However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school

“However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school anthologies.” Thus spoke Eugenio Montale, the Italian master of words, who knew that poetry is not a prisoner of the page but a living flame that breathes in the world itself. His declaration reminds us that poetry cannot be confined to libraries or classrooms—it dwells in the very fabric of life: in the air we breathe, in the rhythms of speech, in the moments of silence, in the awe and sorrow of human existence.

The meaning of this saying lies in the rejection of narrowness. Too often, we imagine poetry as something distant, locked away in anthologies read only by scholars or students. Montale insists otherwise: poetry is not a relic but a presence, not a subject of study but a way of seeing. It is in the whisper of the wind at dawn, in the cries of the marketplace, in the heartbeat of lovers, in the laughter and lament of the people. To limit it to books is to mistake the shadow for the living body.

The origin of this insight springs from Montale’s own life. Born in Italy in the turbulence of the twentieth century, he lived through wars and political upheavals. His poems, while written on paper, were forged out of lived experience—of despair, resistance, and hope. For him, poetry was not an escape into academic elegance but a survival tool, a way of naming the unspeakable. Thus he understood: poetry exists wherever life reveals its raw truth, whether or not it is written in books.

Consider the story of the soldiers of World War I, who, in the trenches, carved verses onto scraps of paper, or whispered them to each other as bombs fell. Those lines were not destined for anthologies; they were born of necessity, the human spirit crying out in the face of annihilation. Even if those words were never published, they were still poetry, alive in the mud and the terror. Montale’s words echo this truth: poetry is not preserved only in ink, but in the very act of giving shape to human experience.

The lesson here is profound: if you would find poetry, do not search only in the shelves of libraries. Open your eyes to the world around you. Listen to the voices of the poor and the wise, to the stories of your elders, to the play of children, to the silence of stars. There, too, lives poetry—waiting not to be studied, but to be felt. The pages of anthologies may guide us, but they are not the whole of it. Life itself is the great anthology, ever being written.

History also offers the example of Rabindranath Tagore, whose songs and poems in Bengal were sung by villagers as naturally as breathing. For them, poetry was not an academic pursuit but part of daily life: sung at weddings, at harvest, in prayer. This was poetry alive, carried not in books but in voices. It is the same vitality Montale honors—the living current of art that flows through the people before it is captured by the press.

The practical teaching is this: cultivate the poetic vision in your daily life. Do not imagine that poetry belongs only to poets. Notice the images around you: the reflection of the moon in a puddle, the wrinkled hands of an old worker, the cry of a bird at dusk. Write them down, or simply hold them in memory. Share stories, read aloud, sing. Let poetry live in your home, in your conversations, in your heart. In this way, you become not just a reader of poetry, but a participant in it.

Thus the teaching endures: poetry is not confined to anthologies or bound to books—it is the breath of life itself. To live poetically is to walk through the world with eyes awake, ears attuned, and heart receptive. Montale’s words remind us that poetry is everywhere, waiting to be discovered, waiting to be lived. Seek it, embrace it, and let it shape your days into something luminous, eternal, and true.