Well, if this is poetry, I'm certainly never going to write any

Hear now, children of the word, the confession of James Schuyler: “Well, if this is poetry, I’m certainly never going to write any myself.” These words, spoken with irony and humility, reveal the awe that overtakes the soul when it stands before greatness. It is the cry of one who has encountered poetry so majestic, so unshakable, that he feels unworthy to add his own voice. Yet within this humility lies a deeper truth—that doubt itself can be the beginning of wisdom, and that reverence for the art is the first step toward entering it.

The origin of such a statement lies in the tension every poet feels. When the young Schuyler encountered the monumental works of the past, he was struck not only by their beauty but by their weight. To look upon the mighty cathedrals of verse—Milton’s Paradise Lost, Wordsworth’s hymns to nature, Eliot’s fractured modernity—is to feel as though one’s own hammer and chisel are mere children’s tools. In saying he would “never write any myself,” Schuyler gave voice to the universal fear: that one’s own words will never be enough. Yet paradoxically, this very humility prepared him to write with honesty, clarity, and his own quiet strength.

History offers us another mirror in the story of Walt Whitman. When Whitman first read the poets of Europe—Homer, Dante, Shakespeare—he too could have bowed in despair. Yet instead he turned his humility into fire, saying: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” Where another might shrink, Whitman expanded. Where Schuyler quipped in self-doubt, Whitman declared his defiance. Both reveal the same truth from different angles: the greatness of the past can either silence us or awaken us. The choice is ours.

But there is more: Schuyler’s remark also reveals the shifting boundaries of poetry itself. He belonged to the New York School of poets, who embraced the ordinary, the conversational, the fleeting details of modern life. For him, to say “if this is poetry” was not merely an act of humility but also a recognition that poetry itself was changing. What once required lofty language and divine metaphor could now live in the language of streets, of coffee cups, of passing weather. His remark is both a surrender and a liberation: surrender to the immensity of the tradition, but liberation in discovering his own way of belonging to it.

Thus the meaning of his words is not despair, but transformation. The poet who first declares he will “never write any myself” may in time discover that he must write, because silence would betray his soul. Doubt, then, is not the enemy of poetry but its midwife. It strips away pride, it forces us to listen, it compels us to learn. Out of this soil of humility grows the tree of authentic voice.

The lesson for us is clear: when you feel unworthy, when you stand before greatness and think, “I cannot do this,” know that you are standing at the true beginning. Do not be paralyzed by awe; let it shape you. Read the masters not to imitate them, nor to measure yourself against them, but to be reminded of the heights to which language can soar. Then turn back to your own experience, your own tongue, and write what only you can write.

In practice, let each seeker of words take courage. Read daily from poets greater than yourself, and let their brilliance humble you. Then, instead of turning away, set down your own lines—rough, simple, perhaps awkward at first. Do not aim to rival the giants; aim to speak truthfully. For Schuyler himself, who once said he would never write, became a poet whose voice was unmistakable: tender, observant, radiant with the beauty of small things. His doubt did not prevent his art; it purified it.

So remember this teaching: the words “I will never write poetry” are not the end, but the beginning. They are the sign that you recognize the sacredness of the art, and that you will enter it with reverence. And if you carry this humility with courage, then your words, too, may one day stand as lanterns for those who come after you, who tremble in awe and whisper, “If this is poetry, how can I not try to write it myself?”