Still, language is resilient, and poetry when it is pressured

Listen carefully to the wisdom of Diane Wakoski, who speaks of the resilience of language: “Still, language is resilient, and poetry when it is pressured simply goes underground.” In these words, Wakoski speaks to the enduring power of poetry—a force that, even when suppressed or repressed, will find a way to express itself. Poetry, like the very language it is born from, is not easily extinguished. When poetry is silenced in one place, it will seep into another, taking root in the shadows, in the margins, or in the quietest corners of society. Even under pressure, poetry finds a way to survive, to continue, to speak truth, however hidden or veiled. Language, when it is stifled, does not die—it endures, finds new forms, and moves in ways that cannot be easily controlled.

This is a theme that stretches back to the ancient world. Homer and Hesiod, for example, composed their epic poems in an era when oral tradition was the lifeblood of culture. Yet, despite the immense power of their words and stories, there were those who sought to control or suppress the flow of such power. Still, poetry found its way—passed down through generations in the form of songs, recitations, and hidden meanings. Even when the great poets were long gone, their works endured, preserved not just in written texts, but in the very hearts of people who kept the stories alive. Poetry went underground, hidden in the rhythms and sounds of daily life, only to rise again when the time was right.

History is replete with examples of poetry finding underground pathways. During the Reformation, poets and thinkers wrote in secret, hidden within the veils of religious texts or within the metaphors of their works. John Milton, despite the pressure of both religious orthodoxy and political tyranny, wrote Paradise Lost—a work of stunning poetry that addressed profound questions of free will, redemption, and the nature of humanity. His ideas could not be expressed openly, but poetry, in its resistance, found a form that would resonate across time. In this way, poetry did not succumb to pressure; it flourished in secret, crafting meaning and power in the shadows until it could emerge again, stronger than before.

The resilience of poetry under pressure is not merely a historical or political truth; it is also a personal one. Poetry often arises in moments of personal pain or hardship, when individuals feel they have no voice. Think of Sylvia Plath, whose works, filled with darkness and torment, gave voice to the silenced parts of herself. Plath’s poetry went underground, into the recesses of her soul, and yet it found its way out through her writing. Her struggle with identity, isolation, and despair was transformed into art, giving voice to the deeply human experience of suffering. Plath’s words live on, not because they were easy to express, but because they were born out of the depths of repression and struggle. Even when personal or societal forces press down on the poet, poetry finds a way to speak the truth.

Wakoski’s observation is a powerful reminder that poetry cannot be permanently silenced. Just as water finds its way through cracks in rock, so too does poetry find its expression even in the harshest of circumstances. When societies attempt to control language, to suppress dissent or alternative viewpoints, poetry becomes a means of resistance. It slips through the cracks, sometimes veiled, sometimes subtle, but always persistent. Poetry does not exist solely in the realms of the comfortable or the powerful—it thrives where it is needed most: in the underground, in the hearts of those who refuse to be silenced.

The lesson here is clear: the resilience of poetry lies in its ability to survive even when the world tries to bury it. Poetry is a form of resistance—resistance against complacency, against tyranny, against the forces that seek to control or silence expression. For the poet, the message is this: when you feel silenced, when you feel pressure mounting from the world around you, remember that poetry will not die. It will simply find new forms, new places, and new ways to speak. It will take root in places you least expect, and when the time is right, it will rise again.

Practical actions follow. As a poet, do not fear the pressures of society or personal struggle. Poetry is most powerful when it speaks from the depths of your own experience, even when that experience feels hidden or oppressed. Allow poetry to go underground if necessary—use metaphor, imagery, and subtlety to express what needs to be said. As a reader, seek out the voices of poets who speak from the shadows, who resist the pressures of the world. Recognize that poetry often holds the deepest truths, those truths that are hidden from view but endure beneath the surface.

Thus, Wakoski’s words teach us a fundamental truth: poetry cannot be suppressed. Even in the face of pressure, it finds a way to express itself. Poetry is not just an art—it is a force that refuses to be silenced, that rises from the depths to speak the truths that need to be heard. Let us honor this resilience, in both our own writing and in our reading, and recognize that the greatest poetry often comes from those places where it is most needed: the places where silence, repression, and pressure seek to make their mark. In those shadows, poetry thrives.