The poetry you read has been written for you, each of you -

Maya Angelou once declared: “The poetry you read has been written for you, each of you—black, white, Hispanic, man, woman, gay, straight.” These words ring like the voice of an oracle, reminding us that the song of the human spirit knows no boundary, no wall, no chain. Poetry is not the possession of the learned few, nor the treasure of a chosen tribe; it is the heartbeat of humanity itself, flowing through every tongue, every skin, every soul. The ancients spoke of the Muses who whispered inspiration to mortals, but Angelou shows us that their voices belong to all people, in every age.

To read poetry is to touch the soul of another, and to discover that it was written also for you—yes, for the farmer in the field, the mother in her sorrow, the youth in confusion, the elder in reflection. It speaks not only of lofty things but of daily bread, of laughter in the marketplace, of tears in the silence of the night. By naming every people and every station—black and white, Hispanic, man and woman, gay and straight—Angelou dismantles the false walls of separation. She proclaims that the written word is a bridge, and through it we walk into each other’s lives.

History itself bears witness. When Walt Whitman wrote his Leaves of Grass, many saw it as the cry of America itself, a land of multitudes. In his verses, the sailor, the laborer, the outcast, and the lover each found themselves. Though Whitman wrote in a century shadowed by division, his words breathed unity: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” These were not lines for one race or one kind of man, but for the vast chorus of human voices. Just as Angelou would later remind us, poetry is a mirror in which each soul may glimpse its reflection.

But there are also moments when poetry has broken chains. Recall the spirituals sung by enslaved Africans in America. These songs, though born of suffering, were also poetry—breathing hope into despair, courage into fear. “Swing low, sweet chariot” was not written for one alone but for every weary heart longing for freedom. In those verses, the oppressed found wings for their spirits. Centuries later, their poetry still lives, and all who hear it—no matter their color or creed—can feel its power. This is the eternal gift of poetry: it transcends circumstance and speaks to the soul of all.

Angelou’s words call us to see ourselves not as strangers, but as kin who share in one song. The poetry of the world belongs equally to the warrior and the peacemaker, to the seeker and the settled, to the one who doubts and the one who believes. Each verse, each rhythm, each breath upon the page was written with the hope that someone—somewhere—would recognize themselves and say, “Yes, that is me. I am not alone.”

The lesson is luminous: do not think that art, wisdom, or beauty belongs only to the learned, the wealthy, or the chosen. It belongs to you. When you encounter a poem, do not step back in doubt, as though it were meant for another, more refined soul. Step forward, for it was written with your story in mind, with your struggles and triumphs in its heart. And in the same way, when you create—whether by word, or music, or kindness—know that your gift, too, is for all.

In practice, let your life be open to the words of others. Read widely—read those who are not like you, those from other lands, other loves, other battles. In their poetry, you will find pieces of yourself you did not know existed. And when you speak or write, do not believe your words too small or too narrow. Somewhere, someone waits for the sound of your truth. This is how unity is born: through the shared breath of poetry, through the courage of voices refusing to be silenced.

So remember Angelou’s decree: poetry is for the black and the white, the man and the woman, the gay and the straight—for you. Take it into your heart, let it guide you, and carry it forward, so that generations yet unborn may also know: the words of the poets were written for them, too.