Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began as did all the

The words of Mary Oliver shine with the simplicity and power of an oracle: “Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.” In this truth she reminds us that poetry was not born in books, nor in palaces, nor in classrooms. It was born under the open sky, by the river, beside the fire, in the shadow of mountains and the call of birds. Before ink and parchment, before scrolls and presses, poetry arose as song upon the lips of those who marveled at the world’s beauty and trembled before its terror.

The ancients knew this well. The epics of Homer were first sung, carried not by writing but by memory, spoken under the stars to warriors and wanderers. The Vedas of India, the Psalms of Israel, the chants of the First Peoples—all were born in the wild, in forests, deserts, and seas. They were not inventions of scholars but offerings of the soul, reaching upward like smoke from a fire. Mary Oliver’s words return us to that truth: that poetry is not decoration, but primal utterance, the voice of humanity answering the voice of the earth.

In speaking of the wilderness, Oliver points us to the root of all art. For what is painting but the tracing of trees, the sky, the faces of beasts and gods? What is music but the echo of wind and water, the mimicry of birdsong and thunder? What is poetry but the shaping of awe into rhythm, the attempt to grasp the mystery of existence in words that breathe? Out of the wild came fear, love, longing, and wonder—and from these came the first art. Thus poetry, like all art, is both mirror and prayer, both reflection of nature and offering back to it.

History gives us an image of this truth. When the bard of Celtic tribes stood among warriors and sang their history, he was not only preserving memory—he was binding the people to the land. His songs were the wilderness speaking through him. Or consider the desert hermits of early Christendom, who, in silence and solitude, gave rise to chants that later filled cathedrals. Out of the barren places of the world came the richest words and sounds. So too Oliver, who herself walked among fields and woods, heard the voice of poetry there and knew it belonged not to the cities but to the earth.

The deeper meaning is this: when humanity forgets its connection to the wilderness, its art becomes hollow. Poetry stripped from nature becomes cleverness without soul, ornament without truth. But when poetry remembers its roots—when it speaks of rivers, of grief, of joy, of the fragile thread of life—it regains its sacred power. To recognize poetry as born in wilderness is to remember that it is not merely human; it is cosmic, elemental, eternal.

The lesson is clear: return often to the wilderness, for it is the wellspring of art and wisdom. Walk among trees, listen to the ocean, sit beneath the night sky, and there you will hear the ancient music from which all poetry flows. Do not think of poetry only as lines on a page, but as a living current, rising from the earth and flowing through the human heart. If you wish to write, speak, or create, begin by listening—not to the noise of the marketplace, but to the silence of the wild.

Practical actions follow: read poetry aloud under the open sky, as it was first meant to be heard. Let children hear the cadences of ancient songs so they may know their heritage. Seek time in the wilderness, and let the world’s voice shape your own. When you write or speak, weave in images of nature, for in doing so you connect your words to the same source that nourished the ancients. Above all, remember that poetry is not escape but return—return to the wilderness that birthed us, and to the sacred truths that dwell there still.