David Whyte sat with a kind of earned ease that few possess. It was a spring day in San Francisco in 2017, and we were tucked away in a quiet courtyard, sheltered from the wind and city noise. He leaned back into the worn wood of the bench, glasses in one hand, a gentle smile on his face as if already in mid-thought. There was no rush. With David, there never is.

What you first notice is the voice. Not just its sound, but its presence. In his writing, it flows with steadiness and patience, like a river that understands time. He speaks the way he writes, letting each word arrive with intention. His pauses are not gaps. They are spaces for listening.

Born in Yorkshire to an Irish mother and English father, Whyte carries both the lyrical and the rooted in his bearing. He studied marine zoology and spent time as a naturalist in the Galápagos, but it was poetry that claimed him. For him, it is not a genre but a way of being. It is how he makes sense of longing, loss, and the fierce joy of being alive. He once said that poetry is language against which you have no defenses.

He has spent years traveling the world, reading in boardrooms, monasteries, and concert halls. His collections, The House of Belonging, Pilgrim, Everything is Waiting for You, are passed from hand to hand like offerings. They are dog-eared, underlined, memorized in the dark.

That day in San Francisco, we talked about friendship, grief, and the work of becoming oneself. He did not speak to impress, only to share. I made the portrait as he turned toward me, glasses still in hand, eyes full of presence. He was not performing. He was simply there.

In David Whyte’s company, it becomes clear that poetry is not something written down. It is something lived.