Poetry and music are very good friends. Like mommies and daddies

"Poetry and music are very good friends. Like mommies and daddies and strawberries and cream—they go together." Thus spoke Nikki Giovanni, a voice of both tenderness and fire, weaving wisdom in words that seem simple but are heavy with truth. For what she declares is not merely a matter of taste, but of creation itself: poetry and music are not separate streams, but one river with many currents. They rise from the same source—the heart of the human soul—and together they nourish, comfort, and ignite.

From the earliest days, before men carved laws upon tablets or built temples of stone, there were chants, rhythms, and verses. Hunters sang to steady their steps; mothers sang to soothe their children; priests sang prayers to the heavens. These songs were poetry, clothed in music. And when words alone could not carry the burden of feeling, melody lifted them higher. Likewise, when sound needed meaning, words gave it shape. They have been companions since the dawn, each incomplete without the other.

Consider the Psalms of David, sacred poetry meant to be sung with harps and lyres. Here the bond of word and melody becomes divine: lament becomes hymn, joy becomes chorus, prayer becomes song. Or look to Homer, whose epic verses were recited in rhythm, carried by a kind of music that turned memory into living flame. In every age, from the griots of Africa to the bards of Celtic lands, poetry and music walked side by side, each strengthening the other like two hands joined in one purpose.

Giovanni, who has walked through the fires of struggle and raised her voice against injustice, knows this bond not as ornament, but as power. In the civil rights movement, poetry and music were weapons of the spirit. The verses of Langston Hughes echoed like prophecy, while the voices of Nina Simone and Mahalia Jackson carried those words into the marrow of the people. Alone, each art was strong, but together, they became unbreakable. Truly, they were like “mommies and daddies,” birthing movements, and like “strawberries and cream,” sweetening even the bitterest of struggles.

The meaning, then, is this: to live fully is to embrace both poetry and music, for they are not mere entertainments but vessels of truth. When life wounds you, let poetry give you the words, and let music give those words wings. When joy overflows, let music shape the sound and poetry refine its beauty. Together, they transform fleeting emotion into timeless memory, carrying the moment beyond silence into eternity.

The lesson is clear: do not separate what belongs together. If you write, listen to the rhythms hidden in your words. If you play, seek the stories your music longs to tell. And if you are neither poet nor musician, let your daily speech and actions carry both rhythm and meaning, so that your life itself becomes a verse sung upon the earth. For in the weaving of these two, even the simplest act can become art.

Practical action calls us: read aloud a poem while listening to a melody, and feel how the heart responds. Keep a journal where words may be paired with song, or let your prayers be whispered with music behind them. In your gatherings, do not let speech be dry, nor song be empty—marry them, and they will touch the soul more deeply than either could alone. This practice is not reserved for artists alone; it is the inheritance of every human being.

So remember Giovanni’s teaching: poetry and music are not strangers, but lifelong companions. They have carried civilizations, healed wounds, and lifted spirits for centuries untold. To embrace them is to live in harmony with the eternal rhythms of the universe. Let them guide you, let them dwell within you, and let your own life be a testament to their friendship—like mother and father, like fruit and sweetness, like two forces that belong, forever, together.