The other side of it is that, despite all that, people reach out

"The other side of it is that, despite all that, people reach out to poetry at the key moments in their lives." So spoke Paul Muldoon, and in these words there is both wonder and revelation. For though in daily life men and women may neglect verse, though they may dismiss it as distant or impractical, still, when the soul is struck by love, by loss, by triumph, or by despair, it turns not to reason alone, but to poetry. At those moments when the heart is too full, when ordinary speech breaks beneath the weight of emotion, poetry becomes the vessel through which truth flows.

Why is this so? It is because poetry is the language closest to the rhythm of the spirit. Prose may teach, reason may guide, but poetry sings. It carries the cadences of the heartbeat, the rise and fall of breath, the music of longing and hope. It is not mere decoration, but a form of survival, a way for mortals to endure what cannot be borne in silence. And so, at the great thresholds of life—birth, marriage, death, farewell, and remembrance—people reach instinctively for poetry, as one reaches for water in the desert.

History confirms this truth. When President Abraham Lincoln was struck down by an assassin’s hand, the American nation drowned in grief. Yet from that abyss rose Walt Whitman’s elegy, O Captain! My Captain!—a poem that gave shape to the people’s sorrow and transformed private mourning into collective remembrance. The poem did not erase the pain, but it carried it, gave it a form, a rhythm, a beauty that made endurance possible. At that key moment, it was not law, nor logic, nor politics that consoled the nation—it was poetry.

Nor is this confined to the great. In villages, in homes, in the quiet places of the earth, mothers have sung lullabies over cradles, brides have whispered verses at weddings, mourners have recited lines at gravesides. These are not empty traditions, but living proof of what Muldoon declared: at the most profound crossings of existence, poetry becomes the bridge. It speaks what the heart cannot frame. It gives meaning where words would otherwise falter.

The lesson is clear: never despise the poet’s craft, for it holds a hidden strength. To live well is not only to build, to labor, to conquer, but also to give voice to the ineffable currents within the soul. Poetry is not a luxury; it is a necessity in the hours when life pierces us most deeply. He who neglects it may survive, but he who embraces it will endure with greater wisdom, with greater grace.

Practically, let each of us cultivate a closeness with poetry. Read it not only when sorrow compels you, but in the calm days as well, so that your spirit grows attuned to its music. Write your own verses, however humble, for the act itself is a balm. Share lines with others when they celebrate, when they grieve, when they begin a new journey, or when they bid farewell. Let poetry be part of your life, not only in times of need, but as a companion always at your side.

So remember, children of tomorrow: at the gates of joy and sorrow, at the turning points where the path of life bends sharply, it will not be the dry words of argument that sustain you. It will be the fire and water of poetry. Muldoon spoke true—when the heart trembles at its most profound moments, it reaches instinctively for verse. And to know this is to honor poetry not as art alone, but as the eternal voice of the human soul.