I'd always loved poetry and I'd always loved writing music and
I'd always loved poetry and I'd always loved writing music and composing music, but I hadn't thought of putting the two together until around that time.
Hear, O seekers of harmony, the words of Bruce Cockburn: “I’d always loved poetry and I’d always loved writing music and composing music, but I hadn’t thought of putting the two together until around that time.” In this remembrance is revealed the awakening of a union older than civilization itself. For though he loved poetry as one treasure and music as another, he had not yet seen that they were born to be one, that together they form the ancient art of song. His discovery was not invention but recognition, the rediscovery of a path walked by countless generations before him.
The origin of this truth lies deep in humanity’s beginnings. Before there were books, before there were written notes, there was the voice lifted in chant. Poetry and music were never separate in the fireside gatherings of the ancients. The bard sang verse to the lyre, the griot recited history to the beat of the drum, the psalmist prayed with harp in hand. The division came later, when words walked onto the page and melodies onto the staff. Cockburn’s realization—that the two could join—is not new, but a returning to humanity’s oldest inheritance.
Consider the story of Homer, whose Iliad and Odyssey were not merely poems to be read, but songs to be heard. The rhythm of dactylic hexameter was not chosen by chance; it was the heartbeat of performance, the measure by which the bard’s voice aligned with music. These epics endured not because they were written down, but because they were sung, fusing poetry and music into living memory. Cockburn’s insight mirrors this same tradition: that a poem gains wings when set to melody, and a melody finds meaning when clothed in words.
So too did the medieval troubadours carry love and longing across Europe. They wrote verses of devotion, but they did not leave them in ink alone; they played them upon lutes, harps, and viols. Their poetic music shaped the culture of courts, and their songs still echo through time. Each troubadour was both poet and composer, proving that the arts are not rivals but companions. Cockburn’s realization belongs to this same lineage: that a life lived with both poetry and music is incomplete until they are joined.
Yet this awakening often comes late, for modern minds are taught to separate. Schools teach poetry in books and music in scales, rarely showing that the two are but halves of the same whole. Cockburn’s confession—that he had not thought to unite them—reveals the blindness of our age, but also the joy of rediscovery. Once the two came together in his work, his songs became not only sound but vision, not only melody but meaning. Such is the power of fusion: it multiplies the strength of each element until the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
The lesson for us is plain: do not divide what was meant to be joined. If you love poetry, let it sing. If you love music, let it speak. Do not fear to bring together your gifts, for creativity multiplies when it is united. The painter who studies dance, the musician who reads philosophy, the poet who plays an instrument—all discover that each art illuminates the other. The heart was never meant to live in compartments; it was meant to flow like a river, carrying many streams into one current.
In practice, take action: if you write poems, read them aloud with rhythm, and consider what melody might carry them. If you compose, experiment with words, even if they are simple, to give your music a new voice. Seek collaboration with others who hold the gifts you lack. Let your life be a weaving of arts, not a partition of them. For in the union of word and sound, the soul finds its fullest expression.
Thus the teaching stands: Bruce Cockburn reminds us that the true flowering of art comes when poetry and music embrace. What he discovered in his time is the oldest truth—that song is the marriage of melody and meaning. And if you, too, dare to unite your divided gifts, your words may one day sing, and your music may one day speak, carrying your spirit far beyond the horizon of silence.
YNYume Nijino
Reading this, I wonder how common it is for artists to realize connections between different creative passions later in life. Does combining poetry with music expand the possibilities for storytelling, imagery, and rhythm simultaneously? Could there be trade-offs, such as needing to simplify complex poetic structures to fit musical phrasing? I’d like to explore whether this approach inspires new genres or styles, and how other poets or musicians have successfully bridged these forms.
NSNguyen Sang
This makes me think about the evolution of artistic identity. Did Cockburn’s experience reveal that poetry and music are complementary, or did it require reconciling different modes of expression? Could the emotional or narrative qualities of poetry guide musical composition in ways that pure musical intuition might not? I’m also curious whether combining these disciplines changes how audiences engage with the work, potentially deepening their appreciation for both the language and the melody.
TPTo Thanh Phong
I find this interesting because it highlights the creative potential of unexpected connections. Does the realization of combining music and poetry often occur later in an artist’s career, after foundational skills in both areas are established? How does this integration affect the creative process—does one start with the poem and then compose music, or vice versa? I’d like perspectives on whether this approach allows for more experimentation and emotional resonance than traditional songwriting.
Aanhngan2010
This statement prompts me to reflect on the interplay between different art forms. How does one decide which poems translate effectively into music, and does the music itself influence the interpretation of the words? I also wonder whether Cockburn’s prior love for both mediums made the combination easier, or whether new techniques had to be learned. Could this blending of disciplines lead to a more holistic form of expression than either poetry or music alone?
HKHoa Kim
Reading this, I’m fascinated by the process of artistic synthesis. Could this merging of poetry and music be considered a natural evolution of creative interests, or is it more of a deliberate experiment? I’d like to know whether Bruce Cockburn found challenges in preserving the essence of his poetry while adapting it for musical structures, and how this approach might differ from writing lyrics that are designed specifically for songs.