I intend to post poetry in this blog every Friday, at least until I run out of steam, in an effort I’m going to call “Free Verse Friday.” Now before you roll your eyes (warranted) and scroll down to the next post, let me just say that before I start busting out rhymes right and left, I decided I better think through what the point of it is. What is it that makes a poem worth reading? True, some poetry definitely isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on- but some is (and I’m making no claims here about my own attempts). So, what is it that makes for good poetry?

Plato wrote that “poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.” Vital truth – that certainly makes for good poetry. Good poets tell the truth about the essential things of life. They don’t record factual details in an exact way, like historians, but lead us through the doorway of imagination into the heart of life. Historians gather the leaves of time. Poets dig up the roots. As Robert Frost put it, the best poems are “a way of taking life by the throat.” They seize on what is vital.

Good prose writers are after meaningful truth as well, but there’s a difference. Prose is often written to convince an audience of something the author believes to be true. But that’s rarely the aim of poetry. The vital truths poets speak to are usually truths we already believe, at least at some level. Good poetry calls out those truths, affirms them, and integrates them more deeply into our souls.

When Paul Simon wrote, “Hello darkness, my old friend / I’ve come to speak with you again” he wasn’t trying to argue us into believing something new. He was drawing out a vital truth we already knew, at least subconsciously: namely, that human beings often feel alienated and alone. Darkness is not a strange experience for any of us, but an old, familiar, almost welcome “friend.”

Now, here’s the power of poetry: without ever directly speaking about it, The Sound of Silence reveals the truth about our common problem of alienation. This is profoundly helpful because there is a kind of cognitive dissonance in feeling alienated on a planet of seven billion people. Isn’t it odd that we sleep in the same bed with another person, share a house with seven or eight other people, bump elbows at Costco with dozens of other people, go to work and church with hundreds of other people, and share the road with what feels like all seven billion of the other people on the planet, yet somehow still feel alienated from all of them?

So, this is the kind of thing where we may either doubt ourselves or suspect there is something very wrong with us. But when Paul Simon croons out “Hello darkness my old friend”, we know what we feel is real. His words validate the truth we suspect- that we are alienated. And if we think it out, we may start to realize that this feeling of alienation is not just something I feel, but something everyone feels- it is part of the universal human experience. That means in some sense it is normal to feel alienated on a planet of seven billion people. So even if I don’t like the feeling of aloneness, I don’t have to feel weird or alone in feeling it, which actually helps me feel less alone. What’s more, knowing how many other people feel the pain of alienation might just work on my heart to give me a bit more compassion for other people who are suffering from loneliness too.

Ironically, the words Hello darkness, my old friend not only help us connect with vital truth about ourselves, but vital truth about the world and the people around us and potentially even vital truth about God (for example, there are hints here for the reason we feel alienated- that every human soul remembers Eden where man walked with God and longs to go back). This ability to connect us is at the heart of good poetry. In good poetry, the writer’s thoughts and feelings echo in the reader’s mind and heart, creating that powerful connection. Of course, the echo is never exact. The tone of it changes subtly to fit the reader’s life and character. But if the writer has done his job well essential truths are preserved and passed on. Andrew Peterson calls this connection resonance, and maybe it’s the greatest gift poetry has to offer.

I forget who it was that said a song is just three chords and the truth, but they were onto something. Truth is essential to song, just as to poetry, and music has the power to amplify whatever poetry a good song is built on. But the greatest poetry sings in the heart, even without the aid of a tune. It does so because the poet has planted into his work something of himself that other people can recognize in their own experiences or longings and connect with, and through that connection the truth is carried into their hearts. By that resonating power of poetry, hearts are moved, even shaped. Through good poetry our hearts can be moved to glimpse the beauty that another human being sees in a sunset or a soul or a Savior. Through good poetry, we might be humbled out of our own petty cares just long enough to care about the suffering of an orphan or a war-ravaged country or perhaps even a struggling family member or friend in our own circle. Good poetry resonates vital truth to our hearts. And the kind of poetry that can do that is always worth reading.