There are moments when one wonders whether the separation between poetry and music isn't one of the greatest self-deceptions in Western intellectual history. We've grown accustomed to reading poems in books, silently to ourselves, contemplating the text on the page like a painting on the wall. But this silence, historically speaking, is a novelty, an anomaly. For in the beginning was sound.
The word "lyric" itself reveals the truth we so readily suppress. It derives from the lyre, that ancient stringed instrument inextricably linked to the recitation of poetry in ancient Greece. The lyre, also called the chelys, was an instrument of elegant simplicity. It consisted of a hollowed-out tortoise shell as a resonator, from which two curved horns—usually antelope horns or bent wood—rose. A yoke stretched between these horns, to which seven to twelve strings made of animal gut were attached. The player plucked the strings with a plectrum made of horn or ivory, accompanying his singing.
The Lyre of the Poets
In ancient Greece, anyone who recited verse took up the lyre and sang it. Pindar, the great ode poet, Anacreon with his drinking songs—they were not poets in the modern sense, disseminating their works in manuscript form, but rather singers, musicians, performers. Their texts initially existed only in performance, in the moment of sound. Written notation came later and was, in a sense, a loss—the loss of that dimension which made the poem complete.
The etymological connection between lyric poetry and lyre is more than a philological curiosity. It reveals a fundamental understanding of what language can be: rhythmic movement, melodic flow, sonic sculpture. Greek lyric poetry knew no strict separation between word and sound. The poet was simultaneously a composer, casting his verses into musical form. Prosody, the study of stress, length, and melody of syllables, was not an academic extracurricular discipline, but the very heart of poetic art. In the great tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the choral parts were always sung, accompanied by instruments, and framed by dance.
This unity of word, sound, and movement also characterized other cultures of antiquity. The Psalms of the Old Testament were chants intended for liturgical recitation in the temple. The Vedic hymns of India were recited according to strict melodic rules. Homer's epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, were performed by itinerant singers, the aedes and rhapsodes, accompanied by the kithara—the larger, more complete sibling of the lyre. Wherever great poetry was created, music was an integral part of it.
You don't have to be a classical philologist to sense this truth. Anyone who has ever read a poem aloud knows that peculiar transformation that occurs: the text begins to breathe, to resonate, to live. The words unfold a rhythm that transcends their semantic meaning. There is an inner melody in every successful poem, a musical structure that caresses the ear and soothes the soul. Meter and rhyme, alliteration and assonance—all these stylistic devices are essentially musical tools translated into the medium of language. The iamb progresses like a heartbeat, the dactyl gallops, the trochee evokes, the anapest surges upward.
Rhythm Before Words
I myself have been writing both poetry and music for more than fifteen years, and with each passing year it becomes clearer to me how inextricably intertwined these two arts are. When I work on a poem, I hear the rhythm before I find the words. It's as if there were an invisible score preceding the text, which I simply need to translate into language. Conversely, many of my melodies arise from the attempt to develop a linguistic rhythm, to free it from the constraints of words, and to transform it into pure sound. This rhythm inherent in the lines is, for me, the true magic of poetry—that pulsating element that makes the difference between dead letters and living language.
Dylan and the Return of the Singer-Poet
Modern music history impressively confirms this ancient connection. When the Swedish Academy announced on October 13, 2016, that the Nobel Prize in Literature had been awarded to Bob Dylan – “for his poetic innovations in the great American song tradition” – it was more than just a provocation of the literary establishment. It was a recognition of what Dylan himself had always embodied: that song lyrics can be literature, that the singing poet is just as legitimate a manifestation of the poet as the writing poet. Historically speaking, the decision was a return to the origins.
Dylan was the first musician ever to receive this highest literary honor. As expected, the decision polarized opinion – critics like the German literary critic Denis Scheck called it a “joke,” while others celebrated it as long overdue recognition. But the Nobel Committee’s reasoning was rooted in a profound cultural-historical truth. The Academy explained that Dylan writes in order to perform his works. That is precisely what Homer did several millennia ago. With this, Stockholm placed the Minnesota rock-and-roll poet in a lineage with the blind singer of antiquity—a bold, but by no means far-fetched, genealogy.
Dylan's lyrics, from "Blowin' in the Wind" to "Like a Rolling Stone" to "Visions of Johanna," do indeed stand in a long tradition of oral poetry. His dark, associative lyrics, as critics have noted, "repeatedly give the impression that he knows more, that he can delve deeper and offer answers." The literary merit of his work was recognized even before the Nobel Prize: In 2013, Dylan was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters, albeit only as an honorary member, since the Academy couldn't agree on whether he should be considered more of a musician or a writer. This institutional ambiguity reflects the nature of Dylan's art: It defies categorization.
The German songwriter Heinz Rudolf Kunze reacted to the news at the time with remarkable clarity. Dylan had been "a benchmark and a comfort" to him since his student days. "He showed me that it's worthwhile to combine complex lyrics with music—you can reach people that way." This statement precisely identifies what makes the connection between poetry and music so powerful: its ability to make complexity accessible without trivializing it. The melody carries the thought, the rhythm structures the reflection, and together they reach both heart and mind.
Singing Poets of the German Language
Kunze himself stands in a rich German tradition of singing poets. Reinhard Mey, the Berlin chansonnier, created not only catchy tunes with songs like "Über den Wolken" (Above the Clouds) and "Gute Nacht, Freunde" (Good Night, Friends), but also poetic miniatures of lasting relevance. Mey, who also published a volume of poetry with the telling title "Ich wollte wie Orpheus singen" (I Wanted to Sing Like Orpheus), embodies that type of singer-songwriter who elevated the German chanson to an independent art form. His lyrics are everyday observations of poetic precision, sometimes humorous, sometimes melancholic, always carried by a melody that gives the words their full resonance. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung once called him the "master of three- to five-minute poetry"—a description that captures the essence of his art.
