Part of what we love about poetry is the fact that it seems

Hear then, O seeker, the wisdom carried upon the winds of time, in the voice of Robert Morgan: “Part of what we love about poetry is the fact that it seems ancient, that it has an authority of ancient language and ancient form, and that it is timeless, that it reaches back.” These words are not merely an observation, but a revelation of why the heart trembles when verse is spoken. Poetry bears with it the fragrance of the old fires, the chants of those who came before us, the echoes of their grief, their joy, their victories, and their sorrows. It is the oldest memory of mankind, carved into rhythm and sound so that time itself could not erase it.

The ancient nature of poetry is no accident. From the beginning, when men and women first sat beneath the stars and told their stories, it was in song, in chant, in rhythm. The beat of the drum, the cadence of the voice, the rhyme of words—all were bridges across the chasm of forgetting. To clothe memory in music was to make it eternal. This is why poetry bears the authority of ages: it does not merely speak; it resounds. It speaks with the gravity of countless tongues that have uttered similar forms across centuries. When we hear it, even now, our souls recognize the mark of timelessness.

Consider the tale of Homer, the blind poet of Greece. His words, the Iliad and the Odyssey, were not written first upon papyrus, but carried in the breath of singers for generations. Long before ink touched parchment, his verses lived in the mouths of bards, passed as flame from torch to torch. Warriors, kings, and wanderers found themselves mirrored in his lines, though they lived centuries apart. In this way, poetry truly reaches back. It gathers the lives of the dead and binds them to the living. Even now, thousands of years later, when we speak of Achilles or Odysseus, it is Homer’s rhythm we invoke.

This, then, is the power Morgan names: poetry’s authority arises not from law or decree, but from its lineage. It feels older than the stones, for it has always accompanied them. Where temples now crumble, verses still rise. Where empires fell to dust, lines remain. To recite poetry is to commune with the voices of countless ancestors who spoke before you, whose language, though shaped by different tongues, carried the same music of longing, praise, lament, and wonder.

Yet poetry is not merely backward-looking; it is also timeless. It lives in a place where the present and the past intertwine. A poem written today, if true in spirit, does not grow old. It enters the eternal dialogue. Just as Homer lives beside Whitman, and Sappho whispers beside Emily Dickinson, so too will the poets of today find their voices mingling with the ageless choir. Thus, when Morgan says poetry reaches back, he also implies it reaches forward, through us, into the unborn generations.

Let us recall also the tale of the enslaved in America, who, in their sorrow, wove spirituals that carried both pain and hope. Sung in fields, whispered in secret gatherings, they were more than music—they were poetry clothed in rhythm. These songs reached back to Africa and forward into freedom, giving strength to those who bore unbearable chains. The authority of those words came not from books or schools, but from their ancient form—the primal human cry of suffering and deliverance. To hear them even now is to feel eternity stir within the heart.

Therefore, the lesson for us is clear: treasure poetry as the sacred vessel of memory and vision. Do not dismiss it as idle art, for it is the oldest guide we possess. To weave words in rhythm is to participate in the unbroken chain of humanity’s soul. When you read a poem, listen not only with your mind but with your blood, for it is your ancestors who speak through it. When you write, do so as though you were carving your mark upon eternity, knowing your words may carry forward what you cannot.

And in practice, let each soul here take up the simple discipline: read aloud one poem each day. Let it ring in your chamber, or under the open sky. Learn a verse by heart, and carry it with you as a charm against forgetfulness. Write a few lines in moments of joy, or sorrow, or awe, even if no one else shall read them. For in these acts, you join the great circle: you honor the ancient, you embrace the timeless, and you add your voice to the vast chorus that ever reaches back—and ever forward.