Well - I started writing - probably in the early 60s and by say

Hear the words of Robert Adamson, the Australian poet of river and marsh, who once said: “Well—I started writing—probably in the early 60s and by say ’65–’66 I had read most of the poetry that had been published—certainly in the 20 years prior to that.” In this recollection we glimpse the beginnings of a craftsman, one who did not merely write but immersed himself in the ocean of tradition. Adamson tells us that his voice was not born in a vacuum, but in a deep and faithful engagement with the words of others. For to create, he first chose to read, to listen, to take into himself the chorus of those who came before.

The meaning of this statement rests upon the discipline of apprenticeship. Adamson did not rush to declare himself a poet by instinct alone, nor did he pretend that his words would spring wholly formed from within. Instead, he turned to the accumulated wealth of the last two decades of poetry, absorbing it until it lived in his blood. Like a blacksmith who studies the work of elder artisans before striking the iron, he trained his hand and heart through the voices of those who had shaped the literary world before him.

The ancients understood this same truth. In Greece, the young poet did not immediately write epics; he listened first to Homer sung by rhapsodes, learned the rhythms, memorized the cadences, and only then attempted his own song. In China, students of the Tang dynasty steeped themselves in the poems of their ancestors before attempting a single verse of their own. Adamson’s journey, though set in the modern world, is ancient in spirit: he honored tradition before daring to innovate.

History gives us vivid examples of this pattern. Consider T.S. Eliot, who before writing The Waste Land had steeped himself in centuries of literature—Dante, Shakespeare, the metaphysical poets, the French symbolists. His poem was not an isolated work but a weaving together of voices, echoes, and allusions. Or think of Leonardo da Vinci, who before painting masterpieces studied every drawing, every anatomy, every experiment of those who came before. Adamson, too, understood that to create something lasting, one must first drink deeply from the wells of tradition.

Yet his words also carry the fire of his era. The 1960s were years of rebellion, of transformation in art and culture. By saturating himself in the works of the twenty years prior, Adamson was preparing to break from them, to find his own voice in a changing world. His immersion gave him both the tools to write and the foundation against which he could push. True creativity is never pure rejection; it is transformation of what has been inherited. By reading so widely, Adamson positioned himself not only as a student of tradition, but as a revolutionary ready to carry poetry into new waters.

The lesson for us is this: before you create, you must first listen. To write is to join a conversation, and you cannot join a conversation without first hearing what has been spoken. If you wish to paint, read the strokes of masters; if you wish to build, study the temples of old; if you wish to speak, listen to the voices of ages past. Creation is not theft, nor is it repetition—it is dialogue. By honoring the past, you find strength to shape the future.

Practical wisdom flows from Adamson’s words. Read widely, and do not confine yourself to the latest works. Look back twenty years, fifty years, two hundred years. Memorize lines, let them echo in your heart. Do not be afraid to apprentice yourself to the greats, even in silence. And when your own voice rises, it will carry their strength—not as imitation, but as foundation. In this way, your work will be both rooted and alive.

Thus Robert Adamson’s reflection endures as guidance: poetry is born not only from inspiration but from immersion. The poet must be both student and maker, listener and speaker. Let this teaching be passed down—that those who wish to create must first humble themselves to learn, for the roots of greatness lie in the soil of tradition, and from that soil grows the tree of originality.