When materialism makes its ugly claim that all the universe is no more than a raucous tangle of atoms; when medicine jeers at you that you’re nothing but blood, bones, and viscera; when nature’s true mystery is masked by the cog-wheeled, deterministic costume I impose upon her; that is when I would do well to remember the absolute importance of poetry.

By ‘poetry’ I mean not merely lines of rhythmic prose, rhyming or otherwise. But also the poetry of story, of song, and of artistic creation. I mean the poetry that exists within expressions of the human soul as she cries out “there is more!” More than mere mechanism, there is beauty; there is also truth.

You atoms: not even if you assembled evolution’s finest eyes could you look upon, and marvel at, the exquisite beauty of the world. You nerve cells: not even if you assembled neuroscience’s most-impressive brain could you find delight in immortal, rational truth.

But poetry, song, story, and art (which are not bound by blind, obedient nature) all perceive the “something more” with wondrous ease. And so when my mind has foolishly forgotten that it contains more than simple atoms and slow nerve cells, I must remember the absolute importance of poetry. It is the immaterial remedy for my immaterial disease.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

- Mary Oliver, American Poet

The following is an experiment with writing. Tell me whether you think it was effective, or if it just made you confused. The goal was to stir up sounds, images, smells, and feelings. Did it work? 

Foamy waves lap between my toes, tenderly grasping at the indifferent sand. It’s cold, and a drab mist rises from the sea, swirling and searching. A guitar is my companion, so I murmur lines of wistful, melancholy tunes. They’re lost to the barren wind, which comes in isolated, desperate gusts; smelling of salt. Somewhere down the shore a lonesome toad croaks. His appeal is received by none, except the stars overhead. They seem close – somehow, deceptively attainable. But they remain unimaginably distant. I lay the guitar down, and breathe in the thick hush around me.

Sometimes, on nights like this, I can feel you. Quietly, unsought, you come with the stillness. Your warmth presses against me; your voice whispers softly at my neck. I hold my breath and my heart skips a beat. Your touch sends a flush, and a shiver across my skin. Your lips brush delicately on mine. And with a wisp of the wind, you’re gone, the taste of your kiss still tingling.

And then I am alone again with the sea. Darkness chills through me and a cloud covers the moon. I’m choked with a heavy longing for you. I stretch a hand to the night sky, and bring it back empty. Slowly, purposefully, I pick up the guitar again to sing you a lullaby. It is heard by only the lonesome toad, and the passing wind.