You can find poetry in your everyday life, your memory, in what

"You can find poetry in your everyday life, your memory, in what people say on the bus, in the news, or just what's in your heart." So spoke Carol Ann Duffy, the poet who gave voice to the hidden music of ordinary days. Her words remind us that poetry is not confined to books, nor locked in libraries, nor bound only to the lips of the bards. It dwells among us, in the rhythm of footsteps, in the murmur of strangers, in the laughter of children, in the silent ache of memory. The sacred is not far from us—it is woven into the threads of daily living.

The ancients would have nodded knowingly at Duffy’s words, for they too believed the world is alive with song. To them, the rustle of leaves was a hymn, the flowing river a verse, the cry of the eagle a proclamation. They did not separate life from poetry, for to live was already to dwell in a great, unending poem. What Duffy teaches is this same wisdom for our time: to open the ear of the soul, to listen for the quiet stanzas hidden in what seems ordinary.

Think of Anne Frank, a young girl in hiding, trapped in darkness during the horrors of war. Her diary was not written as poetry, yet it became poetry nonetheless. In her simple lines about fear, hope, and longing, the human spirit found its song. She discovered beauty even in the smallest glimpses of life—sunlight through a window, the memory of laughter, the stubborn endurance of hope. The poetry she wrote was not crafted for art’s sake, but born from the heart, proof that even in suffering, the world still offers music to those who dare to listen.

Or remember the story of Langston Hughes, who walked the streets of Harlem and found poetry in the voices of his people. In their speech, their struggles, their dreams, he heard the music of an entire generation. He did not wait for inspiration from grand halls or ancient texts—he listened to the conversations, the songs, the bus rides of everyday life. From these, he forged words that carried dignity, power, and unyielding hope for a people long oppressed.

The lesson is clear: the world is always speaking to us in verses, but we must choose to hear them. Too often we rush through life, blinded by habit, deafened by noise. Yet if we pause—if we truly look and listen—we will see that the smallest moments are filled with grandeur. The whisper of memory, the kindness of a stranger, the headline in a paper, the beating of our own hearts—all are verses in the eternal poem of existence.

Thus, children of tomorrow, train yourselves to see with the eyes of the poet. Carry a small book, and when words strike you, capture them. When you hear someone’s laughter that moves you, note it. When you feel sorrow so deep it shakes you, let it speak in verse. Do not say, “I am no poet.” For as Duffy teaches, poetry is already within you, waiting to be found. It is the reflection of your soul in the mirror of the world.

So let us live not as those who stumble blindly, but as those who walk awake, with hearts attuned to the music of existence. Let us find poetry in the bus rides, in the news, in the stories of others, and in our own memories. For in doing so, we do not merely survive—we live deeply, richly, fully. And in that fullness, we leave behind words that will echo beyond our lives, carrying the beauty of the ordinary into eternity.