I don't think Auden liked my poetry very much, he's very

In the words, “I don’t think Auden liked my poetry very much, he’s very Anglican,” spoken by Stevie Smith, we hear not merely a casual remark, but the sigh of one poet weighed against the stature of another. This is the murmur of an artist who knew that her voice—strange, whimsical, and laced with irony—did not sit easily with the solemn rhythms of the Anglican tradition embodied by W. H. Auden. To speak thus is to recognize that art is born of different wells: some of stone and liturgy, others of playful streams that laugh and mock even in despair.

The meaning of this remark lies in the collision of two spirits. Auden, anchored in the grandeur of Anglican theology, sought order, reverence, and sacred seriousness. Smith, with her fragile yet fierce poems, clothed her melancholy in childlike rhymes and a darkly humorous simplicity. What she hints at here is a gulf of sensibility: that her poetry, with its questioning of faith and its mockery of piety, could not easily find favor in the eyes of one who loved ritual, hierarchy, and sacred continuity.

Consider how Socrates himself was judged in Athens. He walked barefoot, questioning the pillars of belief, speaking in riddles, unsettling the guardians of order. Many, like Auden with Smith, found him intolerable. And yet, his voice endures, not because it pleased the powerful, but because it carried the naked spark of truth. Thus does Smith remind us: art that is not easily accepted may still be art that pierces deepest.

There is in this statement also the loneliness of the artist. To feel unapproved by a giant such as Auden is to stand as a small candle before a towering temple flame. Yet, history shows that greatness often wears a cloak of rejection. Recall Van Gogh, who painted fields of fire with no buyers but his brother, and who died believing himself forgotten. Yet the world later bent its knees before the sunflowers of his spirit. Rejection, then, is often the shadow that follows brilliance, not its negation.

And so, the quote carries a lesson for all creators: do not measure your gift against the acceptance of those rooted in another soil. The Anglican steadiness of Auden could never embrace the restless whimsy of Stevie Smith; but that does not diminish her. Instead, it confirms that her song was her own, not borrowed, not bent to another’s liking. Each soul must sing as it was fashioned to sing, or else it betrays itself.

To you who listen: be not dismayed if your voice is not welcomed by every ear. The oak does not bloom like the rose, nor the rose stand firm like the oak. Both are beautiful in their appointed ways. Let Auden be Auden, let Smith be Smith, and let you be yourself, unbent by the judgment of others. For the world needs a thousand voices, not one chorus repeated.

The practical teaching is this: when you labor in your craft, resist the urge to imitate the dominant voice. Instead, cultivate your difference as you would a garden. Write, paint, speak, or live in ways that are true to the inner flame. And when others, even the revered, dismiss you, let that dismissal sharpen your clarity, not diminish your courage. Seek not universal approval, but authenticity.

Thus, let this ancient-sounding echo be carried into the hearts of future generations: true artistry is not to be liked by all, but to be true to the soul that breathes through you. Walk your own path, as Smith walked hers, even if the high priests of art disapprove. For the rivers that break from the mountains do not ask permission of the stones—they carve their own valleys, and in time, the world follows their course.