Poetry Event: "Can Poetry Change the World?"
Can Poetry Change the World?
In today’s world—where reality is dictated by technology, economics, political balances, and scientific progress—the question "Can poetry change the world?" might sound almost naïve, perhaps even irrelevant. Many would suggest it’s just a metaphor. Poetry, they’ll say, is beautiful but useless. The world runs on money, power, machines, and wars—not verse.
But that hasn’t always been the case.
In the 18th and 19th centuries—and even long before—poets weren’t marginal figures. On the contrary, they were idea-bearers, agents of political action. Rigas Feraios, Kalvos, Solomos, Valaoritis, Palamas—if they lived today, they’d likely be public intellectuals or cultural icons. Even Seferis, a Nobel laureate, was a diplomat. These poets understood the profound influence of poetry. It could serve as a revolutionary anthem, a national symbol, a vehicle for purpose and identity. It wasn’t just art; it was existence.
Poetry could speak when speaking was forbidden. It could circulate secretly, coded, as in Engonopoulos’s “Bolivar,” or turn into song and give voice to the voiceless, like Ritsos’s “Romiosyne.” Modern Greece has absorbed the understanding that poetry played a decisive role in its history—its revolutions, its resistance, its cultural soul.
Even today, poetry is still being written—and not just in lyrics. It thrives online, in performances, in collectives. It’s not just an artistic expression; it’s a parallel language outside the system, one capable of expressing the emotional, the traumatic, the complex aspects of life. Especially when written by young people, poetry carries the seeds of what’s to come. Any great poem contains the future in embryo. It doesn’t just reflect the present—it anticipates the world ahead.
Poetry is always more than words. It’s the surplus meaning that arises when language is loaded with sincerity and truth. It touches both heart and mind. It inspires us, comforts us, disturbs us. It makes us reimagine the world. It’s not a superhero swooping in to save the day, but a quiet force, a slow-burning revolution that transforms minds and hearts—one word at a time.
It has moved people to resist injustice, to fight for equality, to rediscover beauty in darkness. It sparks conversations, provokes thought, and sows seeds of change. It may not change the world all at once—but it changes how we see it. And that alone begins the process.
But poetry can’t be consumed like a product, expecting immediate understanding or emotional gratification. True poetry challenges us. It fosters uncertainty. It refuses final answers, just as life refuses to settle. Real change is uncomfortable. And poetry, like change, asks us to step outside our comfort zones.
We can’t measure poetry’s effect. Like our feelings, poetry is unruly. It disrupts the calculations of a materialistic, predatory world. Every transformation begins as an act of imagination. If language is the vehicle of imagination, then poetry is its most extreme form. It’s the lit lamp in Alexandrou’s poem “Poetry 1948,” illuminating messages hidden in lemon juice—secret truths sent by prisoners. Poetry reminds us not just of hope or joy, but of the fact that we feel. And in dark times, that may be enough.
Take Rigas Feraios—his “Thourios” wasn’t just a poem, it was a call to arms. It traveled from mouth to mouth, planting the idea of freedom in the hearts of many. Decades later, Engonopoulos would write about him during the Greek Civil War, casting Rigas as a mythical figure lifting wounded Greece with one hand while meeting the rationalist gaze of Korais with the other. Like Bolivar, Rigas became a symbol of transnational liberty, of visionary rebellion.
In “Gyps and Guard,” Engonopoulos reveals how poetry can resist authoritarianism. The poem alludes to oppression, censorship, and control—but also to a hidden defiance, a poetic presence slipping through the cracks of tyranny. The poem is dedicated to Apollinaire, a poet wounded by war, and evokes other violently silenced voices like Lorca and Mayakovsky. The poet is shown as bandaged, buried, targeted—but still speaking.
This kind of poetry is dangerous because it still threatens. In many places today, poets are imprisoned simply for speaking. Poetry continues to resist.
Surrealism took it further. For André Breton and Nikos Engonopoulos, poetry wasn’t just art—it was a way of living, a total revolt. The surrealists didn’t just oppose logic—they offered a path toward psychic and political liberation. Through automatic writing, black humor, and the “objective chance,” they exposed the tyranny of "reality" and invited us to explore new possibilities. Their politics weren’t an aside—they were central. Surrealism was a practice, a philosophy of action.
Poetry, they believed, wasn’t meant to make sense. It was meant to awaken us. It was meant to transform.
And today? Look around: poetry is alive. In street graffiti, on social media, in spoken word performances and slam poetry, in the verses of rap music. It speaks of injustice, of love, of resistance, of dreams. It fills city walls and internet feeds. It lives in voices that demand change.
So, can poetry change the world?
Yes—but not alone. Poetry changes people. And people change the world.
It doesn’t build systems of power.
It changes what you thought things were.
It changes how you see roles and institutions.
It invites you to dance with it, to look again.
It doesn’t condescend. It doesn’t boast.
It doesn’t use you. It doesn’t bore you.
It’s not difficult—it’s dangerous.
It takes you somewhere unfamiliar. And when you return, you’re a little in love.
You want to do something for it, with it, like it.
You want to write it on a banner and raise it high.
You want to share it with those you love.
It becomes a stance. Once found, you stay with it.
It’s a medium you don’t want to exploit.
It’s a video you’ve seen a thousand times, yet something’s always missing.
It doesn’t take your time—you want to give it your time.
It can sacrifice itself for you. It creates tension, intensity.
It usually lives on the streets.
Never in the drawing rooms—but it can be read in the silence of one.
Those who love poetry love animals.
And in the future, new entities—both artificial and natural—will claim it.
They will want to change the world with it.
So, to your question: yes.
Thank you.
