I was very interested in American poetry for many years. Much

Hear now the words of Norman MacCaig, who speaks with quiet reflection: “I was very interested in American poetry for many years. Much less now.” In these words lies a shift, a change in perception—a movement away from something once held dear, toward something new, or perhaps a return to something older. MacCaig, a poet who rooted himself in the landscapes of Scotland, reveals a journey that many artists undertake: the search for the true voice, the authentic form, the poetry that speaks to the soul. In this simple statement, he acknowledges that while the allure of American poetry once captivated him, it no longer holds the same power. This shift invites us to ask: why does the poet’s taste change? What causes a writer to move from one realm of artistic influence to another?

The ancients understood this very well—the changing tides of inspiration and the development of artistic voice. Homer, for instance, did not remain with his earliest themes of war and gods forever. As he matured, his storytelling evolved, reflecting his shifting understanding of human nature and the world. So too did the Greek tragedians, whose poetry began in the realm of myth but later turned toward more human-centered drama, confronting the complexities of fate and character. The poet’s evolution is not bound to one genre or tradition; it is an ongoing process of discovery, of shedding the skin of the past in order to find something deeper. MacCaig’s shift from American poetry reflects this same evolution—the poet outgrowing one influence in pursuit of another.

Consider the rise of American poetry in the 20th century. Figures like Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson first charted an American landscape of poetry, raw and vast like the land itself. Their verses were revolutionary, exploring individualism, freedom, and the connection between the personal and the universal. As American poetry continued to evolve, it became a voice for the American experience—reflecting the diversity, the conflict, and the optimism of the country. Poets such as Robert Frost and Langston Hughes carried this tradition forward, crafting poems that spoke to the heart of the nation. For MacCaig, like many before him, American poetry seemed the landscape of innovation and possibility. But as time passed, that landscape may have seemed less relevant, as the poet’s own internal world grew richer, perhaps more in tune with the quieter, more introspective poetry that reflects a different ethos—the lush, rugged terrains of Scotland, for example, or the timeless wisdom of classical poets.

MacCaig's movement away from American poetry signals an important lesson about the nature of influence in an artist’s life. Influence is not meant to last forever. Just as the Greek philosopher Socrates once said, "Know thyself," the poet must, in time, move beyond the influence of others and toward an understanding of their own voice. The greatest poets do not simply imitate; they integrate and evolve. American poetry, with its boldness and its declarations, may have once offered MacCaig a model, but over time, his own voice required a different rhythm—a deeper connection to the land, to the silence that speaks volumes. He, like many before him, understood that in order to discover the essence of his own work, he had to move past the loudness of external influence.

This journey of transformation is something all artists experience. Take Rainer Maria Rilke, for instance. Early in his career, he was influenced by the German poetic tradition, but as he matured, he began to seek something more spiritual and personal, something that could not be found in the crowded traditions he once loved. His poetry began to delve into the depths of human experience and the mysteries of the universe. For Rilke, as for MacCaig, the search for one’s own voice required distancing oneself from the influences that once shaped them. The poet must walk through many gardens, each offering different flowers, before finally planting their own.

The lesson here is clear: poetry is a living thing, growing and changing with the poet. It is a process of continual evolution, of shedding old skins and discovering new horizons. Whether influenced by the rawness of American poetry, the introspection of Japanese haiku, or the deep connection to nature found in the work of Scottish poets, each poet must eventually step away from the traditions that once captivated them. True artistry comes when the poet is no longer a reflection of their influences, but a reflection of themselves. The path to authenticity is not one of constant imitation, but of discovery.

Practical actions follow. If you are a poet, recognize when it is time to move beyond your influences. Embrace the traditions that shaped you, but do not cling to them forever. Explore new styles, new voices, and new landscapes. Allow your writing to grow with you, as you grow with it. If you are a reader, honor the poets who dare to change, to evolve, and to break free from their early influences. Poetry, like life, is a journey—ever shifting, ever changing.

Thus, MacCaig’s words serve as a reminder to all who create: the journey is not just about what you once loved, but about where you are going. Like the river that flows onward, leaving behind stones once important, the poet must let go of influences when they no longer serve. In doing so, they create the space for their own voice to emerge, for their own poetry to speak with a truth that is uniquely their own.