Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the

Jim Morrison, the poet-shaman of rock and roll, once proclaimed: “Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.” These words carry the mystic fire of a man who lived with one foot in the ordinary world and one in the realm of visions. For Morrison knew that poetry is not a cage of meaning, but a key. It does not dictate, it liberates. It does not imprison thought with rigid answers, but awakens the mind to infinite paths, infinite interpretations, infinite worlds.

The ancients knew this truth as well. The riddles of the oracle at Delphi never gave straight commands; they hinted, suggested, and offered possibilities. One seeker might hear a warning, another a promise, and both could be right. So too with poetry: it does not force the reader into submission, but opens doors, so that each soul may find the passage that speaks to its own destiny. Morrison’s insight reminds us that art is not doctrine, but invitation.

Consider the plays of Shakespeare. What is Hamlet? To some, it is a meditation on death. To others, a study of madness, or betrayal, or conscience. The play says nothing final, but in its ambiguity it opens countless doors. Generations have walked through, each finding a different truth, yet all nourished. This is the power of real poetry—it refuses to close, it refuses to narrow itself to one meaning. It is not a locked room, but a hall of infinite gateways.

Morrison himself lived this in his music. His lyrics were dreamlike, often fragmented, more spell than speech. In “The End,” he weaves a river of images—death, love, apocalypse, rebirth. What does it mean? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. But the listener, hearing those words, finds a door that suits them. For one it may be liberation, for another despair, for another transcendence. This was Morrison’s gift: to remind us that art’s strength lies not in telling us what to think, but in awakening us to think for ourselves.

The lesson is that poetry—and by extension, life itself—must be approached not as a fixed answer, but as a field of possibilities. To demand a single meaning from a poem is like demanding that the sky be painted only one color. To demand a single path from life is to blind yourself to the multitude of doors waiting to be opened. Morrison urges us to embrace the openness, to see that real truth is not in confinement but in expansion.

Practically, this means reading poems not as puzzles to be solved, but as companions to be journeyed with. When you encounter a verse, do not rush to pin it down; instead, ask yourself: what door is opening here, for me, today? And in your own life, when choices present themselves, do not fear the multitude of paths. See them as Morrison saw them—many doors, each valid, each with its own lessons. Walk through boldly, knowing that the meaning is not given but made by your journey.

Thus, remember Morrison’s wisdom: “Real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors.” The poet is not a preacher but a guide; the poem is not a command but a threshold. Enter the hall of language with reverence, and choose your door. For in the choosing, in the walking, you make your own truth. And that, in the end, is the highest gift poetry can give: not answers, but freedom.