I'm quite sure that most writers would sustain real poetry if

Hear the solemn and piercing words of Marguerite Young: “I’m quite sure that most writers would sustain real poetry if they could, but it takes devotion and talent.” In this saying, she reveals the hidden cost of the highest art. For many touch the edges of poetry, many grasp at its beauty, but few can sustain it. To sustain is to hold the flame aloft, not for a moment but for a lifetime, to keep the current of inspiration flowing through discipline and sacrifice. Poetry is not merely the spark of inspiration—it is the daily tending of the fire, and only those who possess both devotion and talent can endure the labor.

The ancients knew this truth. The bard was not simply a singer of verses but a keeper of sacred flame. Homer’s epics did not fall from the heavens fully formed; they were shaped by years of repetition, memory, and faithfulness to the craft. Likewise, Virgil labored over the Aeneid with such devotion that he requested it be burned upon his death, fearing it was unfinished and unworthy. Their greatness was not in the moment of vision alone, but in the tireless practice that transformed vision into enduring song.

Consider the story of John Milton, who, blind and weary, dictated his Paradise Lost line by line to his daughters. His body was broken, his sight extinguished, yet his devotion did not falter. He poured forth an epic that has thundered across centuries. Many might write a line of beauty, but to sustain real poetry in the face of suffering required both extraordinary talent and the unyielding will to serve his art above comfort. Milton stands as a living example of Young’s truth: poetry demands not the casual lover but the lifelong devotee.

The origin of Young’s wisdom comes from her own life of letters, where she witnessed many writers of prose and poetry alike. She knew that most hearts are touched at least once by inspiration—that sudden flash where words sing with unexpected power. But few are able to dwell continually in that realm. Why? Because it requires discipline as well as genius, patience as well as fire. The path of poetry is narrow, and though many begin it, only a few walk it to the end.

This is not meant to discourage but to awaken. For devotion is not reserved for the chosen few; it can be cultivated. A writer may not command genius, but they can command effort. They can return to the page each day, even when the flame flickers faint. They can sharpen their ear for rhythm, deepen their eye for truth, and strengthen their hand through repetition. Talent may be the seed, but devotion is the soil, the water, and the sun. Without it, the seed cannot grow.

The lesson then is clear: if you long to sustain poetry, you must marry love of beauty with the labor of discipline. Do not mistake the flash of inspiration for the fullness of the art. Many can write one shining line; few can weave a tapestry of lines that endure across time. To do so requires the humility to practice, the courage to fail, and the devotion to rise again.

Practical steps follow: write daily, even when the words feel lifeless, for devotion is proven in persistence. Study the masters, not to imitate them, but to learn how they bore their burdens. Read aloud your lines, so the ear may teach the hand. Keep company with those who challenge you, for iron sharpens iron. And above all, commit yourself to truth—for without truth, no talent or devotion can make poetry real.

Thus, Marguerite Young’s words endure: most writers would sustain real poetry if they could, but it takes devotion and talent. If you would join the company of true poets, you must be both priest and warrior of your craft—faithful in your practice, relentless in your pursuit, willing to give your life not to comfort but to beauty. For poetry is not a gift freely given; it is a crown earned through fire.