In times such as these, prose feels like an ineffectual tool. The language of reason, of facts, of well-laid arguements seems no match for the flames of fascism. Fascism brings to life its own vocabulary of hate, of stark binaries, of outright lies. It invokes a mythic past and promises a magical future. Mad hate cannot be conquered by reason, or sarcasm, or education, it must be conquered by love.
The resistance must find its own language of love and hope. Its not enough for its words to illuminate, they must uplift. The writers must cede ground to the poets, or become poets themselves. Words of prose are ingested, digested and assimilated or forgotten. Words of poetry keep ringing in the readers' heads. They come from a deeper place and hence travel further. Shorn of intellectual affectation, they speak to the human spirit. And, the language of resistance must speak to the human spirit, to hearts not to heads. It is challenging to do that without relying on the language of hate, of blind anger, of machismo. Which is why the poets of the resistance are infinitely better than the poets of fascism.
The resistance must find its own language of love and hope. Its not enough for its words to illuminate, they must uplift. The writers must cede ground to the poets, or become poets themselves. Words of prose are ingested, digested and assimilated or forgotten. Words of poetry keep ringing in the readers' heads. They come from a deeper place and hence travel further. Shorn of intellectual affectation, they speak to the human spirit. And, the language of resistance must speak to the human spirit, to hearts not to heads. It is challenging to do that without relying on the language of hate, of blind anger, of machismo. Which is why the poets of the resistance are infinitely better than the poets of fascism.
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