Every now and then I read a poem that does touch something in

The teller of modern fables, J. K. Rowling, once confessed with candor: “Every now and then I read a poem that does touch something in me, but I never turn to poetry for solace or pleasure in the way that I throw myself into prose.” These words, spoken not as a dismissal but as a revelation, remind us of the varied ways the human heart seeks solace, and how different forms of expression hold different powers for each soul. For some, poetry is a flame that burns brightly in a few lines; for others, prose is the great river that carries them into comfort and meaning.

To say that poetry may “touch something” is to acknowledge its fleeting, piercing power. Poetry can strike like lightning, sudden and intense, awakening emotions we did not know were waiting. But Rowling’s truth is this: while poetry may ignite, it is prose that sustains her, that she can “throw herself into” as into a vast ocean. Where poetry gives flashes of revelation, prose offers immersion, the steady unfolding of a world, the long companionship of characters and ideas. Her words remind us that each person must find their own vessel of healing in the sea of literature.

History shows us this pattern again and again. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-king of Rome. Though surrounded by poets and songs, it was not verse that sustained him in the harsh weight of empire, but prose—his meditations, written in plain words, became his solace. He did not craft poetry to comfort himself, but instead turned to steady reflection, prose filled with discipline and humility. For him, as for Rowling, prose was not ornament but anchor, not lightning but enduring flame.

And yet, others in history found the reverse. Emily Dickinson, who rarely left her room, lived her life in poems—short bursts of condensed truth. For her, prose would have been too vast, too heavy. She turned to poetry as others turn to prayer, and in those few words, she built an eternity. This shows us that Rowling’s confession is not a judgment on poetry, but the testimony of her own path: that solace is found where one’s spirit finds its natural home.

The deeper meaning of the quote is this: the soul must know where it may rest. Some find their peace in song, others in silence, others in story. To force oneself to find comfort in what does not nourish is to live falsely. Rowling reveals that for her, the open expanse of prose is where her heart settles. The long arc of narrative, the weaving of world and word, offers her not only pleasure but sanctuary. And in sharing this, she teaches that there is no single way to heal through art—there is only your way.

The lesson for future generations is simple but profound: do not compare the vessel of your solace to that of another. If you find comfort in prose, embrace it. If you find joy in poetry, dwell in it. If your peace is in music, or painting, or prayer, let that be your sanctuary. What matters is not the form, but the faithfulness to what feeds your spirit. For literature, like life itself, is not one door but many, and each soul must walk through its own.

Practical wisdom must follow. Seek out the forms of expression that strengthen you. Read widely until you know where your heart settles. And when you find that form—whether prose, poetry, or some other art—return to it when storms rise, for it will not fail you. At the same time, honor the forms that move others, even if they are not your own. For each art is a fragment of the great whole, and all together they uphold the human spirit.

Thus remember Rowling’s teaching: poetry may touch, but prose may carry. For her, solace lies not in the brief flame of verse, but in the long embrace of story. And so it must be for each of us—find the art that shelters you, and throw yourself into it, for there you will find both pleasure and strength.