Poetry is emotion, passion, love, grief - everything that is

F. Sionil Jose, the great Filipino novelist and voice of conscience, once declared: “Poetry is emotion, passion, love, grief—everything that is human. It is not for zombies by zombies.” In these words, he gives us a powerful reminder of what poetry is meant to be: the very breath of humanity, a vessel for the deepest stirrings of the soul. Poetry is not mechanical, not lifeless, not sterile—it is the cry of the heart, the fire of the spirit, the tears of loss, the laughter of love. To write or read poetry without these things is to make of it an empty shell, a corpse without life.

The meaning of his warning is sharp: beware of a world where art becomes soulless. A “zombie” in Jose’s metaphor is not a monster of horror tales, but a person who has lost touch with their inner fire—one who goes through motions without feeling, who repeats words without believing, who creates art without humanity. Poetry that is written in such a way—void of passion, stripped of love, disconnected from grief—becomes nothing more than noise. It is “by zombies, for zombies,” and it fails to nourish the human spirit.

The ancients understood that poetry was not a luxury, but a necessity of life. When Homer sang of Troy, he was not merely recounting battles; he was carrying the grief of fathers, the love of warriors, the rage of Achilles, the sorrow of Priam. When the Psalms were sung in Israel, they were not academic exercises; they were cries of despair, of hope, of praise—raw expressions of the human heart before the divine. To remove emotion and passion from poetry would be to strip it of its very essence.

History also bears witness to this truth. In the darkest hours of apartheid in South Africa, poets like Mongane Wally Serote and Keorapetse Kgositsile gave voice to their people’s grief and love for freedom. Their words burned with such passion that they could not be silenced, even when banned. Those poems were not for “zombies”; they were for living, breathing people who needed strength. The art of the oppressed always reminds us: poetry that matters is poetry alive with humanity.

Jose’s words also warn us against complacency in our own time. In an age of mechanical repetition, of empty slogans, of formulas for beauty, it is easy for art to lose its vitality. When poets write only to impress, when readers skim only to analyze, then poetry dies a little. It becomes art without soul, words without blood. That is why he insists that true poetry is “everything that is human.” It is not perfect form that gives a poem life, but the beating of the heart within it.

The lesson, then, is clear: when you create, create with honesty. Pour into your words the fullness of your love, the depth of your grief, the fire of your passion. Do not fear vulnerability; it is the soul of poetry. And when you read poetry, do not read as a zombie—read as one alive, ready to feel, ready to be pierced, ready to be transformed. Only then does poetry fulfill its purpose: to awaken us to our humanity.

Practically, this means allowing space in your life for art that stirs you. Write when your heart overflows. Share poems that move you, not merely those that are praised by critics. When you encounter lifeless art, reject it; when you find living art, embrace it. And above all, resist the temptation to become numb, to walk through life like a zombie. For poetry is a reminder that to be human is to feel deeply, to weep, to rejoice, to rage, to hope.

Thus, Jose’s wisdom endures: “Poetry is emotion, passion, love, grief—everything that is human. It is not for zombies by zombies.” To be human is to feel, and to feel is to live. Poetry is the language of that life, and when it is true, it awakens even the deadened heart. Let us, then, be alive in our words, alive in our art, and alive in our souls. For only then do we honor the fullness of our humanity.