Poetry has never been the language of barriers, it's always been

"Poetry has never been the language of barriers, it's always been the language of bridges." Thus spoke Amanda Gorman, the young poet whose voice rang across the world at a time of division and uncertainty. In this truth lies the essence of what poetry has always been: not a wall to divide peoples, but a bridge to connect hearts. Where politics may harden, and where violence may shatter, poetry softens and binds. It carries across cultures and generations the reminder that we share the same breath, the same longing, the same fragile humanity.

The ancients themselves knew this power. Homer’s epics were sung not to separate Greeks from one another, but to bind them in a common story of heroes and gods. The Psalms of David were not written to erect barriers of language, but to raise prayers that could be uttered by shepherd and king alike. The very form of poetry—rhythmic, memorable, meant to be spoken aloud—was designed to travel, to leap over the walls of illiteracy, distance, and time. Amanda Gorman’s words remind us that poetry is not a fortress; it is a bridge across the waters that divide us.

History bears witness to this bridging power. In South Africa, under the long shadow of apartheid, it was not only speeches and laws that carried the hope of freedom, but also the verses of poets like Dennis Brutus and Mongane Wally Serote. Their poems crossed barriers of race and language, stitching together a movement that could not be silenced. The government tried to build walls of separation, but the language of bridges—poetry—slipped through the cracks and connected the oppressed in solidarity.

Or consider the Harlem Renaissance of the early 20th century. Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, and other poets turned the struggles of Black America into verse that resonated across racial lines. Their poetry did not remain confined to Harlem; it spilled into the wider world, awakening empathy in strangers who might otherwise have remained distant. The barriers of prejudice and ignorance were challenged not only by protest, but by the bridges built in rhythm, imagery, and song. Poetry made others feel what they had not lived, and in that feeling, connection was born.

Amanda Gorman’s own rise is proof of her words. When she stood at the inauguration of an American president in 2021, the nation was fractured by conflict, fear, and suspicion. Yet in that moment, her poem The Hill We Climb was not a barrier but a bridge—drawing people of many parties, races, and ages into a shared vision of healing. Her language did not seek to exclude, but to invite. In her youthful voice, people recognized the eternal function of poetry: to make us one.

The lesson is clear: if you seek to heal, build bridges, not walls. If you wish to reach another heart, speak not in the language of division but in the language of poetry, whether literal or metaphorical. This does not mean that one must be a poet by trade. It means learning to speak with empathy, to tell stories that connect, to use words not as weapons but as threads that bind. To build barriers is easy; to build bridges requires vision, humility, and courage.

Practically, this means choosing our words with care. When you speak, ask: does this word build a wall, or does it lay a plank for a bridge? Listen to the stories of others, even if they are unlike your own. Write your own small poetry—whether in verse or in kindness—so that it may connect rather than divide. In conversations, in conflicts, in daily life, choose the language of bridges.

So remember, children of tomorrow: poetry is not the language of barriers, but of bridges. From ancient epics to modern verses, from songs of lament to chants of freedom, it has always carried us toward one another. In a world too eager to divide, hold fast to this wisdom: speak as poets do—not to separate, but to unite, not to harden, but to heal. For only by building bridges can humanity cross into its better self.