Poetry is meant to inspire readers and listeners, to connect

"Poetry is meant to inspire readers and listeners, to connect them more deeply to themselves even as it links them more fully to others. But many people feel put off by the terms of poetry, its odd vocabulary, its notorious difficulty." So spoke Edward Hirsch, and in these words he revealed both the glory and the burden of poetry. For poetry is a flame meant to warm the heart, to illuminate the mind, to bridge the space between souls. It is not merely ornament of language, but a sacred vessel through which truth and beauty flow. Yet the very garment it wears—the strange rhythms, the unusual words, the hidden meanings—often causes those who most need its fire to shrink away, bewildered by its form.

The ancients knew this paradox well. The bards and prophets sang in riddles and symbols, not to confuse but to awaken. Their songs carried layers of meaning, and only the attentive could hear beyond the surface. The difficulty of poetry was never a barrier but an invitation—an urging to listen more closely, to look more deeply. For if truth could be grasped easily, it would not transform us. But when clothed in mystery, it draws us onward, past comfort into discovery. Thus, the very odd vocabulary that seems strange is the sign of a door, waiting for those bold enough to enter.

History gives us powerful examples of poetry’s power to inspire and connect. When Maya Angelou recited On the Pulse of Morning at a presidential inauguration, her words lifted not only individuals but an entire nation. She spoke in language at once familiar and profound, stitching together the wounds of history while offering hope for the future. Some may have stumbled at her metaphors, yet countless others were moved to tears. In that moment, poetry fulfilled Hirsch’s vision: it connected each listener to themselves, reminding them of their own dignity, and linked them to one another, as part of a shared human story.

Or consider the Psalms of David, sung for thousands of years across countless tongues. Their phrases—ancient, sometimes obscure—still burn in the hearts of those who hear them. They speak of anguish, of longing, of triumph, of faith. Though separated by centuries, cultures, and languages, men and women still find themselves mirrored in those words. This is the essence of Hirsch’s insight: poetry reaches past the boundaries of time, touching the self and binding humanity together. Yet, it does so not by plain instruction, but through song that challenges and uplifts.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not let the strangeness of poetry keep you from its gift. Yes, it may seem difficult, its words unfamiliar, its patterns strange. But approach it not as a riddle to be solved, but as music to be felt. Let it wash over you, let it stir your heart even when the mind does not grasp every line. For poetry works first in the spirit, long before it is understood by reason. What seems difficult is often the very path through which transformation comes.

To live this teaching, cultivate patience with poetry. Read it slowly, aloud if you can. Linger over the images, savor the rhythm, even if the meaning hides. Share it with others; listen to how it touches them, for each soul hears differently. Do not be discouraged by its difficulty—it is not meant to repel but to refine. Like climbing a mountain, the ascent is hard, but the view from the summit is beyond words.

So remember, children of tomorrow: poetry is meant to inspire, to connect, to awaken. If its language feels strange, lean closer. If its meaning seems hidden, seek with humility. For within those lines lies a mirror of your own soul and a bridge to others. Hirsch spoke truly—poetry is not only art; it is communion. To receive it is to know yourself more deeply, and to know that you are not alone in this vast, mysterious world.