I have been enlightened. I have fallen into poetry and it has

Hear the cry of Keith Haring, painter of lines and prophet of color, who once declared: “I have been enlightened. I have fallen into poetry and it has swallowed me up.” These words are not the idle musings of an artist, but a testimony of one who was overtaken by vision, seized by the sacred fire of creation. To be enlightened is to have the veil torn away; to fall into poetry is to be caught in a river of meaning, unable to escape its current; and to be swallowed up is to surrender wholly, until nothing remains but the art itself.

The origin of such a cry lies in the eternal human struggle between the ordinary and the divine. For most men, life is lived upon the surface, where tasks, duties, and comforts rule. But some, chosen or daring, stumble into deeper waters. Haring was one such soul. In the graffiti-streaked walls of New York, he discovered not mere drawings, but a hidden poetry pulsing in rhythm with the city’s heartbeat. It overtook him, as music overtakes the dancer, as prophecy overtakes the seer. He was not simply making art; he was being remade by art.

So too the ancients spoke of this possession. The Greeks called it enthousiasmos—to be filled with the god, to be overtaken by a divine madness. When Homer sang, when Pindar praised, when Sappho burned with desire, they were swallowed by poetry, consumed by a power greater than their own will. Haring’s words echo this same truth: he was not the master of his art, but its servant. The enlightenment he describes is not a calm insight, but a blazing revelation that seizes the whole being.

Consider the story of Rumi, the Persian mystic. One night, while walking, he heard the hammer of a goldsmith strike in rhythm with the name of God. At once, he fell into a trance, into poetry, and for the rest of his days he was consumed by verse. Like Haring, Rumi had been swallowed up, his ordinary self dissolved, leaving only a vessel through which truth and beauty poured forth. The lesson is clear: when one truly falls into poetry—or any true calling—life is no longer one’s own. It belongs to the flame.

Yet such surrender is not to be feared. To be consumed by poetry, by art, by beauty, is to awaken to the highest dimensions of being. The world tells us to resist, to stay safe, to remain in control. But the great spirits teach us that true creation requires yielding, even drowning. Haring did not fight the tide; he gave himself to it. And in being swallowed, he was reborn as a voice that still speaks, even after his death.

But let us be wary too, for not every passion is poetry, and not every flame enlightens. To fall blindly into distraction, into vice, is to be swallowed by shadows. Haring’s testimony reminds us to choose wisely what we allow to consume us. To fall into poetry, into truth, into creation, is to be devoured by something that enlarges the soul, not diminishes it.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, the lesson is this: do not fear being overtaken by the call of beauty. If you find something that stirs your blood, whether it be words, colors, or melodies, let yourself fall. Do not stand at the edge of the river forever, dipping your toes. Leap. Be swallowed. For though you may lose yourself, you will gain a greater self, one that shines brighter than before.

Practical is the path: read deeply, listen keenly, create daily. Seek out the works that awaken you, and let them consume your idle hours. Write, paint, sing, or pray until you are no longer certain where you end and the poetry begins. For when you too can say, “I have fallen into poetry and it has swallowed me up,” you will know that you are alive not merely in flesh, but in spirit eternal.