Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to

Salvatore Quasimodo, the Sicilian poet who bore witness to the anguish of war and the quiet resilience of the human soul, once declared: “Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.” In these words he unveils the great mystery of poetry—that what begins in solitude as the most private of emotions becomes, when written, a mirror for the hearts of countless others. The poet, trembling in his solitude, thinks his sorrow or joy belongs to him alone. Yet when the words are released, they strike the reader like lightning, awakening the recognition: this is mine, too.

The ancients knew this secret. When Sappho wrote of love’s fire and heartbreak upon the island of Lesbos, she spoke from her own heart, with no thought that centuries later strangers would read and find their own longings in her lines. When David composed psalms of grief and praise, he poured forth what he thought were the cries of his own soul. Yet those psalms became the prayers of a people, and through the ages, they have remained the voice of humanity itself. This is what Quasimodo means: poetry begins as individual revelation, but it becomes universal truth through the recognition of others.

History gives us vivid proof. Consider the poetry of Maya Angelou, who wrote of the pain of oppression and the triumph of resilience. She did not pretend to speak for all; she spoke from her life, her struggles, her voice. Yet when she declared, “Still I rise,” people of every nation, race, and burden felt those words rise within themselves. They became not only her song, but theirs. The personal became universal, just as Quasimodo described.

There is a paradox here, one that is both humbling and heroic. For the poet often feels most alone in his feelings—ashamed of their intensity, uncertain of their worth. Yet it is precisely this honesty, this willingness to reveal the interior, that allows the poem to bridge the abyss between souls. The poet dares to uncover what others hide, and in that daring, he gives courage to the reader, who suddenly knows he is not alone. Thus poetry is both revelation and communion, both confession and bond.

And yet, Quasimodo reminds us, the poet cannot know in advance what the reader will recognize. The poet must write in faith, believing that his personal truth, once spoken, may awaken echoes beyond his hearing. This demands both humility and trust: humility to admit one’s own vulnerability, and trust that this vulnerability may serve others. The poet reveals not to boast, but to share—and in sharing, transforms solitude into fellowship.

The lesson for us is this: each of us carries within our hearts feelings we believe to be ours alone—sorrows too heavy to speak, joys too fragile to share. But when spoken, when given form—whether in poetry, song, or simple conversation—these feelings often awaken recognition in others. We discover that the most personal is often the most universal. And in that discovery, both speaker and listener are healed, for both learn that the human heart is not solitary, but joined in secret kinship.

Practical wisdom flows from Quasimodo’s teaching. If you feel deeply, do not bury it; give it voice. Write it, sing it, or speak it, not to seek fame, but to seek connection. Read poetry with an open heart, and when a line pierces you, know that you have touched the thread that binds human souls across time and space. And above all, live with honesty—your interior truths may become the light that guides another through darkness.

Thus the words of Salvatore Quasimodo endure: “Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal which the reader recognizes as his own.” In this miracle, we find the true power of art—that one heart may speak, and a thousand may answer, This is my voice, too.