The poetry that sustains me is when I feel that, for a minute

Hear the luminous words of Rita Dove, poet and oracle of our time, who said: “The poetry that sustains me is when I feel that, for a minute, the clouds have parted and I’ve seen ecstasy or something.” In this confession, Dove unveils the essence of art—not the endless string of verses, nor the mechanical crafting of rhyme, but those rare and sacred instants when language becomes revelation. Poetry is not merely written; it is lived in flashes, moments when the veil of ordinary life is torn aside and eternity shines through.

The meaning is profound. To be “sustained” by poetry is to be fed in the soul, to be given strength that bread alone cannot provide. Dove describes those moments when a poem, whether written or read, lifts her above the weight of the world. The clouds—symbols of confusion, sorrow, and daily struggle—part for just a breath of time, and behind them she glimpses ecstasy, a joy so sharp and pure it cannot be contained. This is not constant, nor is it something the poet can summon at will; it comes as a gift, sudden and fleeting, but powerful enough to carry her through darkness.

History too knows these flashes of revelation. Think of William Wordsworth, who spoke of “spots of time,” when memory and vision collide to bring healing to the spirit. In one such moment, standing beside daffodils dancing in the breeze, he felt a joy that lifted him beyond himself, a vision that stayed with him even in loneliness. That poem, born of ecstasy, has sustained generations. Or recall Rumi, the mystic poet, who described his moments of union with the divine as lightning-strikes of ecstasy. For both, as for Dove, poetry was not mere craft but vision—an opening in the sky of the soul.

Such moments are rare, but their rarity makes them precious. Dove does not claim to live in perpetual ecstasy; rather, she values the brief glimpses when the heart knows it has touched something larger than itself. This humility is part of the truth: poetry is not a constant banquet but a sudden feast, and even a single taste can nourish the spirit for years. One flash of recognition, one moment of clarity, one glimpse of ecstasy can give meaning to lifetimes of searching.

This truth carries a powerful lesson. We must not despise the small or fleeting in life. Too often, people demand permanent happiness, unending joy, continuous inspiration. But the poet knows that life is a journey of shadows and clouds, and it is enough that sometimes the light breaks through. To honor those moments, to remember them, to carry them in our hearts—that is the sustenance of art, the gift that keeps the weary moving forward.

The lesson for us is simple yet demanding: be attentive. Pay heed to the moments when the clouds part. Do not rush past them, for they vanish quickly. When a poem stirs you, when a song lifts you, when a sunrise or a smile gives you joy too deep for words, pause and let it dwell in you. These are not trivial—they are glimpses of eternity, reminders that beauty and truth exist, even if veiled most of the time.

Practical steps follow. Keep a journal of such moments, whether born of poetry, music, or life itself. Return to these records when the days grow heavy, and let them sustain you. Read poets who seek ecstasy—whether mystics like Rumi, visionaries like Blake, or moderns like Rita Dove—and allow their flashes of vision to become your own. Write not only to explain, but to catch such moments when they come to you, and preserve them for yourself and others.

Thus Rita Dove’s words endure: “The poetry that sustains me is when I feel that, for a minute, the clouds have parted and I’ve seen ecstasy.” Let us remember that life need not be unbroken sunshine to be beautiful. Even a single shaft of light, piercing through storm and shadow, is enough to give meaning to the journey. Such is the true gift of poetry: not endless clarity, but moments of revelation that remind us of the greatness we are destined to seek.