Poetry and Politics: Why the Artist’s Voice is Important (and Necessary) in the National Dialogue

I’ve written about this before, but I think now, more than ever, we must discuss the poet’s role in politics - and the ways we can use our voice to discuss and dismantle the systems that infringe upon our basic human rights.

Photo from Politico

“History will rightly remember today’s violence at the Capitol, incited by a sitting president who has continued to baselessly lie about the outcome of a lawful election, as a moment of great dishonor and shame for our nation.”

— Former President Barack Obama

I don’t think I have to tell you why I’m writing about this right now. I’m pretty sure, whether you’re in the United States or not, you have a pretty clear idea of what’s happening here right now. 

On Tuesday night, I went to bed knowing that Trump supporters were swarming Washington, D.C. There were several staying across the street from my apartment, and, while I knew that there would surely be unrest in the city, something I’m quite used to at this point, never would it have occurred to me that they would dare breach the Capitol Building. 

It left me feeling a lot of ways. Helpless. Disbelieving. Sick to my stomach. Interestingly enough, I also felt absolutely stripped of language. I sat in front of the TV and watched in unthinking horror as Capitol police brandished their weapons at the hordes of insurrectionists and white supremacists rushing into the halls of Congress. My brain was an empty, buzzing place of surrealness because surely, this could not be happening. 

But here we are. It happened.

And less than a week later, we’re left with uncertainty. With a delusional president and his delusional masses. With a split Congress, though now a Democrat-majority Senate, with half trying to impeach and the other still attempting to appease. And, we, the American populace, are left to simmer with our emotions, destined to be dissatisfied with the result and unable to cope with what we’ve just witnessed.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema from Unsplash

So what do we, as artists, do? We do what we always do. Create.

In essence, I think it’s almost the duty of the poet, the artist, the fiction writer to criticize the institutions that actively infringe on us, on our rights to live or have bodily autonomy. It is our duty to write about what pains us, to bring it to light, and to allow those who don’t have the language to heal with us.

Now, we’re facing a crisis in our own country, on the shores of democracy itself, and writing is one of the ways I can contribute. To heal me and hopefully others around me. It’s a way to come to terms with my feelings, as I do on any topic, and to start healing from the national trauma of the moment. In addition to that, it’s a way to critique the state and the actors who are contributing to its harm. 

There are so many poems that do this. Think of the poem “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holiday and Abel Meeropol or “What Kind of Times Are These” by Adrienne Rich. There is value in this, in this poeticization of the political. And I hope to contribute just the same.

Share your thoughts on the recent events in the capital in the comments. I’d love to engage in dialogue/share your frustrations. My political poem is below.

What living in the nation’s capital feels like right now

As someone who studied international politics,

And as someone who lives at the heart of

“Democracy,” the last 24 hours have been

Humbling, to say the least.

I have examined crumbling democracies,

But never like this. Never with

Phosphorous-melted lungs dripping from

My rib cage to my small intestine, never

With skin set to catch flame, never with an

Anger that has halted poetry. That has ended

The connection between my words and the

Page. 

There are beautiful ways to say things. There is

Art to craft in the midst of it. But there are

Also white supremacists peering into my apartment

From the hotel across the street. There are insurrectionists

Less than three miles from my house, calling for

My words to be stripped and hanged, for my rights

As a woman, as a person of mixed ancestry to remember

What America used to look like.

There aren’t enough words to describe

What my body feels like. To explain why I 

Collapsed into tears last night, or why my back

Is trained to the TV, my ears finger-plugged to stop

The constant reminder of the deep polarization we

Have become. There isn’t poetry 

Anymore. There are line breaks, and there is

War.