But at the beginning it was clear to me that concrete poetry was

Hear the words of Ian Hamilton Finlay, who once declared: “But at the beginning it was clear to me that concrete poetry was peculiarly suited for using in public settings. This was my idea, but of course I never really much got the chance to do it.” In this confession lies both vision and regret—the vision of a poet who saw poetry not merely as words upon a page, but as shapes and forms that could live in the open air, carved into stone, inscribed on walls, planted like seeds in gardens; and the regret of one who found the world reluctant to grant him the stage he imagined.

For concrete poetry was unlike the lyric of the ancients or the song of the bard. It sought not only sound but shape, not only rhythm but form. Its letters and lines became visual, embodying the meaning by their very placement on the page. Finlay, seer of this art, knew that such poetry begged to leave the confines of books. A poem shaped like a wave should be set by the sea; a poem of wings should be carved in the open sky. He dreamed of public settings, where passersby might stumble upon verses as part of the landscape of daily life, where art would not hide in libraries but breathe in the streets.

The ancients themselves gave birth to such an idea. In Greece, verses were carved into temples and inscribed on statues, so that every citizen would see and hear their wisdom. In Rome, the triumphal arch bore engraved words that told of victory and sacrifice. Even in Egypt, hieroglyphic hymns were etched into stone for all to behold. These were not private poems, but public poetry, wedded to stone and city, inseparable from the world around them. Finlay, centuries later, heard the echo of this practice and longed to revive it in his own way.

Yet, as he confessed, the chance rarely came. The modern world, drunk on speed and commerce, has little patience for poetry in the open. Advertisements shout from billboards; neon lights scream from streets; but a poem, quiet and strange, struggles to claim its place. And so Finlay’s vision remained largely unfulfilled, though in his gardens at Little Sparta he carved fragments of verse into stones, fountains, and groves, creating a living sanctuary of concrete poetry that embodied what he had dreamed.

This story is a reminder that vision often exceeds opportunity. Finlay saw clearly what was possible, but the world was not ready. Yet even in failure, the seed was planted: others have since followed, embedding poems into sidewalks, walls, and public art. His dream reminds us that poetry does not belong only to books and classrooms; it belongs to the people, to the public square, to the rhythm of daily life.

The lesson is clear: do not keep art hidden. If you are a poet, imagine ways your words can live in the world—paint them on walls, carve them in wood, let them be read by those who would never open a book. If you are a reader, look for poetry in unexpected places and demand more of it in your cities and lives. For when art is woven into the fabric of the public realm, it ceases to be the property of the few and becomes the treasure of the many.

Practical actions lie before us. Teachers may take poems into parks, letting students hear them under open skies. Communities may commission poets to write words for bridges, benches, and stones. Individuals may chalk verses upon sidewalks, or plant small signs of poetry in gardens. These are humble acts, yet together they fulfill Finlay’s dream: that concrete poetry might live not in hidden corners but in the midst of the people.

Thus Ian Hamilton Finlay speaks as both dreamer and prophet. Though he did not see his vision fully realized, his words call to us still: bring poetry into the public realm, let it stand alongside architecture and music, let it be as common as sunlight and rain. In doing so, we honor not only his idea, but the ancient tradition that poetry belongs not only to the page, but to the world.