Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton

Host: The night had settled over the city like a velvet curtain, heavy with rain and the faint hum of neon lights. A dim café stood at the corner, its windows fogged, its doorbell trembling each time the wind whispered through. Inside, the air was thick with coffee steam and the sound of slow jazz, a saxophone bleeding melancholy into the quiet.

Jack sat by the window, his coat still wet, his eyes reflecting the streetlights like twin storms. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a mug, her fingers trembling slightly, her gaze distant but alive, like a candle refusing to die.

Between them lay a book — worn, folded, the pages breathing history. Its spine read “Audre Lorde.”

Host: The moment hung between them like the pause before a confession.

Jeeny: “She said, ‘Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives.’ Do you feel that, Jack? It’s not just art — it’s structure, it’s foundation. Without it, we fall apart.”

Jack: (lighting a cigarette) “Poetry is smoke, Jeeny. It looks beautiful when the light hits it, but it vanishes the moment you try to grasp it. People need bricks, not metaphors, to build their lives.”

Host: The flame from his lighter flared briefly, casting shadows across his face — sharp, tired, and carved with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “And yet, without metaphors, those bricks have no meaning. You build, but for what? To live without poetry is to live without imagination, without hope. Look at history — every revolution was born from words before it became action.”

Jack: “History was built on blood and steel, Jeeny. Not stanzas. You think the French Revolution happened because someone wrote a nice poem? No. It happened because people were starving.”

Jeeny: “And why did they dare to rise, Jack? Because they imagined something else. Because Rousseau wrote about freedom, because words whispered that they deserved more. Every movement — from civil rights to decolonization — began with someone daring to speak.”

Host: A train rumbled in the distance, the floor trembling softly beneath their feet. The rain pressed harder against the glass, like the world itself was listening.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Sure, words can inspire, but inspiration without structure is chaos. Dreams need engineers, not poets. You can’t feed a hungry child with a sonnet.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can teach them to dream of a different world. And sometimes that’s the first meal their soul ever gets.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled with both grace and anger. Her eyes glowed like embers, her breath visible in the chill of the café.

Jack: “Dreams are dangerous. They make people expect miracles. You tell a man he’s a poem, and when the world crushes him, he thinks he was betrayed. I’ve seen it. Workers dreaming of change — then the machines break them.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what Audre Lorde meant? That poetry is the architecture — not the decoration? It gives shape to pain, form to fear. Even broken, people can still stand if the words hold them up.”

Host: The music shifted — the saxophone now lonely, a slow ache that filled the air. Jack’s hand twitched, almost as if he wanted to reach across the table, but his fingers only traced the ashtray.

Jack: “You talk as if words can rebuild the world. But words don’t stop wars, Jeeny. They just explain them afterwards. People write poetry about peace while someone else signs a contract for weapons.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s the poets who remind us that the contract is wrong. That the soul still matters. During apartheid, it was poetry that kept people alive in prisons — like Dennis Brutus, who wrote from Robben Island, where they tried to silence every voice. Words built a bridge between cells, between hearts.”

Host: The rain softened, as though it too had paused to listen. The neon lights flickered, spilling red and blue reflections across their faces.

Jack: “You talk about bridges. But bridges collapse without engineers. Someone still has to mix the cement, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Someone also has to believe there’s another side worth crossing to.”

Host: For a moment, silence. Only the heartbeat of the café — the quiet clatter of cups, the hum of the refrigerator, the rhythm of breathing — remained.

Jack: (lowering his voice) “You always make it sound so simple. Like belief is enough. But I’ve seen people believe until they’ve lost everything. My father used to write poems, you know. Then he lost his job, his home, and stopped writing. He said poetry couldn’t feed his children.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe it wasn’t meant to feed the stomach, Jack. Maybe it was meant to feed the soul that had forgotten it was still hungry.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — a storm meeting calm. The smoke from his cigarette curled like a ghost, dissolving into the dim air.

Jack: “You sound like him. He used to say that too. Before the factory shut down.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — remembering his words, not his machines.”

Host: The line struck him like quiet thunder. His jaw tightened, his hand trembled slightly, the ash of his cigarette falling unnoticed.

Jack: “So you think words build us?”

Jeeny: “I think they shape us. They are the bones beneath the skin of our lives. When everything else breaks — jobs, walls, even love — it’s the language we return to. The thing that still names us.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel so empty sometimes? Why does every poem sound like a promise that the world keeps breaking?”

Jeeny: “Because the world fears what has never been before. And poetry is the bridge — across that fear. Audre Lorde wasn’t talking about rhymes. She was talking about courage.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city exhaled. In the window, a thin moon cut through the clouds like a knife of silver.

Jack: (quietly) “Courage. You make it sound like a poem could make me brave.”

Jeeny: “It already has. You came here, didn’t you? To talk, to remember, to argue. That’s what poetry does — it keeps us awake when silence wants us asleep.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the walls between them slowly dissolving into the scent of coffee and rain.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe poetry is the skeleton. But bones break too, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they also heal.”

Host: The lights outside flickered once more. A car passed, splashing through a puddle, scattering tiny stars of water across the glass. Inside, the café felt strangely bright, as if some hidden sun had risen within.

Jack: “So tell me then — if poetry is the architecture, what are we building?”

Jeeny: “A future that remembers the past without being chained to it. A bridge that doesn’t fear what’s never been before.”

Host: Her voice was low, but it carried — soft and sharp, like rain meeting flame.

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Then maybe that’s worth writing for. Or at least, worth staying awake for.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s all it ever asks.”

Host: The camera of the world slowly pulled back — through the window, into the street, into the night. The café became a small island of light, two souls suspended in quiet revelation. The storm had passed, but something deeper had begun: the slow construction of understanding.

And in that fragile silence, poetry — invisible but strong — became the unseen scaffold holding the world together.