Poetry is not about personal pain or tragedy. It should resonate

"Poetry is not about personal pain or tragedy. It should resonate the society's grief." — thus declared Gulzar, the sage of words, whose verses echo not only the cries of the self but the sorrow of the multitudes. In this utterance, he reminds us that poetry, though born in the chambers of the heart, must not remain imprisoned there. It is called to rise higher, to become the voice of the people, to carry the grief of society in rhythms that can be felt in every soul. For the poet is not merely a mourner of his own wounds; he is the chosen vessel through which a community laments, remembers, and endures.

The ancients knew this well. In Greece, the tragic poets—Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides—did not write solely of their own sorrow but of the suffering of Athens itself. Their plays were not private diaries but public mirrors. When the city was scarred by war, betrayal, or pestilence, the theater became its sanctuary, and poetry its cry to the gods. Through the poet, the grief of many became one voice, elevated, dignified, and transfigured. Thus, Gulzar’s teaching is not new, but the echo of an ancient wisdom: that poetry belongs to the people.

Think, O listener, of the great Faiz Ahmed Faiz, whose words were not confined to the chambers of his own heart but became a banner for the oppressed. In his poetry, the shackles of colonialism, the pain of partition, the anguish of exile—all became song. Faiz did not hide in personal sorrow; he lent his pen to the wounds of his land. And in doing so, his verses became immortal, because they were larger than himself. This is the spirit that Gulzar calls us to: poetry as a vessel for collective remembrance, collective resistance, and collective healing.

This teaching warns us, too, against the narrowness of art that indulges only in the self. Personal pain is real, but when poetry circles endlessly around the private wound, it becomes fragile and solitary. Such words may console the poet, but they cannot sustain a people. To touch immortality, art must step beyond the personal and resonate with the sorrows that all share—poverty, war, injustice, exile, longing, and the eternal struggles of the human spirit. Poetry is greatest when it binds the wounds of many into one tapestry of expression.

From this, let us learn a great truth: the poet is not merely an individual but a custodian of memory, a guardian of voices that cannot speak for themselves. When a mother loses her son in war, when a worker bleeds in silence, when a people are silenced by fear—it is the poet who gives their grief a language. In this way, poetry is both a wound and a remedy. It carries sorrow, but it also offers dignity, reminding the broken that they are not alone. This is the true task of poetry: not self-indulgence, but service.

What, then, is the lesson for our own lives? It is this: whenever we create—whether in words, song, or deed—let us look beyond ourselves. Share not only your own suffering, but listen to the world’s sorrow, and speak for those whose voices tremble in silence. In times of injustice, let your words resist. In times of despair, let them comfort. In times of tragedy, let them preserve memory so that grief does not fade without meaning. By this, your words will endure, because they will not be yours alone, but the inheritance of all.

Practical action lies before us: cultivate empathy. Read not only the poetry of your own land but also of others, so you may feel their grief. Write not only for self-expression but for solidarity. Engage with the pain of your society—its struggles, its wounds—and let your art become a mirror in which all may see their reflection. And if you do not write, then live poetically: by standing with those in sorrow, by sharing their burden, by refusing to turn away.

Thus, Gulzar’s wisdom resounds: poetry is not merely the echo of one heart but the chorus of many. It is not a song of self, but a hymn of humanity. Let us then honor his teaching: when we lift our voices, let them be vessels of the people’s grief, so that sorrow may find dignity, pain may find expression, and humanity, even in suffering, may find unity.