The Transcendent Power of the Written Word

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Robin Williams as Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society."

Last night, my husband spent some time reading poetry aloud to me. One of the things he read was Walt Whitman's tribute to Abraham Lincoln after his assassination, "O Captain! My Captain," which was made more significant to our generation by its mention in the film "Dead Poets Society."

The tears rained down my cheeks as I traveled 150 years backward into our nation's history and tried to imagine the heartbreak I'd feel if Lincoln had been my leader and I'd lost him. I commented to Adam that I again felt the transcendence of creativity as I cried over words written so long ago, by a man who is dead, for a man who died. That words should live so long in our collective memory and carry so much power truly is a beautiful mystery.

Do verses penned in our time hold such sway over our souls? For me, the answer is yes.

The other day, my mind was drifting into the past, and a song an old friend wrote came to me.

I googled the lyrics I could remember and was startled to find that there is no trace of the song anywhere online, despite the fact that it was recorded on an album of his from 10-plus years ago. I still have that album, and it's almost unlistenable because I've over-loved it through the years. The latter tracks are scratched beyond repair, which include the song I'm thinking of: "Grieve."

The only place I can play the CD is in my car; it skips too much when I try to use my computer. So this morning, I sat in my car in the garage listening to it over and over so I could transcribe the lyrics before it's totally unplayable.

Since the song's beauty and melancholy have stuck with me, I want to share the lyrics with you today, in hopes they will connect with your heart like they've stayed in mine.

I only wish I could share a recording of it, too.

"Grieve," by Titus Cole

She put her feet on the cold, hard floor

Glanced in the mirror and walked out the door

I wonder, how can she be so sure?

She lives her life as if

She’s a flag on a hill who just can’t catch a drift

Of wind to help her to unfurl

Ooh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh at the pain that we’ve both been through

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

If God in heaven has changed your mind and

If you now know what it means to be blinded by others,

And the whims of falsity

If the rumors I hear are true

Then why am I standing lonely and blue on the brink?

Hopelessness is constancy

Oh, I know what I have to do

And I laugh to think of such a pair of fools

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

[Instrumental interlude]

As long as there are tears left to cry

As long as there is any truth left to deny

I now realize

That I will love you still

And if you never give a thought to me

And even if age should come to claim me

I realize

That I will love you still

Oh I know what I have to do

And I laugh every time that I think of you

But, Sunday morning comes and

Though we both know what needs to be done

I just swallow

And the phone sits on the shelf

And I grieve for you

I grieve for you

I grieve

That verse, "She lives her life as if // she's a flag on a hill who just can't catch a drift // Of wind, to help her to unfurl" resonates with me greatly. I remember feeling that way so often throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, and even sometimes still, as I doubt my own abilities to write.

As members of the human race, we know there are gifts inside us, but we need help opening up to them and displaying them for the world. This is what people like Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society" can do for us. They can see our hidden gifts and coax them out into the light.

Today, I'm thankful for the teachers and coaches among us. I'm thankful for artistic talent. And I'm thankful for the transcendent power of the written word.

What about you?

I'd love to hear from you if there's a song, poem, story or artwork that won't let you go, even after years and years. Leave me a comment here or at my Facebook Community page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.

About Post Author

Rachel E. Watson

I think, read and write. I might mull on music, spin original poems, share insights or tell stories, but you can be sure whatever you read here comes from a thoughtful and considered place within.

Rachel E. Watson