A poem gives me a chance to have an encounter with a feeling

Host: The library was nearly empty — only the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint rustle of pages disturbed the hush. Through the tall windows, the evening light fell in slow ribbons, filtering through dust and memory. Outside, the sky was deepening into indigo; inside, the air smelled faintly of paper, ink, and time.

Jack sat hunched over a notebook, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him, its surface rippling every time he tapped his pen against the table. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, eyes following the rhythm of his hand. Her hair fell forward, glinting darkly in the fading light.

A small book of poems lay between them, open to a page worn by thumbprints. On it, in delicate italics, Tracy K. Smith’s words lingered:
A poem gives me a chance to have an encounter with a feeling, with an experience, with a wish, with an idea.

Jack: “An encounter with a feeling,” he muttered, tracing the line with his pen. “Funny how poets make it sound like meeting a person — like you could shake hands with sadness or have coffee with hope.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you can,” she said quietly. “Isn’t that what poetry does? Turns what we can’t touch into something we can face?”

Host: The lamplight flickered, casting shadows that quivered across the pages. The library clock ticked with soft authority, measuring out the silence between their breaths.

Jack: “You think words can really do that? Touch what’s untouchable?” He leaned back, eyes narrowing. “I think poems just trick us — make the chaos sound pretty.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They don’t prettify chaos — they translate it. When you write a poem, you’re trying to understand what your heart already knows but your mind can’t explain.”

Jack: “That’s the thing, Jeeny. I don’t want to understand my feelings. I just want to live past them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — writing.”

Host: His pen stopped midair. A faint smile — bitter, reluctant — flickered across his face. The rain outside began softly, brushing against the glass like fingertips on skin.

Jack: “Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe I’m still stupid enough to think words can fix me.”

Jeeny: “They can’t fix you,” she said gently. “But they can find you.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened, mingling with the low hum of streetlights and the faint echo of laughter from somewhere down the hall. Jack’s eyes softened, losing their edge.

Jack: “You talk like poems are alive.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they? Every poem is a conversation — between who you were and who you’re becoming.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful illusion. But it’s still an illusion.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we cry when a line feels true? Why do we feel less alone reading something written centuries ago? Illusions don’t hold hands with our souls, Jack.”

Host: Her voice had shifted — quieter now, but sharper, like a blade of light. Jack said nothing. He turned the page, reading lines aloud under his breath, each syllable like a pebble dropped into water.

Jack: “You know what I think? A poem’s just a mirror. You look in, and all you see is yourself — the same mess, the same longing, just written prettier.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But mirrors show us things we’d rather not face. A poem makes you stay there — it doesn’t let you look away.”

Host: The library’s old heater rumbled, filling the air with its uneven breathing. The light above them dimmed to amber, the shadows growing longer and softer, like thoughts stretching in the dark.

Jack: “You think Tracy K. Smith wrote that because she wanted to feel something? Or because she was afraid of feeling nothing?”

Jeeny: “Both, probably. That’s what art is — the space between fear and yearning.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve met her.”

Jeeny: “In a way, I have. Every poem is a handshake between strangers who understand the same ache.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain outside thickened, steady and sure. Jack’s pen began moving again, slowly, as if testing the weight of her words.

Jeeny: “You used to write poems once, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Back when I thought the world could be explained if I just found the right metaphor.”

Jeeny: “And what changed?”

Jack: “The world didn’t get simpler. I just got tired.”

Host: His hand trembled slightly as he wrote another line, his eyes flicking up to the window where the reflection of the two of them shimmered faintly — two figures in a world made of words and weather.

Jeeny: “Maybe you stopped writing because you started expecting poetry to fix things instead of reveal them.”

Jack: “Reveal what? The mess I already know is there?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “But sometimes naming the storm helps you survive it.”

Host: The rain surged, a rhythmic pulse against the glass. The room felt smaller, closer, like the air itself leaned in to listen.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That a poem can hold something real?”

Jeeny: “Not just real — sacred. Poetry doesn’t give answers, Jack. It gives space. A place where your grief and your hope can sit down together without fighting.”

Jack: “And what happens when the poem ends?”

Jeeny: “Then you start another. Because the conversation never really ends.”

Host: The lamp buzzed faintly, the glow wrapping around them like candlelight. Jack’s face softened — the kind of softness that comes after surrender.

Jack: “You know, when I was fifteen, I wrote a poem about my mother’s perfume. I thought it was stupid — just lines about a smell that reminded me of her. But when she died, that poem became the only way I could still talk to her.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. Poems are encounters. They let us meet what’s gone without losing it completely.”

Jack: “An encounter…” He repeated the word slowly, tasting its edges. “You make it sound like poetry’s a door.”

Jeeny: “It is. But the key is honesty.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The air felt cleaner, the silence luminous. Jack closed his notebook and stared at the last line he had written — crooked, uneven, but alive.

Jack: “Maybe I stopped writing because I forgot that poetry isn’t about making sense of life. It’s about meeting it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t write to understand. You write to be with.”

Host: She smiled, faint but full of warmth. Outside, a lightning flash briefly illuminated their reflections in the window — two souls framed by words, the world suspended in a moment of stillness.

Jack: “So maybe what Tracy K. Smith meant wasn’t that poems help us feel. Maybe she meant they help us face what we feel — without flinching.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Poetry isn’t escape. It’s confrontation disguised as beauty.”

Host: The clock chimed softly, marking the hour. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and new beginnings.

Jack picked up the small book of poems, closed it gently, and looked at Jeeny.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ll try again. Not to fix myself. Just to meet myself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only kind of poem worth writing.”

Host: The light dimmed to a soft gold, the world outside blurred by mist and memory. In the hush of that nearly empty library, something invisible shifted — quiet, profound, unhurried.

A man rediscovered his voice.
A woman reminded him of its purpose.
And between them, the poem — silent now — began to live on its own, breathing softly in the dark.

As they rose to leave, the page they’d been reading fluttered open again, as if the wind itself wanted to remember the line —
A poem gives me a chance to have an encounter…

And the rain, just beginning again outside, seemed to finish the thought.