In poetry, everything can be faked but the intensity of

The Irish bard and Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney, a man whose pen tilled the soil of both memory and myth, once revealed with piercing clarity: “In poetry, everything can be faked but the intensity of utterance.” These words are not a light reflection but a commandment for all who would take up the craft of verse. For in the realm of poetry, technique, structure, and ornament may be learned, copied, and imitated—but what cannot be forged is the intensity of utterance, the raw fire of truth burning in the poet’s voice.

Heaney reminds us that poetry, more than any other art, is the unveiling of the soul. One may disguise words with clever rhymes, cloak lines in borrowed metaphors, or mimic the style of masters long gone. Yet if the voice lacks intensity, if it does not carry the heat of real experience, it will be empty sound, a hollow shell. The heart of the listener will know the difference, for the heart recognizes truth when it is spoken, just as it recoils from the counterfeit. Poetry, then, is measured not by polish but by the force of its utterance.

History itself gives us luminous examples. Consider Wilfred Owen, the soldier-poet of the First World War. His verses were not ornate nor filled with flowery language; they were plain, often brutal. Yet their intensity of utterance was undeniable, for they carried the agony of the trenches, the cries of dying comrades, the disillusionment of youth betrayed. No amount of faking could produce such fire—it came from lived truth. And because of this, his words endure, still burning in the conscience of the world.

Contrast this with poets who mastered form but lacked inner fire. Their works may have dazzled in their time, but they fade into obscurity, for they lacked authentic intensity. The human soul hungers not for cleverness alone, but for the ring of honesty. As Heaney himself, born amid the turmoil of Northern Ireland, knew well: a poet must write not only with craft, but with the weight of lived experience, the urgency of speech that matters. Without that, poetry is a mask with no face beneath.

The deeper meaning of Heaney’s words is this: truth in poetry is not a matter of fact, but of feeling. A poem may invent, imagine, or even deceive in its content, but it must never deceive in its intensity. The emotion, the urgency, the necessity of the utterance must be real. It is not the surface that reveals the poet’s soul, but the heat of their voice, the force that drives their words into the heart of another.

The lesson for us is powerful. If you would write poetry—or if you would live as a poet in your speech and actions—do not seek first to polish or impress. Seek instead to speak from the core of your being. Let your words be lit by intensity, by honesty, by the urgency of what must be said. Technique can follow; the fire must come first. And if you are a reader of poetry, train your heart to hear the difference between faked ornament and true utterance. Trust that the intensity of truth cannot be hidden.

Practical wisdom must follow. When writing, ask yourself: Do these words burn in me? Do they demand to be spoken? If not, do not force them, but wait until the fire comes. When reading, linger not only on meaning, but on intensity—how the words strike your spirit, how they echo in your heart. For this is the measure of poetry’s truth.

Thus remember Heaney’s timeless counsel: in poetry, all can be faked but the intensity of utterance. It is the one thing that cannot be forged, the mark of authenticity, the seal of the poet’s soul upon the page. Cherish it, seek it, embody it—for it is the fire that turns mere words into living flame.