Journalism is concerned with events, poetry with feelings.

Archibald MacLeish once declared: “Journalism is concerned with events, poetry with feelings. Journalism is concerned with the look of the world, poetry with the feel of the world.” In these words lies the distinction between the outer garment of existence and the inner pulse of being. Journalism chronicles what has happened—the names, the dates, the places—while poetry reveals how it is lived, how it burns in the soul, how it shatters or exalts the human heart. One is the record of the world’s surface; the other is the song of its depths.

The ancients knew that the world is not only seen but also felt. To speak of an earthquake, a war, or a victory in the language of journalism is to list its magnitude, its casualties, its trophies. But to capture these in the voice of poetry is to let the earth groan, to let the widow’s tears become rivers, to let triumph shine like fire upon the faces of the living. Facts alone are hollow; it is feeling that breathes life into them. MacLeish reminds us that without poetry, the story of humanity is nothing more than a skeleton without flesh.

Consider the tragedy of World War I. Journalism told the people of battles and dates: the Somme, Verdun, Passchendaele. It gave figures—hundreds of thousands dead. Cold, sharp, accurate. But it was through the poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and others that the world felt the truth. Owen’s lines—“The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori”—did not merely report; they seared the conscience. Journalism gave the numbers; poetry gave the wound, the grief, the horror, the truth felt in bone and marrow. Without both, the world would know only half of its story.

So too in times of joy. When Neil Armstrong stepped upon the moon, journalism told us the date, the mission name, the precise words spoken. But the poetry of the moment was not in the transcript; it was in the shared breath of humanity, watching with eyes lifted to the heavens, feeling that mankind had reached beyond its cradle. The facts were magnificent, but the feelings were divine. Journalism wrote the record; poetry captured the soul.

MacLeish’s words remind us that human beings are not only thinkers but also feelers. We live not in reports alone but in dreams, fears, and hopes. Journalism informs the mind; poetry nourishes the heart. If one seeks wisdom, one must not despise either: for the mind without the heart grows cold, and the heart without the mind grows blind. Truth is whole only when the seen and the felt are joined together.

The lesson is this: do not live as one who knows only the look of the world. Learn also its feel. Read the news, yes, but also read the poems. Remember the dates, but also remember the tears, the laughter, the tremors of the soul. When you speak of your life, do not recount only the events, but the feelings that gave them meaning. Let your story be more than a calendar; let it be a song.

In practice, cultivate both clarity and depth. Observe the world carefully, as a journalist would—notice what happens, who is present, and when. But also listen with the ears of a poet—what does it feel like? What does it stir in your spirit? Write, speak, and live in such a way that the facts of your days are crowned with the poetry of your heart. For in this way, your life will not only be recorded—it will be remembered.

Thus, hear the wisdom of MacLeish: journalism gives us the look, poetry gives us the feel. The one preserves memory; the other awakens meaning. To live fully, we must honor both, and in their union, we discover the wholeness of the human story.