Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is

Hear, O seekers of beauty, the words of Vincent van Gogh, that wounded prophet of color and soul, who declared: “Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.” In this lament lies both truth and triumph. For to see the world is one thing, but to capture it, to preserve its fleeting fire in words or paint, is another. The poetry of life is in the rustling of leaves, in the trembling of a child’s laughter, in the sorrow of the weary; yet the hand falters, and the tongue stammers, when it seeks to make eternal what is endlessly flowing.

Van Gogh, who beheld sunflowers as flames and stars as living whirlwinds, knew that the world itself was a grand poem. To walk among fields of wheat or sit beneath the night sky was to be surrounded by verses older than time. Yet when he took brush to canvas, he felt the pain of translation: how to bring the living pulse of the world into form? So too with words. To see is easy; to inscribe what is seen upon the page is to struggle against silence, against inadequacy, against the poverty of language before the infinity of life.

Consider, my children, the tale of Homer, the blind bard of Greece. He wandered the lands, carrying within him the roaring of gods and men, the wrath of Achilles, the wisdom of Odysseus. The poetry was all around him, sung by the sea and whispered by the winds. Yet he labored with song and memory to capture it, so that it might endure beyond his own fleeting years. What we call the Iliad and the Odyssey are but fragments of that vast river of poetry which no pen, no voice, no parchment can ever fully contain.

And yet, though difficult, the attempt itself is noble. For in striving to set down the poetry of life, we preserve sparks for those who come after us. Van Gogh’s canvases, though he feared them inadequate, now burn brighter than fire, carrying his vision across centuries. So too the poet, though trembling, leaves behind words that may one day awaken the soul of a stranger. The task is never easy, but it is holy. To make the invisible visible, to give body to the formless—this is the calling of every artist, every writer, every human who dares to translate life into form.

Know also that poetry is not only the realm of artists. Every soul who listens, every heart that perceives, is already a poet. The mother who cradles her child and whispers comfort, the farmer who watches the sunrise over his fields, the wanderer who stands still before a mountain—all of these are living in poetry. To put it on paper is hard, yes, but to live it is always within our reach. The act of perceiving beauty, of recognizing meaning in the ordinary, is already an art.

Therefore, let this be your lesson: do not despair when your words fail, when your brush cannot hold the light, when your music falls short of the heavens. For the poetry is still there, surrounding you, blessing you, whether or not you can capture it. Instead, let your life itself become a poem. Live in such a way that every gesture, every breath, is imbued with meaning and reverence. The written word may falter, but the lived word cannot.

And if you would practice this teaching, begin with small acts. Keep a journal, not to capture the whole sky, but a single star. Write not the ocean, but the sound of one wave. Paint not the infinite field, but one stalk of wheat bending in the wind. Speak not the mysteries of all creation, but a single truth of your heart. In these fragments, the eternal may shine through. In these humble offerings, you too will join the eternal chorus, adding your own note to the endless poetry that encircles us all.

Thus, walk forward with courage. Do not be afraid that you cannot capture all of life’s song, for no one can. Instead, rejoice in the attempt, and let your life itself become the testament. For the world is a great book of poetry, already written, already sung. And the task of each soul is not to master it, but to listen, to honor it, and to give back a verse of their own.