You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.
Hear the words of Mario Cuomo, the governor and orator of New York, who once declared: “You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.” These words, though uttered in the realm of politics, carry a truth that transcends elections and offices, reaching into the very heart of human aspiration. They remind us that there is a difference between the dream and its realization, between the vision that stirs the soul and the daily labor that sustains it.
For poetry is the language of hope, of passion, of boundless possibility. When one campaigns—whether for the votes of a people, the support of a movement, or even for the trust of a family or a friend—one must speak to the heart. Poetry paints not the world as it is, but as it could be. It lifts the eye beyond the mud and dust of the present to glimpse the horizon of tomorrow. It is why Lincoln spoke of “the better angels of our nature,” why Kennedy promised to “go to the moon,” why Martin Luther King Jr. cried out, “I have a dream.” In each of these moments, it was poetry that inspired multitudes to believe that the impossible could be made real.
But governing—ah, governing is different. Prose is the language of details, of law, of compromise, of budgets and boundaries. To govern is not to soar above the clouds but to walk on the earth, brick by brick, task by task. Prose may not stir the heart, but it builds the roads, funds the schools, heals the sick, and maintains the peace. It is steady, practical, sometimes plain—but it is necessary. For no society can live forever in poetry alone, lest it starve while waiting for a dream.
Consider Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In his campaigns, he spoke in poetry, promising a “New Deal” for the American people. Those words ignited hope in the hearts of millions broken by the Great Depression. Yet once in office, he governed in prose, painstakingly creating agencies, drafting policies, negotiating with Congress, and testing programs that would lay the foundation for recovery. His poetry gave vision, but it was his prose that gave bread and work to the people.
So too we see the danger when leaders forget this balance. Napoleon filled Europe with visions of glory, his campaigns a symphony of poetry about empire and destiny. Yet in governance, he often faltered, weighed down by the prose of administration, law, and lasting stability. Dreams without structure collapse into dust, just as prose without poetry becomes lifeless and empty. The two must exist together, though in different seasons, if the work of leadership is to endure.
O seekers, take this lesson beyond politics. In your own life, you too must learn when to speak in poetry and when to act in prose. In moments of inspiration, lift the hearts of others with vision and hope. Dare to dream aloud. But when it comes time to labor, do not despise the prose of daily effort—the discipline, the detail, the unseen work that turns dreams into reality. For a life lived only in poetry drifts like a cloud, and a life lived only in prose trudges like a stone. Together, they form the rhythm of purpose.
Practical is this wisdom: when beginning a new journey, speak to yourself and to others in poetry. Write down the dream, the vision, the radiant “why.” But each day, live in prose. Break the dream into tasks, into choices, into steady acts of faith. Honor both languages, and you will find yourself moving steadily toward the horizon you once only imagined.
Thus Mario Cuomo’s words endure not only as political wisdom but as a teaching for all humanity: poetry is the song that begins the journey, prose is the map that brings you to its end. Without poetry, we have no vision; without prose, we have no fulfillment. But together, they form the art of life itself.
DTYen nhi Du Thi
I find Cuomo’s distinction between campaigning in poetry and governing in prose insightful, as it sheds light on the contrast between the idealized vision of a candidate and the complex, often slow process of implementing policy. But I wonder if this shift undermines the trust voters place in their leaders. Is it possible to campaign with poetry and still govern effectively, without falling into the trap of disappointing those who believed in the vision?
DMDang thi diem my
Cuomo’s quote is a reminder that while political campaigns can be filled with emotional speeches and hopeful rhetoric, the reality of governing is far more practical. But does that mean we should accept the shift from poetic to practical, or should we demand that politicians maintain their lofty ideals even when in power? How can politicians balance the inspiration of their campaigns with the sometimes harsh reality of governance?
HTThi Ha Tran
This idea of 'campaigning in poetry' and 'governing in prose' speaks to the tension between the idealistic goals set during a campaign and the often complicated, less glamorous work of actually governing. But what if those poetic messages are what get people excited and motivated to vote? How do we avoid losing the passion and inspiration that come from the poetry, without overlooking the practicality of governing?
JJJane Jane
Cuomo’s quote makes me reflect on how political campaigns often seem full of grand promises and poetic speeches, but once in power, the reality is often much more mundane. Does this shift represent a failure of the system, or is it simply the nature of governance? How can voters reconcile the poetic promises of a candidate with the inevitable prose of actual policy implementation? Should we adjust our expectations accordingly?
HAPhung Thi Ha Anh
Mario Cuomo’s quote about campaigning in poetry and governing in prose really resonates. It suggests that political campaigns often rely on idealism, emotion, and powerful rhetoric, while the reality of governance requires practicality and concrete actions. But does that mean we should expect politicians to shift from idealism to realism, or should they strive to maintain their inspiring messages even when in office? Can we balance the two effectively?