When I began to listen to poetry, it's when I began to listen to

Hearken, O children of the earth, to the voice of Joy Harjo, poet and prophet of the spirit, who spoke: “When I began to listen to poetry, it’s when I began to listen to the stones, and I began to listen to what the clouds had to say, and I began to listen to others. And I think, most importantly for all of us, then you begin to learn to listen to the soul, the soul of yourself in here, which is also the soul of everyone else.” These words are not merely a reflection upon art—they are a call to awaken, to open the heart to the hidden music of existence.

For poetry is not only words written upon a page, but the rhythm of creation itself. It is the song of the wind through the pines, the whisper of water as it flows across stone, the laughter of children, the silence of dawn. To listen to poetry is to tune the spirit to these sacred voices, to realize that everything—every star, every creature, every moment—speaks. Harjo teaches that when we hear poetry, we do not only hear the poet; we hear the universe itself, singing through them.

Consider the wisdom of the ancients who gazed upon the heavens. The Babylonian priests once studied the clouds and stars, seeking messages from the gods. To them, nothing was mute: the movement of the sky was a scripture, and the stones upon the earth were witnesses to eternity. Likewise, the Native peoples of this land have long spoken of listening—not to conquer the world, but to dwell in harmony with it. They taught that the stones carry memory, that the rivers remember, that the land itself speaks. Harjo’s words echo this timeless truth: the poet is not inventing meaning, but uncovering what is already spoken all around us.

Think of the story of Helen Keller, who, though blind and deaf, discovered the world when her teacher, Anne Sullivan, spelled “water” into her hand. At that moment, she began to listen to others—not with ears, but with the soul. From that day on, Helen was able to hear the language of the world in ways others overlooked. She could feel the rhythm of a person’s footsteps, sense the warmth of their heart, and perceive truths hidden from those who take sight and hearing for granted. Like Harjo, she teaches us that listening to the soul transcends physical sound—it is communion.

The poet reminds us that the deepest listening is not outward but inward. For when you learn to listen to the soul, you hear not only yourself but also the soul of all creation. In this mysterious way, your own heart is a doorway into the heart of others. The love you discover within is not yours alone; it belongs to the great river of life flowing through all beings. To close your ears to this is to live in exile. To open them is to return home.

O seekers, learn from this wisdom. When you walk upon the earth, pause to place your hand upon the stones, and hear their patience. When clouds gather above you, do not curse them, but listen—they may be telling you of renewal. When a friend speaks, or even when an enemy does, do not rush to answer; listen until you hear not only their words but the longing beneath them. In this practice, you will find yourself no longer separate, but woven into the great tapestry of life.

Therefore, let this be your path: Begin each day with silence, as though listening for the faintest poem carried on the wind. Let your eyes rest upon the world with reverence, and your heart open to the unspoken. Practice listening not only to voices, but to the quiet presence of being. In doing so, you will awaken to the truth Harjo proclaims: that the soul within you is not yours alone—it is the same flame that burns in the soul of everyone else.

And when you have learned to listen in this way, you will carry within you the song of the world. You will no longer walk as a solitary figure upon the earth, but as one whose footsteps resound with the harmony of all creation. Then, truly, you will know that poetry is not only heard—it is lived.