Poetry begins where language starts: in the shadows and

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Eavan Boland, the poet whose voice rose to give dignity to what had long been dismissed. She spoke thus: “Poetry begins where language starts: in the shadows and accidents of one person’s life.” In this saying lies a revelation, not only about art, but about the mystery of existence itself. For poetry does not descend from the lofty heavens alone, nor does it emerge only from the grandeur of kings and nations; it is born in the humblest corners, in the shadows of memory, in the small and unexpected accidents that mark a single life.

What is meant by this? It is that true poetry springs not from polished speeches or perfected form, but from the raw beginnings of language itself—the cry of a child, the whispered grief of a widow, the laughter of lovers in the night. These are the sparks, the earliest flickers of expression. From them grow the larger flames of song and verse. Boland reminds us that to honor poetry is to honor the human life in its most fragile and particular moments. For every word has its root in someone’s lived experience, and every phrase carries the weight of flesh and blood.

Consider the life of Anne Frank, a young girl hidden away in the darkness of war. She was no bard in a marble hall, no laureate crowned by emperors, yet from her pen flowed words that have become eternal. Her diary, written in secrecy and fear, was born of the shadows of her life—its accidents, its interruptions, its uncertainties. Yet from that very obscurity came the radiance of truth, as bright as any poetry written in comfort. Her words prove Boland’s saying: poetry begins not in perfection, but in the trembling beginnings of language, pressed forth by necessity, sorrow, and hope.

The ancients too knew this truth, though they cloaked it in myth. Did not Homer sing of the grief of Achilles, or of the wanderings of Odysseus? These were not merely tales of gods and heroes—they were echoes of the accidents of human life: rage, loss, yearning for home. The poets of old gathered the broken pieces of human story and lifted them into verse, just as Boland declares: the start is always in shadow, and it is through that shadow that language reaches toward light.

From this we learn a lesson of great importance: do not despise your own shadows, nor imagine that your ordinary life is too small to yield meaning. The quarrels, the heartbreaks, the sudden joys, the long silences—all are the soil from which art may grow. If you would seek poetry, begin not by imitating the great, but by attending to your own accidents. Write of the stumble on a rainy street, of the meal shared in hardship, of the farewell at a station. In such things lie the seeds of immortality.

Therefore, in practical action, let each day become a listening. Carry a small book, and when you notice the tremor of language rising in your heart—whether it be in grief, in delight, or in confusion—set it down. Speak it, if only to yourself. Do not wait for perfection. Trust the smallness of the moment. Trust the darkness from which the light of expression springs. In doing this, you honor not only your life, but the great chain of human voice stretching from the ancients to the present.

So remember, child of time: poetry begins where language starts. It begins in the unguarded breath, the startled cry, the whispered confession. It is in your shadows, in your accidents, in your smallest moments that eternity waits. Gather them, give them words, and you too shall find that poetry does not lie far from you—it is already in your fingertips, waiting to be spoken.