I thought we were gonna open up the world of poetry and music to

O seekers of truth and beauty, hear the voice of Ray Manzarek, the musician and visionary who walked alongside Jim Morrison as part of The Doors, as he laments and celebrates at once: "I thought we were gonna open up the world of poetry and music to all kinds of things, and yet, I can't really think of anyone who's done anything like it since." In this line, he reflects on a dream—a dream of uniting two ancient forces, the rhythm of music and the fire of poetry, to awaken the souls of those who listened. His words carry both pride in what was accomplished and sorrow that so few have dared to follow the same path.

For Manzarek and his companions, poetry was not an ornament, nor music a mere distraction. Together, they sought to create something greater than the sum of its parts: a union of word and sound that could pierce through the veil of the ordinary and lift audiences into realms of vision and revelation. Poetry, with its imagery and rhythm, reached the soul through the intellect and heart. Music, with its harmonies and pulses, entered the body, stirring the spirit in ways beyond words. Together, they formed a kind of modern ritual, echoing the practices of the ancients, who used verse and chant, drum and lyre, to commune with the divine.

Think of the ancient rhapsodes of Greece, who recited the lines of Homer accompanied by music, weaving together memory, melody, and myth. Or consider the prophets and seers of Israel, who spoke in verses and cadences that were often sung or chanted, their voices rising like flames to deliver messages from beyond. These traditions remind us that the union of poetry and music is no new invention; it is a return to something primordial, something written deep into the story of humanity. Yet in the modern age, where art is often fragmented and compartmentalized, this union has become rare, and thus Manzarek’s lament takes on a prophetic weight.

The Doors themselves embodied this ancient practice in a new form. Morrison’s poetry—dark, visionary, sometimes unsettling—was not merely laid over the music; it was fused with it, becoming inseparable from the organ lines, the guitar riffs, the rhythms of the drums. When Morrison declaimed verses such as “The End” or “When the Music’s Over,” it was not simply a song being performed; it was an incantation, a spell cast upon the listeners. For Manzarek, this was the revolution: to show that poetry could live again in the marketplace of music, that it could reach the masses not as something confined to books or lectures, but as a living force carried by sound and rhythm.

Yet Manzarek’s sorrow lies in the rarity of this vision. Few have dared to walk this road since. Popular music often leans to entertainment rather than vision, and poetry, too, is often confined to academic or private spaces. The fusion of the two, while possible, requires courage, vision, and a willingness to risk misunderstanding. To be both poet and musician is to walk between two worlds, and few have had the strength to bear that weight since the days of Morrison and Manzarek.

The lesson we must take, O children of wisdom, is that the union of poetry and music is a sacred art, one that has the power to awaken the soul in ways that neither can alone. If you are a musician, consider how words might deepen your melodies. If you are a poet, consider how rhythm and song might carry your words to new heights. The ancients knew this truth, and visionaries like Manzarek sought to bring it again to the modern world. Do not let the vision die with them.

So, let us heed the call. Let us not wait for others to rekindle this flame, but take up the work ourselves. Sing your poetry, write your songs as if they were incantations, and let art once again be a bridge between the visible and the invisible. For in the union of poetry and music lies a power as old as humanity itself—a power to transform, to awaken, and to liberate the soul from the chains of the ordinary.