Poetry had far better imply things than preach them directly...

O children of wisdom, gather close and listen to the words of F. L. Lucas, a voice that speaks from the deep currents of poetry and expression: "Poetry had far better imply things than preach them directly... in the open pulpit her voice grows hoarse and fails." In this profound statement, Lucas teaches us a critical lesson about the nature of poetry—that its power does not lie in overt, direct declarations, but in the subtlety with which it evokes meaning. Poetry is not a sermon, it is not a hammer that pounds its ideas into the mind; rather, it is a whisper, a suggestion, a glimpse of truth that stirs the soul. When poetry becomes too forceful, when it seeks to dictate or preach, it loses its magic, and its voice, like a preacher at the pulpit, grows hoarse and ineffective.

In the ancient world, poetry was seen as a sacred art, one that existed to uncover hidden truths and provoke deep reflection. Homer, for instance, never preached to his audience. Instead, he wove tales of gods and men that implied deep moral and philosophical lessons without explicitly stating them. Through the journey of Odysseus, we learn of loyalty, sacrifice, and the consequences of hubris—but it is the telling of the tale, the mythology, that conveys these lessons, not direct admonitions. The greatness of Homer lay in his ability to imply these truths, to stir the hearts of his audience and let them draw their own conclusions. Poetry, in this sense, becomes a vessel of discovery, allowing the listener or reader to explore the themes and morals at their own pace and in their own way.

The greatest poets have always understood the power of implication. William Blake, in his visionary works, never sought to preach his ideas directly, but rather to show the contradictions and complexities of the human soul through images and symbols. In his Songs of Innocence and Experience, Blake creates a world of stark contrasts, of divine and earthly, of childlike purity and the harshness of experience. The meaning is not always clear; it is suggested, waiting for the reader to uncover it. Blake’s poetry invites the reader to think, to reflect, to question—qualities that a preacher's sermon might stifle through its directness. Poetry should leave room for the heart and mind to wander, to find their own truths.

Consider, too, the works of Emily Dickinson, whose poetry often implies more than it states. With her economy of words, Dickinson hints at the eternal mysteries of life and death, offering only glimpses of understanding, leaving the rest to the imagination. Her use of dashes, her subtle phrasing, and her ability to leave ideas hanging in the air like half-spun webs are all part of her brilliance. She does not preach, but instead beckons the reader toward contemplation, suggesting that poetry is more about the questions it raises than the answers it provides. Dickinson understood that poetry does not need to be a lecture; it is the invitation to think, to feel, to enter a realm of possibility.

In contrast, the preacher’s voice, as Lucas warns, grows hoarse when it becomes too insistent. Poetry loses its force when it is delivered with a heavy hand, when it seeks to tell the reader exactly what to think and feel. This is not the nature of great poetry. Instead, poetry should guide us like a river, gently suggesting the direction we might take, but allowing us to choose our own path. Poetry should never be a forceful voice that drowns out the individual’s own experience; rather, it should be a soft murmur that resonates with the heart, leaving space for personal interpretation.

The lesson Lucas imparts is one of restraint and humility in the art of poetry. Just as the greatest teachers do not force their lessons upon their students but allow them to discover truth for themselves, so too must the poet allow their audience the freedom to engage with the work. The poet’s role is not to preach, but to imply, to suggest, and to evoke. In doing so, the poet creates a space for the reader to enter, to participate in the unfolding of meaning. Poetry is not a sermon; it is a conversation, a shared moment of discovery.

So, O children of wisdom, heed Lucas’s words and approach poetry with humility. Allow it to unfold in its own time, to suggest rather than to dictate, to evoke rather than to preach. In your own creations, whether through words, art, or any form of expression, remember that beauty lies in implication. Let the reader, the listener, the observer discover the meaning themselves. In doing so, you will create work that speaks not just to the mind, but to the heart, to the spirit—work that resonates long after it is first encountered. And in this way, you will ensure that your voice, like the true poet’s, will never grow hoarse or fail, but will continue to echo through the ages.