So it is in poetry. All we ask is that the mood recorded shall

Host: The room was dim, the only light coming from a single lamp that cast long, soft shadows across the walls. Outside, the world was quiet—still, almost as though it too were waiting for something. Jeeny sat at the table, her fingers tracing the edges of an open book, her eyes distant as she absorbed the weight of its words. Across from her, Jack leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed, lost in thought.

Finally, Jeeny spoke, her voice cutting through the silence.

Jeeny: “I was reading something earlier—John Drinkwater said, ‘So it is in poetry. All we ask is that the mood recorded shall impress us as having been of the kind that exhausts the imaginative capacity; if it fails to do this the failure will announce itself either in prose or in insignificant verse.’ It made me think. What do you think about that? About poetry, and the kind of mood that’s truly worth capturing?”

Jack: (pauses, frowning slightly, his voice contemplative) “I think he’s saying that poetry should stir something deep inside us, right? That it should capture a mood, an emotion so profound that it exhausts the imagination. If it doesn’t do that, then it’s not really poetry—it’s just words. The best poetry makes you feel something raw, something you can’t quite put into words yourself.”

Jeeny: (nodding, her voice gentle but firm) “Exactly. It’s not just about the words; it’s about what those words evoke, the depth of the feeling they convey. Poetry isn’t just a vehicle for expression—it’s meant to touch something that can’t easily be touched by anything else. A mood that, when captured, feels like it’s all-consuming, as if the entire world has been distilled into that single moment.”

Host: There was a shift in the air as Jeeny’s words took root. The quiet in the room seemed to deepen, as if the conversation itself had become a subtle echo of the very idea they were discussing. Jack shifted his position slightly, his arms still crossed, but his gaze softer now as he absorbed her thoughts.

Jack: (slightly skeptical) “But what if the mood isn’t grand? What if it’s subtle, fleeting? Can’t that still be valuable in poetry? Sometimes the smallest moments—the quiet, the unnoticed things—can have the deepest meaning. Isn’t that worth capturing too?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly, her voice thoughtful) “I think Drinkwater’s point is that it’s not about the size of the moment, but its impact. Even a fleeting moment, if it’s captured with the right intensity, can feel like it consumes everything. It’s not about the scope of the mood—it’s about the depth. The feeling should be so full, so rich, that it lingers long after the poem ends. Even in small moments, there’s room for that kind of immensity.”

Jack: (looking out the window, voice soft) “Yeah, I can see that. But it feels like most poems don’t actually manage that. They either tell you too much or too little. Either they try to explain the feeling, or they leave you feeling like you didn’t get enough of it. It’s hard to find a poem that really captures that deep, almost overwhelming sense of a moment.”

Jeeny: (with a small, understanding nod) “And that’s the challenge, isn’t it? Poetry has to walk a fine line—it has to leave space for the reader to fill in, to experience the mood, rather than just telling them what it is. The best poetry is the kind that doesn’t just explain—it immerses you in the experience itself. It’s like a song you can’t quite shake from your mind. You can’t explain why it stays with you, but it does, because it captures something that resonates with your own experience.”

Host: The soft glow of the lamp, now casting a gentle light over their conversation, seemed to make their words feel more real, more present. Jeeny sat back, her eyes thoughtful, while Jack’s gaze remained distant, as if searching for something deeper within her words.

Jack: (after a long pause, voice softer now) “So, if the poem doesn’t stir something deep within us, then it just falls flat. It’s not that the words aren’t good—it’s that they don’t reach far enough, don’t push us past the point of understanding. They don’t make us feel that overwhelming depth.”

Jeeny: (gently, with conviction) “Exactly. Poetry is meant to capture that moment where the mind is stretched to its limits, where the feeling is so big that the words almost can’t contain it. It’s not about neat conclusions or tidy explanations. It’s about opening up space for the raw emotion to settle in.”

Host: The room seemed to settle into a comfortable silence, the weight of their conversation lingering like the quiet hum of a melody that had just ended. The gentle light from the window had faded, leaving only the soft glow from the lamp to fill the space. Jack sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his knee, while Jeeny seemed deep in thought, her eyes distant. The world outside continued to move on, but inside, there was a quiet understanding.

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself) “It’s like the best poems reach into something bigger than just the moment they describe. They touch something universal, even if the words are about something very small.”

Jeeny: (with a soft smile) “Yes, exactly. The best poetry doesn’t just show us the world—it shows us a new way of experiencing it, of feeling it.”

Host: The room seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging that they had reached something deeper. The conversation had started with a simple quote, but it had evolved into something more—a shared understanding of what poetry really was, and what it could be. And as the light in the room dimmed further, the words of Jeeny and Jack hung in the air like the faintest echo of a truth that couldn’t quite be explained, but could only be felt.