I have always written poetry but I have never applied it to

Hear now the words of Janine Turner: “I have always written poetry but I have never applied it to songwriting.” In this confession lies a truth both simple and profound—that though poetry and song share a common root, they are not the same tree. One grows in silence, clothed in the inward voice; the other demands breath, melody, rhythm, and the echo of an audience. To write poetry is to weave words into stillness; to write song is to set those words aflame with sound. Turner’s words reveal the boundary between these two ancient arts, and the humility of one who has practiced the first but hesitated to cross into the second.

The origin of this division lies deep in human history. In the ancient world, there was no separation between poetry and songwriting. Homer sang the Iliad, not wrote it; the Psalms of David were lifted with harp and lyre; Sappho’s verses were carried by the strings of the lyre on Lesbos’ shores. Poetry was sung because it was the vessel of memory and emotion, and the melody was its wing. Only later, when the written word grew strong, did poetry begin to walk its own path in silence, while song went on as a companion of music. Thus Turner’s statement echoes the long shadow of history: she has chosen the written branch but not the sung.

Consider the story of Leonard Cohen. For years, he wrote as a poet, filling books with lines that lived only on the page. Yet one day, he turned his pen toward song, and his voice gave those poems a second life. What had been shadows in ink became living fire when joined with melody. Songs like Suzanne and Hallelujah remind us that the border between poetry and songwriting is porous, and that one can transform into the other with courage and craft. Turner’s hesitation, then, is not uncommon, but Cohen’s journey proves that the leap can be made.

Why then does one who writes poetry resist songwriting? Perhaps because song demands more than words; it demands performance. Poetry can live unseen, hidden in a drawer, whispered to oneself. But song is communal. It must be heard, sung, carried on breath, and offered to others. For many, this leap requires not only talent but vulnerability. Turner’s statement reflects this divide—the willingness to embrace words, but not yet to give them melody’s wings.

Yet poetry itself is music, though silent. Its rhythms, its rhymes, its pauses and cadences are already half-song. When read aloud, even without melody, poetry sings. Thus the poet who hesitates to write songs already holds the seed of that gift. It is not a question of ability but of choice, of courage, of stepping from the inner chamber of silence into the open stage of sound.

The lesson here is clear: one art is not diminished by the other, nor must we choose between them. The poet who has long written in silence may one day find their words yearning for strings and voice. And the songwriter who has crafted verses to melodies may return to the stillness of pure poetry. Both are branches of the same tree—the tree of human expression, rooted in rhythm, rising toward the heavens of meaning.

In practice, let each of us take action. If you write poetry, dare to read it aloud, to feel its music. If you sing, dare to write down your words as verse, to see their strength apart from melody. Do not fear crossing the boundary between the two. For in truth, there is no boundary, only a river with two banks. Step from one to the other, and you will find that your art grows deeper, fuller, more alive.

Thus the teaching endures: words are the soul’s gift, whether as poetry or as songwriting. To remain in one is honorable, but to embrace both is to walk in the footsteps of the ancients, who knew no divide. Take courage, then, and let your words not only speak but also sing—for what begins as whisper may one day become anthem.