So I suppose poetry, language, the shaping of it, was and

Hear the words of Thomas Lynch, poet and undertaker, who has walked close to both life and death: “So I suppose poetry, language, the shaping of it, was and remains for me an effort to make sense out of essentially senseless situations.” In this confession he speaks not as a man removed from suffering, but as one immersed in it daily. For Lynch lived with grief in its rawest form, arranging the burials of the dead, comforting families struck by loss. He turned to poetry not as ornament, but as survival, as a way to give shape to the chaos that shatters human life.

The meaning here is profound. Language becomes for Lynch a vessel of order, a fragile but essential attempt to carve meaning where none is apparent. Death, grief, and sudden loss often appear senseless, beyond logic or explanation. To endure them in silence is unbearable. Thus, poetry becomes the tool of the soul to wrestle with the void, to place words where there is only pain, and to create—even if only briefly—a structure that the heart can hold onto. His words remind us that poetry is not mere art, but an instrument of survival.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. When the Greeks faced tragedies they could not explain, they turned to poets like Aeschylus and Sophocles, whose tragedies gave words to their sorrow. The chorus, lamenting on stage, became the voice of the community. In the Psalms of the Hebrew people, cries of anguish—“My God, why have you forsaken me?”—were not hidden but sung, transforming despair into sacred utterance. Poetry was always meant to help humans bear what otherwise would crush them.

History gives us examples of this pattern. Consider Wilfred Owen, soldier-poet of the First World War. Faced with the horror of trenches, gas, and mutilation, he used poetry to shape the chaos. His lines did not erase the senselessness of war, but they gave it voice, turning terror into testimony. Or think of Anne Frank, who in the dark days of the Holocaust wrote her diary—prose infused with the lyric pulse of poetry. Her words could not remove suffering, but they preserved hope, dignity, and meaning where the world had offered only cruelty.

Lynch’s insight also reveals the humility of the poet. He does not claim that poetry resolves every paradox or explains away death. Instead, he admits it is only an effort—a striving to make sense, to bring a little light into darkness. This humility is vital, for it acknowledges that human suffering is often beyond full comprehension. Yet even a partial shaping, a fragment of meaning, can be enough to guide us through despair. Poetry may not answer all, but it keeps us from drowning in silence.

The lesson for us is clear: in the face of grief, loss, and senselessness, do not turn away from language. Speak, write, sing, cry out. To shape pain into words is not to solve it, but to endure it. We must remember that silence feeds despair, but expression can sustain the soul. Poetry is not for poets alone—it is for all who seek to survive what feels unbearable.

Practical wisdom flows from this. When life overwhelms you, pick up pen and paper. Write not for beauty but for truth. Do not worry if your words are rough or broken; they will be faithful mirrors of your heart. Read the poetry of others who have suffered, for their words will remind you that you are not alone. Share your own words if you can, for in speaking the unspeakable, you may lighten another’s burden.

Thus Thomas Lynch’s words endure as a torch in dark places: poetry is an effort to make sense of the senseless. It does not erase pain but gives it shape, and in shaping, allows us to bear it. Let this truth be passed down—that in times of grief and chaos, when the world feels void of meaning, the shaping of language becomes an act of courage, of resistance, and of life itself.