But I can only write what the muse allows me to write. I cannot

Hear the humble and powerful confession of Ian Hamilton Finlay: “But I can only write what the muse allows me to write. I cannot choose, I can only do what I am given, and I feel pleased when I feel close to concrete poetry—still.” In these words lies the ancient recognition that the poet is not master but servant, not sovereign but vessel. The muse, eternal and unseen, gives the gift of inspiration, and the poet must bow to its will. Finlay speaks not with arrogance, but with gratitude, for he knows that his art does not spring from his own command, but from something beyond him, something divine.

The ancients believed this deeply. Homer began both the Iliad and the Odyssey with an invocation to the muse, asking her to sing through him the story of gods and men. Plato spoke of the poet’s “divine madness,” a fire breathed by the gods into mortal hearts. To claim one’s work as entirely one’s own was considered hubris; to acknowledge dependence on the muse was humility and truth. Finlay echoes this lineage, recognizing that his journey into concrete poetry was not entirely of his choosing, but of his receiving.

Concrete poetry, with its shaping of words into visual forms, was the unique expression the muse entrusted to him. Though others may have turned to lyric or epic, Finlay found himself drawn to poems that were not only read but seen, poems that became objects, symbols, and spaces. And though time passed, he confessed that he still felt joy when he returned to this form, as though greeting an old companion. His words reveal that true art is not a matter of fashion or choice, but of fidelity to what one has been called to do.

History gives us many examples of such surrender to inspiration. Consider Michelangelo, who declared that the statue already lived within the marble, and his task was only to release it. He did not claim to invent, but to obey the form already given. Or think of Hildegard of Bingen, the medieval mystic, who wrote that her music and visions were dictated by the divine voice she heard. In every age, the greatest creators confess the same truth as Finlay: I cannot choose—I can only serve.

Yet this surrender is not weakness. It is strength, for it frees the poet from pride and from despair alike. If the muse gives, the poet rejoices; if the muse withholds, the poet waits. In both, there is peace, for the work is understood as gift, not possession. And when the poet feels “pleased,” as Finlay says, it is because he knows he has aligned himself with the source of inspiration, however mysterious its ways.

The lesson for us is profound. Too often we believe we must control every outcome, seize every opportunity, command creativity as a servant of our will. But the poet’s way teaches humility: to prepare, to practice, to be ready, but also to accept that inspiration comes as gift, not demand. To live this way is to cultivate openness rather than force, patience rather than anxiety. The poet waits upon the muse, and when the gift arrives, he receives it with gratitude.

Practical steps follow. If you are a writer or artist, create space for silence, for listening, for waiting. Do not despise the days when inspiration does not come; use them to prepare your heart and hands. When ideas arrive, honor them, however small, and work with faithfulness rather than complaint. And in life beyond art, embrace the same spirit: not every choice is yours, but much is given. Learn to recognize gifts when they come, and to use them well.

Thus Ian Hamilton Finlay speaks to us across time. His words remind us that the poet is not a tyrant commanding words, but a servant receiving them. He teaches us that true joy lies not in control, but in communion with the muse, and that to feel close to one’s calling—even after many years—is the deepest reward. Let us, then, live as he lived: humble before the gift, faithful to the form, and grateful for the mysterious hand that guides the pen.