Nobody ever told me what to read, or ever put poetry in my way.

Hear the voice of Isaac Rosenberg, soldier-poet of the Great War, who declared with quiet strength: “Nobody ever told me what to read, or ever put poetry in my way.” In this brief yet piercing confession, he reveals the loneliness and self-reliance of his path. Unlike many poets born into privilege, nurtured in schools or guided by mentors, Rosenberg found his way into poetry alone, without map, without teacher, without encouragement. His was a voice carved from struggle, proof that genius can arise even where the soil seems barren.

The meaning of his words lies in the power of self-discovery. Rosenberg tells us that no guiding hand shaped his early reading, no master directed his vision. He sought out poetry not because it was placed before him, but because his soul hungered for it. The world gave him no easy path, yet he forged one. This is the essence of creative spirit: it will not be denied, even when neglected by circumstance. His words remind us that poetry is not the inheritance of the privileged few, but the birthright of any soul willing to seek it.

The ancients knew this truth. The philosopher Socrates never wrote books, yet from his questioning spirit arose entire schools of thought. The poet Hesiod was no court bard, but a farmer who sang of toil and justice. In every age, the greatest lights are not always those carefully trained, but those who, in obscurity, kindled their own fire. Rosenberg’s solitude echoes this tradition: the strength of those who walked unguided, yet brought forth vision.

History gives us a vivid example in John Clare, the “peasant poet” of England. Born to poverty, with little formal education, Clare discovered poetry on his own, teaching himself to read and compose verses. His voice carried the raw authenticity of one who knew the land and its hardships, not from books but from life. Like Rosenberg, he could have lamented that no one “put poetry in his way,” yet he proved that poetry lies everywhere for those with eyes to see. Both men remind us that inspiration does not wait for teachers—it rises in the heart that listens.

Rosenberg’s words are also shadowed by tragedy. He was killed at the age of twenty-seven on the fields of France, leaving behind poems that revealed his unflinching vision of war. That he achieved such depth without early guidance makes his voice all the more remarkable. He was not fed poetry—he wrestled for it, seized it, and made it his own. His legacy shows us that when the human spirit burns brightly enough, even neglect cannot quench it.

The lesson for us is clear: do not wait for permission to pursue what calls to you. Do not say, “No one has shown me the way,” or “No teacher has guided me.” The path of learning is open to all who hunger for it. If poetry is your desire, seek it; if wisdom, read widely; if art, create with your own hands. The absence of guidance can be a gift, forcing you to rely upon your own vision, your own courage.

Practical wisdom flows from this. If you find no mentor, let books themselves be your teachers. If no one puts poetry in your way, place it in your own. Go to libraries, seek voices of the past, listen to the music of language, and write what you must. And when you have found your path, be for others what you never had: place poetry in their way, share with them the treasures you uncovered in solitude.

Thus Rosenberg’s words endure as both lament and triumph: he was given nothing, yet he created everything. Let this truth be passed to generations yet to come—that greatness does not depend on privilege, nor on guidance freely given, but on the fire within the seeker. For those who hunger for truth will find it, even if no one sets it before them. And their voices, like Rosenberg’s, will ring all the clearer for having been discovered in the wilderness.