The first question at that time in poetry was simply the

Hear the voice of George Oppen, a poet who endured war, silence, and exile, and who returned to words as one returns to a sacred duty: “The first question at that time in poetry was simply the question of honesty, of sincerity.” In this declaration lies the foundation of all true art. Before beauty, before form, before technique, comes truth. Without honesty, a poem is but an ornament, a shell without life. Without sincerity, even the most dazzling verse is hollow, for it does not carry the heartbeat of the poet.

The ancients themselves revered this principle. When Pindar sang of victors, he did not flatter idly but sought to speak the truth of their glory, the essence of their deeds. When the Hebrew psalmists cried out, they did not veil their anguish or joy; they poured forth unvarnished emotions, whether lament or praise. Their sincerity gave their words the power to endure. Thus Oppen, though a modern, stands in an ancient lineage: he reminds us that poetry at its core is not performance but witness.

Consider Oppen’s own life. He fought in World War II, saw the devastation of men and cities, and for many years fell silent, believing that words could not bear the weight of truth. When he returned to poetry, it was not to create illusions but to speak with honesty about what he had seen: the streets of cities, the endurance of people, the dignity of labor, the raw presence of existence itself. His verse was stripped of ornament, carved down to essentials, because he believed that to be sincere was more important than to be grand.

History gives us another example in the figure of Wilfred Owen, the soldier-poet of the Great War. His contemporaries often wrote patriotic verse, gilded and triumphant, but Owen chose honesty. He described the gas attacks, the broken bodies, the bitter truth of the trenches. He was not writing to please, but to reveal. And because he was sincere, his words outlived the pompous lies of his age. This is the power Oppen spoke of: that sincerity gives poetry its immortal weight.

Oppen’s statement also warns us against the temptation of falsehood in art. Too often, poets have chased applause by crafting what they thought the world wanted to hear, adorning their verses with hollow beauty. But without honesty, such poetry fades quickly, like flowers cut from their roots. True poetry, even if rough, endures because it is born from truth. It may not flatter the ear, but it pierces the heart.

The lesson for us is clear. If you write, let your first question always be: am I sincere? Am I speaking truthfully, even if awkwardly, even if painfully? Do not polish your words until they shine falsely; let them breathe with the air of lived experience. And if you read, seek out poetry that carries this weight of truth, that does not disguise life but reveals it. For in such words, the soul finds strength, comfort, and recognition.

Practical actions follow. Begin your own writing with experience, not with cleverness. Write what you see, what you know, what you feel, without fear of its roughness. Test your words by reading them aloud and asking yourself if they ring true to your own heart. As a reader, cherish poets who speak with raw honesty—those who reveal life as it is, not as it pretends to be. Carry a verse of theirs with you, as a reminder that sincerity is the lifeblood of all art.

Thus George Oppen speaks across generations: poetry is built not first on beauty, nor on form, but on honesty and sincerity. This is the foundation upon which all lasting verse must rest. Let us then honor his teaching, by seeking truth in our words, in our art, and in our lives—so that what we create may endure, not because it pleases for a moment, but because it reveals forever.