Alongside him stands Konstantin Wecker, the Munich singer-songwriter, whose work is characterized by lyrical subtlety and powerful political rebellion. Wecker, who has published poetry collections and novels in addition to his songs, embodies the roles of musician, poet, and public intellectual. His ballads, from "Willy" and "Genug ist nicht genug" to "Dass wir so lang leben," are literature set to music in the truest sense—texts that could stand on their own without music, but gain an additional dimension through it. Together with Reinhard Mey and Hannes Wader, Wecker formed a triumvirate of German singer-songwriters, culminating in a legendary joint concert in 2003—a summit meeting of singing poets.
Wolfgang Niedecken, the Cologne-based frontman of the band BAP, adds another facet to this panorama: dialect as a lyrical medium. His lyrics in Kölsch (the local dialect of Cologne), often inspired by Dylan and American folk-rock, prove that poetic intensity doesn't require standard language. Niedecken writes songs that are simultaneously local lore and world-viewing, rooted in the local and yet possessing universal resonance. He has always acknowledged Dylan, translating and interpreting his work—a Rhineland troubadour who brings the tradition of American songwriting into the German vernacular.
In the English-speaking world, Sting, the former frontman of The Police, represents a similar synthesis of pop appeal and literary ambition. His lyrics, from "Roxanne" to "Every Breath You Take" to "Fragile," combine poetic imagery with catchy melodies. Critics have recognized in his lyrics a "wrestling admirer of T.S. Eliot, striving for rhyme, image, and thought." Sting himself, who began his career as an English teacher before becoming a rock star, has published a book simply titled "Lyrics," in which he presents his song lyrics as independent literary works. The reception has been mixed—some missed the music, which is essential for giving the words their full impact. Yet it is precisely this ambivalence that testifies to the unique nature of songwriting: it is neither pure literature nor pure music, but a third art form that arises from the fusion of both.
For the lyrical person, the person who thinks in verse and feels in rhythm, setting their words to music is a natural progression. It is, as it were, the natural culmination of the poetic impulse. For we humans love music—it speaks to layers of our consciousness that remain inaccessible to words alone. The combination of lyrics and melody amplifies the emotional impact of both elements, creating those goosebump moments we know from great songs.
Sound as a Healing Art
This profound connection between sound and healing can be found in even the oldest cultures of humankind. In ancient China, music was not merely entertainment, but medicine in the literal sense. The Chinese character for "medicine" contains the character for "music" as its lower component—an etymological connection that points to a fundamental understanding of the world. The Yellow Emperor's Classic of Internal Medicine, one of the oldest works of Chinese medicine, describes the basic principles of music therapy.
The Chinese musical tradition is based on a system of five tones: Gong, Shang, Jue, Zhi, and Yu. These five tones correspond to the five elements of Chinese natural philosophy—wood, fire, earth, metal, and water—and are directly related to the five internal organs of the human body: The Gong tone corresponds to the spleen, the Shang tone to the lungs, the Jue tone to the liver, the Zhi tone to the heart, and the Yu tone to the kidneys. Music, therefore, was not an aesthetic end in itself, but rather an instrument for harmonizing the body, regulating the flow of energy, and for healing.
The best physicians at the imperial court, according to ancient sources, were music doctors who created compositions to preserve the ruler's health. They understood the frequencies of tones as tools for influencing the meridians and internal organs. Music was described as the "sound of virtue" when it possessed those qualities that brought people into harmony with themselves and the cosmos.
It may be surprising that this millennia-old knowledge is still alive today. Shen Yun Performing Arts, a New York-based ensemble for classical Chinese dance and music, has dedicated itself to reviving authentic traditional Chinese culture—a culture that was systematically suppressed during the decades of communist rule. In Shen Yun's performances, classical Chinese dance merges with original music that combines Eastern and Western instruments. The ancient wisdom surrounding the healing power of music is also incorporated.
In 2026, Shen Yun will celebrate its twentieth anniversary. The world tour already began in France in December, and in the coming months, eight ensembles will perform simultaneously on five continents, in nearly two hundred cities and twenty countries. I myself plan to attend a performance again this year—fascinated by the opportunity to directly experience that ancient connection between sound, movement, and spiritual depth.
Ultimately, contemplating poetry takes us far beyond the boundaries of what we commonly understand as literature. It leads us back to the origins of art itself, to the time when poetry, music, and dance formed a unity. And it leads us forward to a possible future in which this artificial separation is overcome. The singing poet, the dancing singer, the healing musician—they are all manifestations of a single impulse: the human desire to express, through sound and rhythm, those truths for which words alone are insufficient.
The next time we read a poem, perhaps we should do it aloud. We should listen for that inner melody hidden within the verses. We should remember that poetry was once sung—and that, in its deepest sense, it has never ceased to resonate.
Sapere aude!
S.
Your support keeps ideas alive — and stories in motion. 👉 https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=5NGG6XB67BZ4N 🙏
🇩🇪 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blau pause zimmerlautstärke - lyrik über die zeit - zurzeit
BoD Bookshop: https://buchshop.bod.de/blau-pause-zimmerlautstaerke-stefan-noir-9783695118779
Amazon-Shop: https://amzn.eu/d/1TvOBUO
🇺🇸 / 🏴 / 🏴 My lyrical thoughts between two book covers: blue pause room volume: poetry about time – currently
Amazon (English edition): https://amzn.eu/d/3b3GUF4