A Poet's Voice

by Meg Xu

Art is the Lie that enables us to realize the truth

-Pablo Picasso

Art is the voice of the soul; a profound language that transcends the limits of words and logic. Brushstrokes on canvas, movements on a stage, or frames of a film capture the depth of emotions and ideals that the mind struggles to articulate. As we are told of our planet’s impending doom—species vanishing at an alarming rate, ecosystems crumbling, weather patterns failing—it is only natural to turn to art. In times of crisis, art becomes more than self-expression; it becomes a beacon of hope, a call to action, and a bridge between despair and change.

Through mediums like documentaries, eco-friendly fashion shows, and dance performances, artists and activists alike are raising their voices to protect the Earth. Documentaries unveil the raw truth of environmental destruction, fashion shows redefine sustainability with creativity, and dance performances embody the fragility and resilience of nature. These artistic expressions are not just acts of creation—they are acts of conservation, urging us to see, feel, and act before it’s too late.

Below is an example of a student raising her voice up through poetry inspired by a tapestry. Her poem gives voice to those who have lost their homes due to climate disaster. This is her method of making a difference.

The sky mocks

Its soft pink swirls             delicate        artistic                full of derisive laughter              

each wilting blossom intertwined 

with locks of precious glossy hair, matted

glass smooth waters  .once rising to engulf lives whole  pausing only to stare into each terrified face and say:

You have done this to me  

under a setting sun  a thousand frayed edges and drowned voices 

I am screaming to be heard

cherry print suitcase                            bulging at each seam                        with the last remnants of

The weeping willow                      where my we spent a sunny afternoon in each others arms

The checkered quilt                      mama knit               

by hand

The most crimson of roses                   always the most thorny            grandpaps pricked his aged hands on every year                             for the love of                   his life 

The white paint                  paps used to paint the splintering fence      staining his hands          for days                                                

Swept away under the raging howl of debris and water 

flooded               destroyed                    abandoned

weary journey                            after journey                                     after journey

Home 

What is home? 

uprooted                             until 

each root crumbles on touch and the last of spring drains out of each leaf 

I scream 

curse the sympathy in the eyes of those who do nothing but pity

offering nothing but                            “oh you poor souls” and a          single            wry             smile 

occasionally I scream until my lungs burn                         

and even then                                   find myself       unheard

you slice off your                      ears and                                 gouge out                      your eyes 

trying to delude yourselves back into seductive oblivion

You do not want the truth                               cannot handle its weight 

Would rather I bleed crimson at your feet