The Politics of Poetry: Why the Margins Have Always Been the Center
“Poetry is the lens we use to interrogate the history we stand on and the future we stand for. It’s no coincidence that at the base of the Statue of Liberty, there is a poem.” — Amanda Gorman
In today’s literary culture, poetry lives in the margins. For all its power, poetry is often treated as niche, unmarketable, or too abstract to be taken seriously. It slides under the radar—underestimated, undervalued, underrepresented. It resists simplification. It doesn’t bend easily to capitalism. It doesn’t promise clarity or closure or commercial success. It speaks in metaphor and memory. It breathes. It lingers. It says what others won’t—or can’t.
Poetry didn’t start on the page—it started in the body. In the voice. In rhythm and chant and repetition. In ancient cultures, poetry was a vessel of memory, identity, and resistance. Griots in West Africa passed down entire histories through verse. Indigenous communities embedded knowledge into song and oral tradition. In ancient Greece, poets were public figures, not fringe artists. Religious texts—from the Quran to the Torah to the Psalms—used poetic structure to deliver divine truth. Poetry wasn’t just respected—it was necessary.
But over time, especially in the West, poetry was pulled from the collective and placed in the hands of the elite. With the invention of the printing press, the rise of literary institutions, and the formation of publishing houses in the 18th and 19th centuries, a new standard emerged. One that decided who got to speak, what counted as “real” poetry, and whose stories were worth preserving.
Even though poetry predates the novel, the newspaper, and the printing press—even though it was once central to civic life, ritual, and protest—once a literary market emerged, everything changed. Publishing houses and academic institutions stepped in, and with them came gatekeepers. Suddenly, poetry had to follow rules. It had to look a certain way, be written by certain people, speak in a certain voice. It had to be “literary”—as defined by the very institutions that excluded most of us to begin with.
Unsurprisingly, those standards mirrored the power structures of the time. The canon was built around white, upper-class, male ideals. Rationality was praised. Emotion was pathologized. Universality was code for whiteness. Anything that strayed—be it culturally specific, gendered, queer, or angry—was labeled “less than.”
I think of sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital here. Bourdieu argued that certain forms of knowledge, expression, and taste are privileged by dominant institutions—and those who possess them are more likely to access power. In the literary world, that has meant those who fit a narrow mold—white, cisgender, affluent, male—are more likely to be published, preserved, and praised. Meanwhile, poetry written outside that mold—by women, by colonized people, by queer writers, by working-class artists—was either ignored or expected to conform.
Form became a site of control. The sonnet and the ode were upheld as superior. Free verse and spoken word were relegated to the sidelines. And even today, that legacy persists. Just ask any emerging poet who’s been told their work is “raw” or “too personal” or “not literary enough.”
But here’s the thing: those margins? That’s where the real work has always happened.
Because while publishing gatekeepers have always tried to tame poetry, real poets never stopped using it to disrupt. They never stopped using it to document, to mourn, to remember, to rage, to imagine otherwise. The most transformative poetry hasn’t come from the center. It’s come from the edges. From the fire escapes and borderlands and barbershops and bedrooms. From the people who were told they didn’t belong. From the voices no one expected to hear.
This is the history we inherit—and the one we continue to write.
Poetry is not weak. It’s not soft. It’s not secondary. It has always been one of our most radical tools. Precisely because it’s been overlooked. Precisely because it refuses to conform. Because it’s hard to sell. Because it doesn’t promise a resolution. Because it lives in contradiction. Because it makes space for truth. It lives where other forms of language can’t. In a world that tells so many of us our voices don’t matter, that is nothing short of revolutionary. That is why poetry is—and always has been—political.
The history of poetry as political is complex and far-reaching. Countless poets across cultures, regions, languages, and periods have used verse to resist oppression, redefine power, and speak their truths in stanza. To say that poetry is political is not just to suggest that some poems discuss politics. It is to recognize that poetry itself—who gets to write it, whose voices are published, what subjects are taken seriously, and what gets banned or buried—is deeply embedded in the structures of power. Poetry is political because it is born from a world shaped by systems: patriarchy, white supremacy, colonialism, capitalism. And when we write—especially Black women, women of color, and all queer, trans, disabled, or working-class people—we are writing against our erasure within those systems. We are writing ourselves into a world that has historically denied us voice, space, and value.
We know this because history proves it. Read Systemic Racism and Inequity in Book Publishing to learn more about the biases in the industry that still exist today.
