For me concrete poetry was a particular way of using language

Hear the words of Ian Hamilton Finlay, poet of images and silence, who confessed: “For me concrete poetry was a particular way of using language which came out of a particular feeling, and I don’t have control over whether this feeling is in me or not.” These words reveal the mystery at the heart of art: that it is not always summoned by will, nor bent to command, but flows from a source deeper than reason. Poetry, especially in its concrete form, is not simply a craft of arranging words, but a revelation of inner states, rising unbidden like a tide from the soul.

The meaning here is profound. Concrete poetry, unlike traditional verse, does not merely rely on rhythm and rhyme; it arranges words on the page in shapes and patterns, uniting meaning with visual form. For Finlay, this was not a choice made out of cold design, but a necessity born of feeling. The shape of the poem, the silence around it, the space as much as the sound—all emerged because he felt compelled to give form to what stirred within him. And yet, he admits, he could not command when or how this feeling would arise. It came as gift, as visitation, as a presence not under his control.

History bears witness to this truth. Think of William Blake, whose visions came not by reason but by fire, who saw angels in trees and eternity in a grain of sand. He could no more control his inspiration than he could command the dawn. Or consider the haiku masters of Japan, like Bash?, who caught fleeting feelings of wind, frog, and water, and allowed them to crystallize into poems as brief as breath. None of these poets could force such feelings to come; they could only prepare themselves to receive.

Finlay’s confession speaks to the humility of the artist. Too often, we imagine poets as masters of words, wielding language like a sword. But here, he reminds us that the truer picture is one of listening, of waiting, of yielding. The feeling gives birth to the form, and the poet is more midwife than commander. This is the ancient truth of inspiration—that the muse visits where she wills, and the poet’s task is not to seize but to serve.

And yet, this lack of control is not weakness but strength. It frees the poet from vanity, reminding him that the art is greater than himself. It teaches patience, for one cannot demand revelation but only prepare for it. It awakens gratitude, for when the feeling arrives, it is a gift to be honored. And it teaches surrender, for sometimes silence itself is the truest poetry when no feeling burns within.

The lesson is clear: do not imagine that art, or truth, or beauty can be manufactured like a machine. They arise from the depths, often when least expected. Your task is to keep your spirit awake, your heart open, your tools ready. When the feeling comes, seize it gently, shape it with care, and let it speak. When it does not, do not despair—walk in the world, observe, listen, live, and trust that the tide will rise again.

Practical actions follow. Live attentively, for inspiration hides in ordinary things—a stone, a bird, a stranger’s word. Keep a notebook close, to catch the fleeting spark before it fades. Read the works of others, not to copy, but to remind yourself that you are part of a great river of voices. And above all, respect the rhythm of inspiration: work diligently, but accept that not all days will bring fire. On those days, let silence teach you.

Thus Finlay’s words endure: “For me concrete poetry was a way of using language which came out of a particular feeling, and I don’t have control over whether this feeling is in me or not.” Let them remind us that poetry is not merely made, but given; not merely crafted, but born. To be a poet—or any true creator—is to wait with humility, to labor with devotion, and to honor the mystery of the feelings that rise and fall within us like the eternal sea.