Poetry should be able to reach everybody, and it should be able

Hear the voice of Peter Davison, poet and steward of words, who declared with clarity and generosity: “Poetry should be able to reach everybody, and it should be able to appeal to all levels of understanding.” In this truth lies the essence of what poetry was always meant to be—not the possession of an elite, nor the secret cipher of scholars, but a gift for the people, a language that speaks to every soul, whether simple or learned. Poetry, Davison insists, must be like bread and water, nourishment for all, able to stir the heart of a child as well as the mind of a sage.

The meaning here is luminous. Poetry is not confined to a single gate of comprehension. At its best, it works on many levels at once: the music of its rhythm can delight even those who cannot explain it, while its imagery can inspire, and its deeper truths can challenge the reflective mind. A nursery rhyme, simple in words, carries joy and memory; a sonnet by Shakespeare, though rich with complexity, also sings with beauty that anyone can feel. Davison’s vision of poetry is universal: it is a bridge between souls, not a wall of exclusivity.

The ancients knew this principle well. Homer’s epics were sung aloud to warriors and farmers alike, and though not all grasped the subtleties of the gods and fate, all were moved by the heroism of Achilles or the trials of Odysseus. In India, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata were told to kings and villagers, each listener hearing according to their capacity—children marveling at the battles, elders contemplating dharma. Poetry was never meant to be locked in books alone; it was meant to reach everybody, each according to their depth of understanding.

History provides vivid examples of this wisdom. Consider the life of Robert Burns, the ploughman poet of Scotland. His songs spoke to the farmers and laborers who shared his life, yet they also touched scholars and statesmen. A line like “A man’s a man for a’ that” rang as plainly true in the tavern as it did in the halls of power. Burns embodied Davison’s teaching: poetry that appealed to all levels of understanding, uniting people across divisions of class and education.

Yet Davison’s words also carry a rebuke to the modern age, where too often poetry is cloistered in academic halls, dissected by critics, or written in ways that obscure rather than reveal. When poetry forgets its people, when it becomes only an intellectual exercise, it loses its ancient power. For poetry is not a puzzle to be solved but a fire to be felt. To write poetry that only the trained can understand is to betray its deepest calling. True poetry must be layered: simple enough to move the untrained heart, profound enough to challenge the searching mind.

The lesson for us is both simple and profound: if you write, write not only for the critic but for the child, the farmer, the passerby. If you read, do not believe poetry is beyond you—let it speak in the ways it can, whether through rhythm, image, or truth. Poetry belongs to all. The greatest works of verse are those that touch the illiterate and the scholar alike, for they appeal to what is most human in us all: our longing for beauty, meaning, and connection.

Practical wisdom flows from this. Speak poetry aloud, let its music carry. Share it not only in classrooms, but in homes, in gatherings, in celebrations. Write verses that are honest, clear at their surface but rich in depth, so that every reader may find something. And in your own life, look for poetry not only in books but in the rhythm of the seasons, the cadence of voices, the patterns of ordinary days. In this way, poetry becomes not a secret art, but a shared life.

Thus Peter Davison’s words endure as a charge to poets and readers alike: poetry must reach everybody, appealing at all levels of understanding. Let it not be hoarded by the few, but released to the many. For poetry, like sunlight, loses nothing by shining on all; and when it does, it awakens in each soul the recognition that life itself is poetry, waiting to be spoken.