Phillis Wheatley, an enslaved African girl, shattered expectations when she published her first book in 1773—the first book of poetry by a Black person in America. Her mastery of classical form did not silence her subversion; it magnified it. Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, born free in 1825, used verse to expose the moral contradictions of a nation built on slavery. Georgia Douglas Johnson transformed her home into a literary haven for Black artists during the Harlem Renaissance and used poetry to explore racial violence and female sorrow. Audre Lorde, Nikki Giovanni, Gloria Anzaldúa, Janice Mirikitani, Mitsuye Yamada—the list is long, the legacy undeniable. Each of these women used poetry to not just record the world, but to challenge it.
Even when the form itself has been fractured—like in M. NourbeSe Philip’s Zong!, which breaks apart colonial legal language to mourn the massacre of enslaved Africans—poetry continues to resist. Even when it’s whispered through translation, coded through metaphor, or spoken on stages and screens instead of printed on pages, poetry lives. It endures. It expands.
And it still lives today. Through Amanda Gorman. Through Fatimah Asghar. Through Warsan Shire. Through the countless women whose words travel further than our bodies sometimes can—across classrooms, timelines, borders. Read 120 Years of Poetry: 16 Influential Black Women Poets From Then to Now to explore more notable writers.
Poetry has always been a form of political literacy, emotional survival, and cultural documentation. It’s a record of what America wanted to forget, and what these women demanded we remember.
These women have shown us that poetry is not separate from political life. It is a pulse running through it. It connects resistance across centuries, continents, and crises. Whether hidden in a convent, published from a plantation, spoken in protest, or broadcast across the internet, poetry has been a site of rebellion, healing, and reimagination.
And in this political climate—where women’s rights, trans rights, queer rights, immigrant rights, and reproductive rights are constantly under attack—poetry is still just as imperative. Maybe even more so. We are living in a time where truth is manipulated, silenced, or punished. Where books are banned, history is rewritten, and bodies—especially marginalized ones—are debated as if they are theories and not lives.
For me, poetry has always been a way through. A lifeline. A language I could trust when the world didn’t make sense. When I couldn’t say something directly, I could write it in metaphor. I could bury the truth in imagery and still feel safe knowing it had been spoken. Poetry has given me a place to name grief, to make meaning of injustice, and to imagine a different kind of future. It’s not just a craft—it’s how I survive.
And I know I’m not alone in that. So many of us—especially those who have been silenced, erased, or ignored—have turned to poetry to make sense of things that cannot be explained. To preserve what we’re told to forget. To say, I am here, even when the world insists we are not.
That’s why we need to hold space for poetry. We need to keep reading it, writing it, sharing it—especially now. Not because it’s trendy. Not because it will sell. But because it reminds us of what’s real. It re-sensitizes us. It gives us back our feeling in a culture obsessed with numbness. It reminds us that softness is not weakness, that vulnerability is not the opposite of power, and that art has always been one of the fiercest forms of resistance.
At Our Galaxy, we believe in using our voices and our platforms not just to uplift poetry, but to fight for justice. That’s why we’re releasing the Poetry is Political tote, with 100% of proceeds going to the Center for Reproductive Rights. Silence and complacency are not an option—and poetry has always taught us how to speak up, how to bear witness, how to act.
Poetry is not just the record of resistance. It is the resistance.
For Poets Who Want to Publish but Don’t Know Where to Start
Publishing poetry isn’t always straightforward, especially when you’re not writing what the industry considers mainstream. A lot of poets get stuck trying to figure out where their work fits, what options are actually available, and how to move forward without watering anything down.
The truth is, poetry has long been marginalized in the publishing world—deemed too niche, too quiet, or too unprofitable to prioritize. We unpack this in our blog Why Publishing Poetry Is Harder Than Other Genres (But No Less Worth It), which explores why poetry is often overlooked and why that makes it all the more vital to keep writing and publishing it.
If you're ready to begin your publishing journey but unsure where to start, our blog How to Publish a Poetry Book: What Every Poet Needs to Know is a great place to dive in. It breaks down the traditional and indie paths for poets, offering clarity on how to navigate submissions, find the right press, and make informed decisions without compromising your work.
We work directly with poets who are serious about getting their work into the world but need clarity, direction, or support. That might mean helping you understand your publishing options—from small presses to self-publishing—or building a plan to start submitting your work. We offer one-on-one consultations to help you assess your next steps, strengthen your platform, and make intentional choices based on your goals.
We also connect poets with editors who understand the form, the craft, and the politics of poetry. Whether you're working on a manuscript or just starting to gather your pieces, we offer guidance rooted in education, access, and care—because poetry deserves to be seen, and you deserve support that doesn’t ask you to shrink.
Our Galaxy Publishing is an educational and service-based platform that helps writers navigate the publishing industry with clarity, confidence, and creative control. Whether you’re self-publishing, seeking a literary agent, or still figuring out W T F you’re doing, we provide the tools, resources, and support to make your writing and publishing journey intentional, strategic, and powerful.