I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours
I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours, but I had it all planned out. It isn't poetry and it does not pretend to be, but it does what it sets out to do.
Hear the voice of J. Milton Hayes, who with honesty and humility declared: “I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours, but I had it all planned out. It isn’t poetry and it does not pretend to be, but it does what it sets out to do.” In these words lies a profound teaching on the nature of art and purpose. Hayes reminds us that not all writing seeks the eternal heights of poetry, but each work, if faithful to its intent, carries its own dignity. The worth of a creation is not in whether it bears the crown of “poetry,” but in whether it fulfills the purpose for which it was born.
The meaning here is twofold. First, Hayes admits the speed of his composition—five hours for a work that would become widely recited and remembered. Yet behind this swiftness was planning, the careful design of rhythm, story, and effect. It was not careless inspiration but disciplined execution. Second, he rejects the claim that his work was “poetry,” confessing instead that it was a ballad, a piece of dramatic verse designed to be performed, not exalted. His humility is striking: he does not pretend to reach the heights of Milton or Keats, but instead takes pride in having achieved what he set out to do.
The ancients knew this truth. Not every work was meant to be Homer’s Iliad or Virgil’s Aeneid. Alongside the great epics were the folk ballads, the songs of soldiers, the chants of workers, each serving its own place in the life of a people. A drinking song is not an epic, but if it lifts the weary and binds companions together, it has fulfilled its purpose. Hayes’ declaration echoes this wisdom: art need not be judged by the loftiest standard, but by its fidelity to intent.
History offers many parallels. Consider Rudyard Kipling, whose poems and tales often straddled the line between “high literature” and popular storytelling. Critics debated whether his works were truly poetic, yet readers loved them, and they inspired generations. Or think of Shakespeare’s early plays, written quickly for the stage, sometimes dismissed as less refined. And yet, even in their haste, they achieved their aim: to grip the audience, to entertain, to stir. Hayes belongs to this tradition of creators who valued function as much as form.
What is also revealed here is Hayes’ understanding of authenticity. In an age when many longed for prestige and sought to claim the mantle of “poet,” Hayes chose instead honesty. He refused to label his work what it was not. In doing so, he gives us a deeper lesson: the measure of art is not in titles or labels, but in truth. To pretend to be what one is not leads to hollow work, but to stand firmly in what one creates leads to lasting value.
The lesson for us is clear: in every act of creation, be faithful to your purpose. Do not measure your worth by comparison to the highest masters, nor despise your work if it is humble. Instead, ask: did it do what I set out for it to do? Did it reach its audience, stir its intended emotion, carry its message? In life, as in art, greatness is not only in scale, but in fidelity. A brief verse may comfort more than a long epic; a humble song may outlast a proud poem.
Practical wisdom flows from this. When you create, plan carefully, as Hayes did, but also act with courage and clarity. Do not delay waiting for perfection, but carry out your vision faithfully. When others critique or dismiss, remember that what matters is not their labels but your truth. In every craft, whether writing, teaching, or building, strive not for empty grandeur but for integrity of purpose.
Thus J. Milton Hayes’ words endure as a lesson beyond literature: art is not judged by its title, but by its truth. Whether or not it is called poetry, whether or not it is exalted by critics, a work that fulfills its purpose has dignity, has power, has worth. Let us pass this truth to future generations—that every act, great or small, becomes noble when it does what it is meant to do, without pretense, without falsehood, but with honesty and with heart.
HHTuan Huy Huynh
The statement makes me curious about Hayes’ intentions and confidence in his work. Is he preemptively defending against criticism by claiming it isn’t poetry, or is he genuinely redefining what counts as literary success? It also raises a broader question about artistic standards: should a work be judged on its purpose and whether it achieves it, or by traditional aesthetic criteria? How do readers reconcile the distinction between craft, intention, and perceived artistry?
BNBichVan Nguyen
Five hours seems remarkably fast for producing a piece that clearly resonates with readers. Does this suggest that creative genius lies in planning rather than laborious revision, or is this speed exceptional and rare? I also wonder about the role of instinct versus preparation—was Hayes’ planning so precise that the actual writing became almost mechanical? How does knowing the rapid creation process change our appreciation of the work, if at all?
QMNguyen Quang Minh
I find it fascinating that Hayes explicitly distances his work from traditional poetry. Does this mean he values function over form, aiming for a story or message rather than lyrical beauty? It raises questions about how we define poetry itself: must it always adhere to certain aesthetic standards, or can effectiveness and impact be the true measure of poetic value? How would readers respond differently if they knew it was intentionally 'not poetry'?
ATanh thu
I'm intrigued by the idea of planning a creative work so thoroughly before writing it. Does this suggest that meticulous preparation can outweigh spontaneous inspiration in producing effective literature? I wonder if Hayes’ approach diminishes the emotional depth typically associated with poetry, or if it instead demonstrates that structure and intention can create a compelling narrative. Could this method be applied to other forms of writing, like novels or plays, without sacrificing artistic quality?