So remember: poetry, when it speaks to what the Bible has always spoken to—the eternal questions of life, death, love, faith, despair, and hope—ceases to be mere art and becomes sustenance. It becomes light for the weary, song for the broken, fire for the cold. This is the destiny of great poetry: to rival scripture in its reach, because it dares to touch the eternal in every soul.