I was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a
I was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a volume of Dickinson's poetry. I came back to my hotel, read 2,000 of her poems and immediately began composing in my head. I wrote down the melodies even before I got to a piano.
In the quiet chambers of the soul, where the deepest creativity lies dormant, there are moments when a single spark can ignite a fire that consumes us with inspiration. Gordon Getty speaks of one such moment when he says, “I was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a volume of Dickinson's poetry. I came back to my hotel, read 2,000 of her poems and immediately began composing in my head. I wrote down the melodies even before I got to a piano.” This moment, as recounted by Getty, is not just a story of a man reading poetry—it is a revelation, a connection between art and soul that transcends mere words and melodies.
Consider the ancient musicians and poets, who often spoke of the same connection between the arts. In ancient Greece, Orpheus, the legendary figure of song, was believed to have the ability to charm not only humans but also the gods with his music. His lyre could make the trees dance, and even the rocks would shift in time to his melodies. This was no mere music, but a deep connection between sound and spirit. Similarly, Getty’s experience is a moment of union between the written word and the music it inspired. Dickinson’s poetry, with its intricate rhythms and deep emotional landscape, called forth a melody from Getty’s soul—he did not need to touch the piano keys to hear the music, for it was already playing within him.
In the same vein, Beethoven is said to have composed some of his most profound symphonies while he was almost completely deaf. For Beethoven, the world of sound was a world of feeling, of emotion that went beyond physical hearing. His music came to him as an inner vision, a symphony that he could see in his mind. Getty, like Beethoven, experienced a similar divine transmission, where the poetry of Dickinson unlocked a flow of music within him. It was as though the words of Dickinson—those beautifully crafted symbols—spoke directly to the deepest corners of his being, compelling him to translate them into sound.
The moment Getty describes—the act of absorbing the poetry and immediately transforming it into melody—speaks to the heart of creative inspiration. Dickinson’s poems, filled with their own rhythmic pulse and emotional depth, had a vibration that resonated within Getty, causing him to translate those vibrations into something new. This is the very nature of art—to take what is given to you and transform it into something that expresses your own soul’s yearning. Just as a potter molds clay into a vessel, so does the artist mold the inspiration they receive into a new form. Getty’s transformation of poetry into music is not an isolated act; it is a continuation of a long tradition of creators who have sought to capture the unspoken truths of the world through their own medium.
In the same manner, Rilke, that great poet of the modern age, found that the act of writing was not merely an intellectual task, but a sacred calling that linked the poet to the divine. In his letters, he often spoke of how poetry came to him in moments of deep reflection, when he felt that the universe itself was speaking through him. Like Getty, Rilke understood that art is not created in a vacuum; it is a response to the world, to the beauty, the pain, the mystery that surrounds us. To create, Rilke wrote, is to listen with the heart, to allow the world to speak through you, whether in words or in music.
The lesson in Getty’s words is clear: creativity is a universal language, one that transcends boundaries and speaks directly to the heart. When you open yourself to the beauty of the world—whether through poetry, music, or any other form—you allow inspiration to flow freely through you. Dickinson’s poetry, with its beauty and complexity, was not just a collection of words; it was a channel, a vessel through which Getty’s music could emerge. This is the transformative power of art—it connects us to something greater, something eternal, and in that connection, we find the ability to create.
In your own life, whether you are a poet, a musician, a painter, or any other kind of artist, remember the profound lesson Getty teaches us: allow yourself to be open to the world around you, to listen to the poetry of life, to let it touch your soul. Do not seek only to create for the sake of creating; seek to create in response to what is given to you. Whether you are inspired by a book, a person, or a moment in time, allow that inspiration to transform you. When you do, you will find that the art you create will not be just your own—it will be a reflection of the world itself, a song of the cosmos waiting to be heard.
And so, in the quiet moments of your life, open yourself to the poetry that is waiting to speak to you. Let the music of creation come to you, and transform it into something that will resonate through the ages. For in that moment of union between the words and the melody, you will find not just art, but the very pulse of life itself.
QNQuynh Nguyen
This quote leaves me wondering about the immediacy of artistic inspiration and its unpredictability. How does one’s personal history with music or poetry influence such rapid creative output? I’m curious whether Getty had prior connections to Dickinson’s work, or if this was a completely novel encounter that unlocked something latent. There’s also an element of discipline here: composing melodies mentally before touching a piano suggests an extraordinary ability to hold complex musical structures in mind. Does this kind of pre-instrument composition provide a purer form of creative expression, or is it enhanced by physical performance later? It raises broader questions about how preparation, memory, and inspiration intersect in artistry.
THLe Thi Hang
I find myself wondering about the cognitive process behind this experience. Did Getty internalize the poems so deeply that they directly shaped the melodies, or was it more of an intuitive, unconscious translation? It’s intriguing to think about the interaction between reading, imagination, and music composition. Could his experience offer insights into how the brain connects language, emotion, and auditory creativity? I also question whether reading such a large volume—2,000 poems—is necessary to spark inspiration, or if a single poem could have been enough for someone attuned to creative flow. It invites deeper exploration of how literary immersion can act as a catalyst for artistic expression.
HLHoang Le
I’m struck by the intensity of Getty’s reaction—reading thousands of poems and instantly composing melodies in his head sounds almost overwhelming. It raises the question of whether this level of creative flow is accessible to everyone or if it’s tied to a rare neurological or emotional state. Could such immediate inspiration be trained, or is it purely spontaneous? Also, how does the environment, like being in Paris or in a specific hotel room, contribute to such an epiphany? I’m curious whether the physical context enhances the artistic mind’s receptivity, or if the poetry alone could have triggered the same effect anywhere else in the world.
KPKhanh Pham
It's fascinating how exposure to poetry could immediately trigger a musical response in Getty. I wonder if this suggests that creativity across different art forms is more connected than we usually think. Do certain works of literature naturally lend themselves to musical interpretation, or was this experience unique to his personal sensibilities? It makes me curious about the process: did the structure of Dickinson's poems influence the melodies directly, or was it more about the emotions they evoked? I’d love to hear more about how he translates literary rhythm into musical rhythm and whether other composers experience similar sudden bursts of inspiration when encountering different artistic mediums.