We go to poetry, we go to literature in general, to be forwarded

Hear, O seekers of wisdom, the voice of Seamus Heaney, poet of Ireland, who declared: “We go to poetry, we go to literature in general, to be forwarded within ourselves.” These words carry the fragrance of deep truth, a truth older than ink and parchment. For when men and women turn to stories, to songs, to verses carved from the heart, they do not merely seek escape—they seek transformation. They long to be moved beyond their current state, to be carried inward toward the hidden chambers of the soul.

For poetry is no idle ornament, no mere play of sound and rhyme. It is a vessel that carries us across the river of our own limitations. In its rhythms we hear the echoes of our ancestors, in its metaphors we see reflections of our own secret wounds, and in its fire we feel the stirring of new courage. To be “forwarded within ourselves” is to be shifted from stagnation into growth, from silence into voice, from numbness into awakening.

Heaney himself, born in the fields of Derry, grew up amidst toil, conflict, and division. Yet from that soil he drew verses that revealed the dignity of the earth and the endurance of the spirit. His words show that literature is not simply read; it acts upon us, like the rain upon dry ground. We go to it not to remain as we are, but to become more than we were. Just as a traveler leaves home and returns with new vision, so too the reader of a poem returns to their own heart transformed.

Think of the enslaved people in America who sang spirituals in the cotton fields. Those songs were not only laments; they were literature in the living sense—poetry sung to survive, poetry that lifted their spirits beyond bondage. In those moments, they were “forwarded within themselves,” given strength to endure the unendurable, and hope to believe in freedom yet unseen. Their songs prove that poetry is not luxury but necessity, a force that carries the human spirit forward when all else seeks to hold it back.

So too in times of war, soldiers carried books of verse in their pockets. The poems of Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke, written amidst trenches, did not erase suffering, but they gave shape to it. In their lines, men found the courage to endure. Such is the power of literature—it does not change the world around us instantly, but it changes the world within us, and from that inner change, outer strength is born.

Let the lesson be clear: when you feel lost, heavy, or unmoored, turn to poetry. Read lines that have carried others through fire, and you too will find yourself lifted. Do not think it childish or indulgent to read or recite aloud—for these words are medicine for the spirit. They carry you forward into clarity, into courage, into compassion.

Practical is this wisdom: keep with you a book of verses, or a story that touches your soul. Return to it not only in joy, but in sorrow, for in both it will forward you to deeper places. Write your own lines, however simple, for in the act of shaping words you also shape yourself. And share literature with others, for when we forward ourselves together, we forward the world.

Thus Seamus Heaney’s words endure: we do not go to poetry merely for pleasure, nor to literature merely for knowledge, but for transformation. To be forwarded within ourselves is to journey toward the eternal, to walk with greater depth, to live not as shadows but as souls awake. And in this awakening, the ancient purpose of literature is fulfilled.