The more one reads poetry, the less tolerant one becomes of any

“The more one reads poetry, the less tolerant one becomes of any sort of verbosity, be that in political or philosophical discourse, be that in history, social studies or the art of fiction.” Thus declares Joseph Brodsky, poet of exile, who knew both the weight of words and the poverty of words misused. In this teaching, he unveils the refining power of poetry: that to steep oneself in its concision and clarity is to grow impatient with empty speech, to hunger only for what is essential and true.

The meaning of this saying rests in the nature of poetry itself. A poem, when well made, wastes nothing. Each syllable carries weight, each line bears necessity. There is no room for excess, no patience for clutter. In poetry, language is tested as gold in fire—burned until all dross is gone, leaving only brilliance. Thus, the more a person immerses themselves in poetry, the more they learn to recognize the difference between speech that enlightens and speech that merely fills the air with noise. Verbosity becomes intolerable, for it offends the ear trained by poetry’s precision.

The origin of this conviction lies in Brodsky’s own life. Born in the Soviet Union, he lived under a regime where language was often twisted into propaganda, where words were multiplied not to reveal truth but to obscure it. To him, political discourse was often swollen with emptiness. His refuge was poetry, where truth was distilled into images sharper than any slogan. He knew, by hard experience, that when language loses discipline, it becomes an instrument of manipulation. Poetry, by contrast, disciplined the mind and defended the soul.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, whose speeches remain etched in history not for their length but for their brevity and power. The Gettysburg Address, spoken in under three minutes, endures as one of the greatest works of American oratory. Why? Because Lincoln, steeped in the rhythms of the Bible and the clarity of verse, learned the poet’s craft of saying much in little. In contrast, his contemporaries often delivered long-winded speeches, now forgotten. This illustrates Brodsky’s point: the more one tastes the sharp wine of poetry, the less one can stomach watered words.

The lesson is clear: if we wish to cultivate discernment, we must immerse ourselves in poetry. For poetry sharpens the mind as a whetstone sharpens a blade. It teaches us to cut through distraction, to demand clarity, to love words not for their abundance but for their accuracy. This is not only an aesthetic preference—it is a moral one. For in politics, in philosophy, in history, verbosity can be a veil for falsehood. But the discipline of poetry guards us against such deception.

Practically, this calls us to a life of careful listening and careful speech. Read poetry daily, not only for beauty but for training. Let it teach your tongue restraint, your ear discernment, your mind simplicity. And when you encounter verbosity—whether in the speeches of politicians, the ramblings of philosophers, or even in your own words—ask: what here is true, what here is necessary, what here is gold, and what is dross? Then let the dross be burned away.

Thus the teaching endures: the reader of poetry cannot abide the flabby, the inflated, the verbose. They are trained to demand from language what is rare, essential, and luminous. And if all people were so trained, then the discourses of politics, philosophy, and history would be purified, and the art of fiction would shine. For as Brodsky teaches, poetry is not only a form of art—it is a school of truth, a guardian of clarity, a shield against manipulation and the tyranny of empty words.