The poet may be used as a barometer, but let us not forget that

Lionel Trilling, a thinker of sharp insight and deep humanity, once declared: “The poet may be used as a barometer, but let us not forget that he is also part of the weather.” In these words he gives us a vision of the poet’s double nature: as one who reflects the age, yet also as one who shapes it. A barometer measures, recording the weight of the air, signaling the storms that are to come. So too does the poet register the tensions, fears, and hopes of his people. But more than that—he is part of the weather itself, stirring the winds, calling the rains, and summoning thunder with the force of his voice.

The ancients knew this truth well. The poet was not a passive scribe but a living force. When Homer sang of Achilles’ rage, he was not only measuring the violence of war but feeding it, magnifying it, immortalizing it. When the Hebrew prophets raised their cries against injustice, they did not merely describe the corruption of kings; they summoned change, their words like lightning splitting the heavens. The poet is both witness and warrior, both barometer and storm. To forget this is to diminish his role, to imagine him as an observer only, when in truth he is a participant in the great drama of history.

History abounds with examples. Consider the role of poets and writers in the French Revolution. Rousseau’s writings, and later the fiery verses of revolutionary poets, were not simply commentaries—they became winds that swept the people into action. They measured the oppression of monarchy, yes, but they also stoked the fire that consumed it. Or think of Pablo Neruda in Chile, whose poems sang of love and labor, of beauty and injustice. He was a barometer of his people’s suffering under tyranny, but his words were also part of the storm that shook the conscience of the world.

This truth holds also in quieter ways. In the Harlem Renaissance, poets like Langston Hughes measured the sorrow and resilience of Black America. His lines captured the weight of inequality, the yearning of a people for dignity. But his words did more than record—they inspired generations, they gave courage, they became winds that carried voices into the future. Thus we see again Trilling’s wisdom: the poet is never outside the weather he describes. He is caught in it, battered by it, and yet through his words he shapes its very direction.

The heroic force of this idea is that no voice is powerless. To speak, to write, to create, is to enter the storm. One may begin as a barometer, reflecting what one sees and feels, but every word spoken with sincerity carries weight, becomes part of the atmosphere of the world. This is not only the role of great poets, but of each of us, for all men and women are poets when they bear witness to their age. The question is not whether we influence the weather, but how.

And here lies the lesson: do not imagine yourself a mere recorder of life, powerless before the tides of history. Know that every word, every act, adds to the storm. If you speak hatred, you darken the sky; if you speak truth and compassion, you open a space for light to break through. To be human is to be part of the weather, whether we admit it or not. Thus, let us act as if our words matter—because they do.

Practical action follows. When you read poetry, do not take it only as a mirror of the world, but also as a force that shapes it. Choose your words carefully, in conversation, in writing, even in silence. Support the poets and artists of your time, for they are not merely reflecting but forging the air you breathe. And in your own life, be mindful: you are not only a barometer of the times you live in, but also a current within them. What you say, what you do, shifts the atmosphere of those around you.

Thus Lionel Trilling’s wisdom is passed down: the poet is both measure and maker, both witness and storm. So too are you. Carry this truth as both burden and gift, and let your words, like the poet’s, help summon not the storm of destruction but the winds of renewal.