I come here to speak poetry. It will always be in the grass. It

Hear, O children of the spirit, the words of Boris Pasternak, who proclaimed: “I come here to speak poetry. It will always be in the grass. It will also be necessary to bend down to hear it. It will always be too simple to be discussed in assemblies.” These are not casual words, but the utterance of one who lived in an age when truth was buried under iron rule, and yet who understood that poetry endures, humble as a blade of grass, soft as a whisper of wind. In them lies the reminder that poetry is not the language of power, but of simplicity; not the noise of assemblies, but the quiet voice of the earth.

For Pasternak knew well the roar of ideology, the thundering speeches of leaders, the clamor of vast assemblies where men sought to drown out truth with slogans. Against this, he sets the gentleness of poetry, which does not shout but whispers. It is not found on the dais, nor in the council of rulers, but in the common ground where grass grows beneath the feet of all. Poetry belongs not to the mighty, but to the humble, and those who wish to hear it must bend down, bowing in humility, drawing near in silence.

What does it mean that poetry is “in the grass”? Grass is the most ordinary of things, found in every field, beneath every step. It is overlooked, yet it endures storms, fire, and trampling feet. So too with poetry: it grows where life is lived, in small joys, in daily griefs, in unnoticed moments. It does not need grand assemblies to give it weight; its strength is its simplicity, its closeness to the soil of human experience. To hear it, one must pause, stoop low, and listen.

Consider how this truth unfolded in Pasternak’s own life. When his novel Doctor Zhivago was banned in his homeland, its pages smuggled abroad, he knew that his words were too simple, too honest, to survive in the grand halls of Soviet assemblies. Yet those same words, carried quietly through fields and over borders, inspired readers across the world. Like grass, they spread unnoticed, until suddenly they covered the earth. The state could silence assemblies, but it could not silence the whisper of poetry carried in the hearts of the people.

History gives us other examples as well. Socrates, in the agora of Athens, refused to thunder in assemblies; instead, he bent low, asking simple questions, speaking plainly of virtue, justice, and truth. His wisdom, like grass, grew beneath the feet of citizens, and though he was condemned, his words lived on. Or recall Emily Dickinson, who spoke to no assemblies, but whose poetry, hidden in drawers, now nourishes countless souls. These voices remind us that true poetry does not require pomp; it requires presence, humility, and patience.

The danger of forgetting this lesson is to confuse noise with truth. Nations gather in grand halls, leaders raise their voices, and people are swept into torrents of words. But poetry cannot live there, for it is too simple. It does not trade in slogans or applause. It remains with the grass, waiting for those willing to listen. To seek poetry in assemblies is to miss it; to bend down, to touch the soil of life, is to find it.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, learn this: if you wish to hear poetry, you must quiet yourself, bow your pride, and stoop to the earth. Do not expect it to dazzle in public squares or thunder from podiums. Look instead to the small things: a child’s laughter, the turning of leaves, the courage of the forgotten. There you will hear the whisper of poetry, soft yet eternal.

And so, remember Pasternak’s charge: keep your ears close to the grass, bend down to hear, and cherish the simplicity that assemblies overlook. For in that simplicity lies the truth of life, and in that humility lies the enduring strength of poetry. This is the path of those who would hear the eternal song.