Unfortunately, poetry is not born in noise, in crowds, or on a
Unfortunately, poetry is not born in noise, in crowds, or on a bus. There have to be four walls and the certainty that the telephone will not ring. That's what writing is all about.
Hear, O children of quiet and reflection, the words of Wislawa Szymborska, poet of Poland and voice of subtle wisdom: “Unfortunately, poetry is not born in noise, in crowds, or on a bus. There have to be four walls and the certainty that the telephone will not ring. That’s what writing is all about.” In this utterance, she reveals the sacred condition of creation—the need for stillness, for solitude, for space where the fragile flame of inspiration can burn without being extinguished by the winds of distraction.
The meaning of this teaching is profound: the birth of poetry requires silence, the shelter of solitude, and the absence of interruption. In the tumult of crowds, in the endless chatter of the world, the inner voice cannot rise. Noise scatters thought, and distraction kills the seed before it grows. But within the protection of “four walls,” the mind and heart are free to listen to themselves, to discover the hidden melodies of the soul. The poet is like a gardener who needs quiet soil, free of trampling feet, if flowers are to bloom.
The origin of these words lies in Szymborska’s own practice as a writer. She lived not as one seeking fame or spectacle, but in modesty, guarding her private world. She understood that writing is not an act of performance but of preparation, not noise but stillness. Like a sculptor chiseling in silence, the poet needs a space where no phone rings, no crowd intrudes, and thought can deepen into word. Her reflection is not merely about poetry, but about all acts of creation, which require attention and care.
Consider the story of Emily Dickinson, who lived most of her life within the walls of her own home. While the world bustled beyond her garden, she remained cloistered, writing poems that would shake future generations. Her seclusion was not imprisonment, but the fertile soil of her genius. Like Szymborska, she knew that poetry is not born in noise; it is born in the stillness where one can listen to the whispers of eternity.
Think also of Ludwig van Beethoven, who, though surrounded by the grand noise of orchestras, composed his greatest works in silence after losing his hearing. He withdrew into his private world, shutting out the distractions of life, and from that solitude emerged symphonies that echo still across the ages. His life proves the truth of Szymborska’s words: greatness does not arise in distraction, but in the sacred quiet where the mind is free to create.
O seekers of creation, learn this: you must build your four walls, not only of brick and mortar but of discipline and will. You must claim the silence that the world will not freely give you. Guard it like treasure, for in it lies the space where inspiration descends. The telephone, the crowd, the bus—these may carry you through life’s busyness, but they will not give birth to your deepest work. The soul demands quiet if it is to speak clearly.
Practical wisdom calls you: make time each day for silence. Step away from the noise of machines, from the endless hum of conversation. Find a room, a corner, a space where you can hear yourself think. Write, reflect, pray, or simply breathe there. Let this become your sanctuary. And when the world demands your attention, remember that it is in silence, not noise, that the treasures of the soul are discovered.
Therefore, remember the counsel of Wislawa Szymborska: “There have to be four walls and the certainty that the telephone will not ring.” This is not only the secret of poetry but the secret of all deep work. Protect your solitude, for in its quiet soil the seeds of truth and beauty will grow into words, into art, into wisdom that will endure beyond your time.
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HYHong Yen
This perspective makes me nostalgic for a time when quiet seemed easier to find. It suggests that creation depends on boundaries—walls, silence, the absence of interruption. But what about people who don’t have that luxury? Does that mean they’re excluded from poetry, or can they cultivate an inner room, a metaphorical space of calm? I’d love to hear how different poets manage this tension between solitude and daily life.
SCMy so cuteeeee
I love the practicality of this quote—it reminds me that poetry isn’t just emotion but also discipline. Still, I’m torn. Some of my most vivid ideas come in busy places: trains, airports, or city streets. Perhaps the act of writing requires silence, but inspiration often begins in noise. Do you think Szymborska was describing her personal process, or making a universal claim about how poetry must be born?
THNguyen Thanh Ha
Szymborska’s idea feels both old-fashioned and deeply true. There’s something sacred about having four walls—a space where the mind can stretch without intrusion. But I can’t help questioning whether such isolation might limit a writer’s connection to the world they’re trying to reflect. Can too much quiet make poetry self-contained, detached from life’s noise? Maybe the challenge is learning how to carry that inner stillness even within chaos.
RMHσηq aηq rαυ Mγ
This makes me think about how much the modern world resists silence. With phones, notifications, and constant interruptions, the conditions Szymborska describes seem almost impossible to achieve today. Does that mean true writing is becoming harder, or are writers simply adapting to new rhythms of creativity? I’m curious how she’d view someone writing poems on their phone in a coffee shop—would she see it as a contradiction or a new form of solitude?
TNMai Tuyet Nhi
I completely relate to this sentiment. It’s almost impossible to write deeply when surrounded by constant noise and distractions. Still, I wonder if solitude is truly a requirement, or just a preference for some writers. Can inspiration not emerge from chaos too—from overheard conversations, city sounds, or the energy of public spaces? Maybe Szymborska’s point is more about mental quiet than physical silence. What do you think—can poetry exist in motion?