Poetry is also the physical self of the poet, and it is

Hear the profound words of Salvatore Quasimodo, poet of Italy and voice of sorrow and hope: “Poetry is also the physical self of the poet, and it is impossible to separate the poet from his poetry.” In this statement is revealed a truth as old as song itself: that verse is not merely an arrangement of words, not merely an art of ink and parchment, but the very embodiment of the writer’s being. To read a poem is to touch the breath, the heartbeat, the body of the poet; and to know the poet is to know the living source from which the words flow.

The ancients understood this truth. Homer’s poetry was not only the tale of warriors and gods—it was the blind singer himself, his voice carried across generations, his body’s rhythm etched into the hexameter. Sappho’s verses are not mere fragments on papyrus; they are her sighs, her longing, her very body reaching across centuries to embrace us. To imagine that a poet’s work can be detached from the poet’s life is folly. For Quasimodo, survivor of war and despair, this truth was forged in suffering: his poems bore the wounds of his flesh and the memories written upon his body by history itself.

Consider Wilfred Owen, the English soldier-poet of the First World War. His verses were not crafted in the safety of distance; they were written in the trenches, under the scream of shells, with mud and blood staining his paper. His poetry is his body—his gasping lungs, his trembling hands, his weary eyes. When he died days before the Armistice, his words remained as the extension of his being, inseparable from the man who lived and suffered them. Quasimodo’s wisdom echoes here: to read Owen is to meet Owen himself, not just his lines.

Quasimodo also points to a mystery: that when a poet writes, his body is transfigured into words. Breath becomes rhythm, heartbeat becomes meter, flesh becomes metaphor. The poet does not stand outside his work, arranging it like an artisan shaping clay—he pours himself into it, so that the poem is as much his body as his flesh. This is why we cannot separate Dante from his Divine Comedy, or Neruda from his odes, or Quasimodo from his own elegies. To read their poems is to encounter their living presence, preserved through language.

But there is warning here too. If poetry is the self, then it must be approached with reverence. Too often readers treat verse as puzzle or ornament, dissecting it as though it were detached from the soul that bore it. Yet Quasimodo reminds us: to touch a poem is to touch a life. When we read, we hold in our hands not mere words, but the heartbeat of another human being, often exposed in its most vulnerable state. We must handle such offerings with care, for they are sacred vessels of flesh and spirit.

The lesson for us is clear: if you would write poetry, know that you are offering not just words but yourself. Do not fear this vulnerability, for it is the source of truth. And if you would read poetry, do not treat it as a dead artifact but as a living encounter with another soul. Ask not only “What does this mean?” but also, “Who speaks here? What life beats within these lines?” In this way, reading becomes communion, and writing becomes incarnation.

Practical actions follow. Keep a journal of verse, even if only for yourself, so that your own body and being may find expression. When reading poetry, read aloud, for the poet’s breath is reborn in your own. Share poems with others, not as academic exercises, but as living voices that demand presence and listening. In doing so, you honor Quasimodo’s truth: that poetry is the poet’s self, inseparable, indestructible, and eternal.

Thus let us carry Quasimodo’s wisdom: poetry is not outside the poet but within, not separate from the body but made of it. When we read, we encounter the living self of another; when we write, we preserve our own being for those yet unborn. To honor poetry is to honor humanity itself, for every poem is a body speaking across time, crying, loving, and living still.