My next project is to get back to that. Actually, to learn how

Hear the candid words of Harry Mathews, who confessed: “My next project is to get back to that. Actually, to learn how to write poetry. I’m not kidding.” In these simple lines lies both humility and ambition. Mathews, a man seasoned in his craft, acknowledges that even the experienced must return to the beginning—to the raw foundation of their art. His words remind us that the path of the poet is not a straight ascent, but a circle. No matter how far we travel, we must always return to the humble act of learning, of refining, and of rediscovering the essence of the craft. Poetry, for Mathews, is not a skill to be mastered once and for all; it is a lifelong process of growth and renewal.

The ancients themselves understood this cycle of learning. Homer, though regarded as the greatest of Greek poets, would have spent countless hours in the school of language and myth before he composed the Iliad and Odyssey. The greatest poets of any age are not those who think they have arrived, but those who remain students of the craft, always striving for a deeper understanding of their art. This humility is at the heart of Mathews' words—he is not simply reflecting on a past of achievement, but on a future of discovery. The journey of learning to write poetry is never complete.

Consider the story of Rainer Maria Rilke, one of the most revered poets in history. Though he wrote volumes of work, Rilke famously expressed a deep, ongoing struggle with his craft. In his Letters to a Young Poet, he counsels the young writer to remain patient, to wait for the words to come, and most of all, to acknowledge that the act of creating poetry is a continual, ever-deepening process. He writes, “You must change your life.” For Rilke, as for Mathews, the poet is always evolving, always learning—there is no final mastery, only an ever-greater connection to the soul’s deepest truths.

This is the core of Mathews’ statement: the need to continually learn how to write poetry. Many believe that once they’ve reached a certain level of skill, their art becomes effortless. Yet, as Mathews recognizes, poetry is not about perfection, but about continual refinement, continual opening to the unknown. The poet’s task is not only to arrange words but to cultivate sensitivity, to find meaning in silence as much as in sound. Poetry, in this sense, is less a craft to be mastered and more a practice of deepening one’s awareness and connection to the world.

History is filled with poets who never stopped learning. Take William Blake, whose later works explored the mystical and visionary, each poem a search for spiritual truths. Despite his genius, Blake spent his entire life refining his relationship to the divine and to language. Even at the end of his life, his poetry continued to evolve, as if he, too, were always learning. This continual search for meaning is the very thing Mathews implies when he says, “I’m not kidding”—for a poet must always be serious about the pursuit of their craft, yet always humble enough to know that they are never truly finished.

The lesson for us is clear: poetry is not a destination, but a lifelong journey. We must never stop learning. No matter how experienced or accomplished we become, we must always return to the heart of the craft: to observe, to listen, to refine, and to grow. The poet who believes they have completed their work is in danger of losing the very spirit that first inspired them. Like Mathews, we must be willing to learn, again and again, from the well of our own experience, from the world around us, and from those who came before.

Practical actions follow. Read the works of those who have come before you, but do not imitate—learn from them. Write constantly, but also take time to step back and reflect on the deeper purpose of your words. Seek not just to express, but to discover. Surround yourself with the silence from which poetry arises, and allow yourself to return to the beginner’s mind. Share your work, but remain humble, ever open to feedback and the possibility of growth. Above all, remember that poetry is a practice, not a product—it is a life, not a finished piece of art.

Thus, Mathews reminds us of the timeless truth: that poetry is a continual journey, one that requires both dedication and humility. Like the great poets of history, we too must return, again and again, to the heart of our craft, and learn to write poetry not as masters, but as humble students of the infinite mystery of language.