Sometimes poetry is inspired by the conversation entered into by

John Barton, the Canadian poet who often reflected on the dialogue between art and life, once said: “Sometimes poetry is inspired by the conversation entered into by reading other poems.” In this statement he revealed one of the oldest truths of creation: that art is not a solitary endeavor, but a dialogue across time, across cultures, across souls. A poem does not emerge from silence alone, but from the echoes of other voices, carried like fire from torch to torch. To read is to listen, and from that listening the poet finds his own tongue awakened.

The origin of this thought lies in the eternal lineage of poetry. From the very beginning, poets have answered one another, each generation weaving its threads into the tapestry of human expression. Homer sang of heroes, and Virgil responded centuries later, reshaping the epic for Rome. Dante read Virgil and placed him as his guide through the Inferno. Shakespeare borrowed from Ovid, and T.S. Eliot, centuries later, filled The Waste Land with fragments of all who had come before him. Barton reminds us that poetry is never written in isolation—it is part of a vast, ongoing conversation among souls who may never meet in body, yet embrace in spirit.

The ancients understood this as sacred duty. In the schools of Athens, students learned poetry not merely by reading but by reciting, entering the rhythm of their forebears until the words became their own. In China, poets like Li Bai and Du Fu spoke to one another across distance, each poem a reply, a continuation of the other’s thought. This communion was not imitation but inspiration. The reading of another’s work was an invitation: to respond, to reshape, to carry forward the flame.

History offers us another example in the Harlem Renaissance. Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Countee Cullen—all were inspired by one another, their poems a dialogue about race, struggle, beauty, and hope. Each voice was distinct, but together they formed a chorus, richer and stronger than any could have achieved alone. Here Barton’s wisdom is lived out: poetry is inspired by poetry, and the conversation between them becomes the ground from which new visions grow.

This truth is not confined to poets alone. All of us, in our lives, are shaped by the voices we allow into our hearts. When we read, when we listen, when we absorb the thoughts of others, we enter into a dialogue that can awaken our own creativity. Inspiration is not always a bolt from the heavens; often it is the quiet spark that leaps from another’s words, igniting a fire within. The poet knows this, but so should every seeker of wisdom.

The lesson is clear: do not think of reading as passive. When you read a poem, you are entering a conversation. You are standing face-to-face with another soul, across the gulf of time, hearing their griefs, their joys, their questions. To read well is to listen deeply; to write afterward is to respond with the honesty of your own heart. Just as no true conversation ends with one voice, so poetry does not end with the poet—it continues in the reader who becomes, in turn, a poet.

Practical action follows. Read daily, not as a consumer of words, but as a listener to voices. When a line stirs you, do not leave it unexamined; write your reply, even if only in your journal. If a poem awakens grief, answer with your own lament. If it awakens hope, echo it with your own praise. In this way, you step into the chain of dialogue that stretches back to the dawn of language and forward to generations yet unborn.

So let Barton’s words echo in your heart: “Sometimes poetry is inspired by the conversation entered into by reading other poems.” Remember that you are not alone in your art, nor in your life. You are always surrounded by voices waiting to speak, and by listening, you enter into a fellowship of souls. Take up their words, respond with your own, and in doing so, join the eternal conversation that is poetry itself.