4 min read

The Quiet Call of Poetry

The Quiet Call of Poetry
Photo by Pereanu Sebastian on Unsplash

Tracing the Roots of My Voice

I never set out to become a poet.

The path wasn’t marked or intentional; it unfolded like a melody I didn’t realize I had been humming all along. Poetry called to me—not loudly, not all at once—but as a soft, persistent whisper. It beckoned like the earth calls to the fading sun on a stormy evening, yearning for just one more moment of warmth before surrendering to the cool embrace of night.

And the sun, unwilling to fade without leaving its mark, burns brighter in its final moments, painting the world in a golden blaze. That’s how poetry came to me: quietly, then all at once, igniting a flame I didn’t know I carried.

Beginnings Are Stories We Choose to Tell

All beginnings are stories, but not all stories start where you expect.

Life doesn’t begin neatly at birth or with the first memories we manage to preserve. Beginnings are shaped by meaning—by the moments we recognize as significant, where something inside us shifts, grows, or awakens.

My beginning wasn’t the day I was born or the first time I crawled across a carpeted floor. My story began with a single, vivid memory, one that has clung to me with the tenacity of a vine, growing deeper into my consciousness with each passing year.

I was less than two years old, cradled in my mother’s arms. We were in a small, unremarkable lobby with a tiled floor that reflected the overhead lights. I wasn’t old enough to understand the where or the why of that moment, but I remember the details with a clarity that defies the passage of time.

It’s as though I am watching the scene from above, looking down at myself in her arms. She sways gently, rocking me with a rhythm that feels both soothing and eternal, like the quiet heartbeat of the universe. I’m not asleep, but I’m teetering on the edge of it—my little body warm against hers, my eyelids heavy with the weight of a day I was too young to remember.

The Lobby, The Moment, The Memory

The lobby was quiet, nearly empty except for us.

A faint hum filled the air, the kind of sound that lingers in places designed for waiting. Perhaps it came from the vending machines lining one wall, their glowing interiors promising snacks that neither of us truly wanted.

I remember watching her as she moved to the machines, her eyes scanning rows of brightly colored bags. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though she was weighing her options carefully. But in the end, she sighed and walked away, empty-handed. The snacks weren’t worth it—not satisfying enough, not worth the effort.

Instead, she turned her attention to a wooden table nearby. There, she found a plastic container of cups, their colors split between white and brown. She pulled one out, turned it right-side up, and moved to the coffee pot.

The pot was black and silver, utilitarian, and unremarkable. Yet when she pressed the button, the liquid that poured out felt anything but ordinary. It was dark and rich, steaming as it filled the cup to its brim. She added a small splash of cream, pulling it from a container so tiny it could fit in my little hand.

And then she lifted the cup to her lips.

The Aroma of Awakening

The smell of the coffee reached me before she took her first sip. It was warm, earthy, and comforting, wrapping around me like an invisible blanket. At that moment, it wasn’t just coffee. It was my mother. It was safety. It was love.

That aroma filled the small space, making the lobby feel less like a waiting room and more like a sanctuary. It was the first scent I can remember, the first experience that tethered me to the world in a way I could understand.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment—the sway of her arms, the hum of the vending machines, the aroma of coffee—would become my first conscious memory. My awakening to the world.

Why This Memory Matters

Later in life, I would learn the name of the drink she held.

Coffee.

The magic elixir would become a staple of my days, a companion during countless hours of writing. But to me, it has always been more than a drink. It’s the bridge to my beginnings, the tangible thread connecting me to that moment when I first felt truly awake.

And perhaps that’s where poetry began for me, too.

Not with a pen and paper, but with the recognition of something ordinary made extraordinary. Poetry, after all, is about noticing—about finding meaning in the everyday, beauty in the mundane. It’s about capturing moments like that one in the lobby and preserving them, giving them life beyond the fleeting seconds they occupy.

How Poetry Fuels and Reflects Life

As I grew older, I realized that poetry is not just about words.

Poetry is about the spaces between them, the emotions they evoke, the memories they summon. That moment with my mother wasn’t inherently poetic. It was just life. But poetry gave me the tools to understand it, to reflect on it, to find its meaning.

Poetry asks us to slow down, to pay attention, to hold onto the fleeting and make it timeless. It teaches us that every moment, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, carries the potential for depth and beauty.

For me, it all started in that quiet lobby, with the hum of vending machines, the sway of my mother’s arms, and the rich aroma of coffee filling the air.

That memory is my origin story as a poet.

A reminder that even the simplest moments can shape who we are.

It’s why I write. To capture the intangible. To preserve the fleeting. To remind myself, and others, that meaning is everywhere, waiting for us to notice it.