The idea of how to read a poem is based on the idea that poetry

Host: The evening had settled over the bookstore café like a warm blanket, the scent of coffee and old paper mingling with the whisper of rain against the windows. The lamps were low, their light spilling across rows of books stacked like forgotten prayers.

At the corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other, a single candle flame wavering between them. Outside, the streetlights reflected in puddles, turning the asphalt into liquid glass.

Jack leaned back, his jacket collar turned up, a thin curl of smoke from his cigarette rising toward the ceiling. Jeeny held a book of poems — worn, creased, and underlined — her fingers tracing a sentence as though feeling for pulse.

Jeeny: “Edward Hirsch said, ‘The idea of how to read a poem is based on the idea that poetry needs you as a reader. That the experience of poetry, the meaning in poetry, is a kind of circuit that takes place between a poet, a poem, and a reader, and that meaning doesn’t exist or inhere in poems alone.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it cut through the hum of the café, carrying something electric, urgent, like the first drop of rain before a storm.

Jack exhaled, watching the smoke drift. “That’s romantic talk. A poem doesn’t need you, Jeeny. It just exists. Words on a page, ink and structure — like a bridge that doesn’t care who walks across it.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just the bones, Jack. Hirsch is talking about the life of it. The moment someone reads, something awakens — like electricity completing a circuit. The reader isn’t just passing by; they’re co-creating meaning.”

Jack: “So you’re saying a poem is dead until someone decides it’s alive?”

Jeeny: “Not dead — sleeping. Waiting for breath.”

Host: The rain tightened, drumming harder against the window, the sound like applause from an invisible crowd.

Jack smirked, his voice gravelly. “You’re giving too much power to people. The writer builds the house; the reader just visits. It doesn’t matter how they feel about it — the walls are still standing.”

Jeeny: “But what’s a house without light, Jack? Without someone to walk inside, to touch the walls, to remember how the air felt? A poem is like that — it exists, yes, but it only lives when it’s felt.”

Host: A pause. The candle flame flickered, casting shadows that danced across their faces.

Jack: “You’re confusing interpretation with creation. The poet’s intention is the truth. Anything else is just projection.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain how one poem can mean a hundred things to hundred people? Was Shakespeare writing only about Hamlet’s grief, or did he somehow predict ours? Meaning isn’t static — it’s a mirror that changes with who’s looking.”

Host: The barista in the background hummed, stacking cups, the clink of porcelain like metronome ticks to the tempo of their debate.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette, leaning forward. “That’s just subjectivity, Jeeny. People see what they want. You could read a grocery list and call it poetry if you’re in the right mood.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, isn’t it? The reader’s mood, their memory, their hunger — they infuse the text. A poem is a living conversation, not a frozen relic.”

Jack: “Sounds like you’re saying there’s no truth at all. That every reader just makes up their own version.”

Jeeny: “Not makes up — discovers. Like archaeologists brushing dust off the same bones, each from a different angle. The truth doesn’t change, but our understanding of it evolves.”

Host: The air between them had grown thick, like the tension before a storm breaks. The bookstore lights dimmed slightly, a timer clicking somewhere above, and in that shadow, both faces seemed older, tired, but alive.

Jack: “You know, I used to love poetry — before I realized it was just people dressing confusion in pretty words. Half the time, even the poets don’t know what they’re saying.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t — not fully. But that’s what makes it real. Poetry is the only language brave enough to admit it doesn’t have answers. It’s a bridge between what’s felt and what can’t be said.”

Jack: “And what if that bridge collapses? What if there’s nothing on the other side?”

Jeeny: “Then you build it again. That’s what the reader does — they finish what the poet began.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, the candle flame tilting, its light stretching, bending across the pages of the open book between them.

Jeeny flipped to a marked page and read softly:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Her voice trembled, delicate but anchored, like the edge of a blade.

Jeeny: “When Dylan Thomas wrote that, he was pleading with his father. But when I read it, I hear my own mother’s voice, telling me not to give up. It’s his poem, but it’s also mine. That’s the circuit Hirsch meant.”

Jack was silent for a moment, his eyes lowered, jaw tightening. The smoke from his cigarette had dissipated, but the ghost of it lingered — like an unspoken word.

Jack: “You think the poet would be okay with that? His grief turned into your comfort?”

Jeeny: “I think he’d be grateful. Because his words reached someone he’d never meet. Isn’t that the whole point — to connect across time, across loneliness?”

Host: The rain softened, the rhythm slowing, as if even the sky was listening.

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe that’s what we all want — for someone to finish our sentences when we’re gone.”

Jeeny smiled, a quiet light in her eyes. “Exactly. Every reader is a kind of resurrection. The poet writes so the reader can remember — and in that remembering, they both exist again.”

Host: The candle flame steadied, casting their faces in a warm, forgiving glow. Outside, the street had emptied, but the reflection of the light in the puddles looked like stars fallen to earth.

Jack reached for the book, his fingers brushing the spine. “You know,” he said quietly, “maybe a poem doesn’t need to be understood. Maybe it just needs to be heard.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s how it lives — not by explaining, but by echoing.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, the two figures small against the vast shelves of books, the rain whispering its last lines outside.

The candle burned lower, the wax pooling, the flame trembling — as if the poem itself was breathing.

And in that small corner of the world, the circuit completed:
poet, poem, reader —
each needing, each answering, each alive.