The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of

G. K. Chesterton, the master of paradox and defender of ordinary joys, once remarked with sly humor: “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” At first this sounds only like a jest, a playful absurdity. But as with all of Chesterton’s wisdom, hidden beneath the laughter is a serious truth. He is reminding us that the highest poetry too often ignores the humble, the earthy, the daily bread of life. While poets sing of stars and seas, of gods and battles, they neglect the common table where humanity is nourished. Cheese, here, becomes the symbol of the ordinary, the reminder that beauty lies not only in the heavens but also in the homely gifts of the earth.

The origin of this thought lies in Chesterton’s lifelong battle against pride and abstraction. He lived in an age where philosophy often soared into sterile heights, and art too often cut itself off from the simple joys of ordinary men. Chesterton, with his love of paradox, sought to bring us back to earth. To him, a piece of cheese was no less wondrous than a cathedral, for both were works of creation, both carried mystery, both nourished the soul—one with beauty, the other with strength. That poets ignored such a thing was, to Chesterton, a humorous but telling flaw in human imagination.

The ancients would have understood him well. Did not Hesiod write of farming and harvests as sacred acts? Did not Virgil sing of the plough, the vine, the bee, and all the humble labors that sustain civilization? The silence of poets on cheese was not universal, but in Chesterton’s day it symbolized a broader neglect: the failure to see poetry in what sustains the body, not only in what elevates the spirit. True art, he insists, must embrace both. For the table is as holy as the altar, and the shepherd’s meal is as worthy of song as the king’s feast.

History gives us its proof. When the armies of Rome marched, it was not lofty verse that sustained them, but bread, wine, and cheese carried in their packs. When monks in medieval cloisters kept learning alive, they also crafted cheeses in their cellars, turning milk into food that could endure the winter. These humble labors, ignored by poets, were in fact the quiet foundation upon which the soaring towers of art and culture rested. Without cheese and bread, no cathedral could have been built, no poem sung, no empire held. Chesterton, in jest, was pointing us toward this forgotten truth: the ordinary sustains the extraordinary.

Yet his words are more than history; they are also a challenge. If poets have been silent on cheese, what else have we neglected? What ordinary wonders of life pass beneath our notice because they seem too small, too common, too humble to be worthy of song? The laughter of a child, the patience of a teacher, the steam rising from a bowl of soup on a winter’s night—these are as poetic as the stars, if only we have the eyes to see them. Silence on such matters is not merely mysterious, but tragic, for it blinds us to the full richness of life.

The lesson for us, then, is clear: poetry must not flee from the common. Whether we write verse or live our lives as daily poems, we must honor the ordinary as sacred. Do not think that greatness lies only in the distant or the rare. Learn to praise the bread, the cup, the cheese, the hearth, for in these things lies the foundation of love and survival. To ignore them is to ignore the ground upon which all higher things stand.

Practical wisdom flows. Cultivate gratitude for small things. Practice noticing the ordinary, and speaking of it with reverence. When you write, do not fear to sing of daily life; when you live, do not scorn the humble gifts that sustain you. And when you laugh at Chesterton’s jest, remember that it is laughter carrying truth: the poets have been silent on cheese, but we need not be.

So let us take Chesterton’s words to heart: “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” Let us break that silence in our own way—by honoring the common, by finding poetry in the humble, by lifting up even the smallest things as worthy of wonder. For to do so is to live as true poets: not only of stars and eternity, but of the table, the hearth, and the simple joys that give life its meaning.