Well, probably I was fed up with concrete poetry. There was a
Well, probably I was fed up with concrete poetry. There was a lot of bad concrete poetry and besides, it was confused with visual poetry which was completely different.
"Well, probably I was fed up with concrete poetry. There was a lot of bad concrete poetry and besides, it was confused with visual poetry which was completely different." — so admitted Ian Hamilton Finlay, the Scottish poet, artist, and gardener, whose work often stood at the borderlands between word and image, language and form. In this confession he speaks with the frankness of one who has seen a movement begin with promise but collapse under its own weight. He is not scorning poetry itself, but warning against the excess of imitation, the decay of innovation into repetition, and the confusion of form with essence.
The heart of his frustration lies in the distinction between concrete poetry and visual poetry. Concrete poetry sought to shape words into patterns upon the page, so that the form of the poem echoed its meaning: a poem about waves might ripple across the paper, or a poem about towers might ascend like a pillar. In its origin, it was bold, fresh, a way of making the eye as well as the ear participate in language. But as often happens in art, the fire of originality was dimmed by the smoke of imitation. Many practiced it poorly, producing clever arrangements of words that were hollow of soul, patterns without depth.
Visual poetry, on the other hand, embraced the full marriage of text and image, not as decoration but as transformation. Where concrete poetry often relied on geometry and arrangement, visual poetry allowed the word to dissolve into art, the art into word. Finlay, whose own work often placed inscriptions in gardens and carved words into stone, understood this distinction deeply. To him, visual poetry was alive, a dialogue between language and the world; concrete poetry, in its declining years, had become stale, trapped in its own cleverness.
This story echoes the fate of many artistic movements. Consider the example of Cubism in painting. When Picasso and Braque first shattered perspective, they revealed a revolutionary way of seeing. But within a decade, imitators flooded the art world with lifeless Cubist canvases, repeating the outward form without the inner vision. The movement seemed to wither beneath the weight of its own popularity. Just as Finlay saw "a lot of bad concrete poetry," so too history shows us that innovation without spirit becomes imitation, and imitation without spirit becomes confusion.
The lesson here, O seeker, is that art cannot survive on novelty alone. Form is not enough; arrangement is not enough. True poetry requires vision, not simply the clever placement of words upon a page. Finlay grew weary of what he called "bad concrete poetry" because it mistook surface for depth, appearance for essence. His distinction between concrete and visual poetry is a call to remember that art must be more than trickery of the eye. It must breathe, it must strike the heart, it must live beyond the page.
And so, what wisdom do we draw for our own lives? It is this: do not confuse form with substance. In art, in work, in living, it is easy to fall into patterns that look right but are empty inside. One may arrange words to appear as poetry, but if they carry no fire, they are dead. One may wear the appearance of wisdom, but if the heart does not live by truth, it is only pretense. Finlay’s weariness with concrete poetry is a reminder to us all to seek the living essence beneath the forms.
Practical action lies before you: when you create, ask yourself if what you make carries life, or only pattern. When you speak, ask if your words carry weight, or only echo. When you live, do not be content with appearances, but seek the substance that endures. Read poetry that not only entertains the eye but awakens the soul. Create art that not only delights but transforms. And above all, do not be afraid, like Finlay, to set aside what has grown hollow, so that you may seek what is alive.
Thus, his words remain not merely a critique of a passing movement, but a warning for all ages: do not mistake cleverness for truth, nor form for vision. Art that survives, like life that is well-lived, must go beyond arrangement into essence, beyond repetition into creation. And so, like Finlay, let us learn to cast aside what is dead, and turn with courage toward what still breathes.
TDThanh Dat
It’s fascinating that Finlay calls out the 'bad' concrete poetry, but also the confusion with visual poetry. Does this mean that for Finlay, poetry should primarily focus on language, while visual art should stand on its own? I’m curious whether Finlay’s frustration was with the lack of clear boundaries, or whether he felt that both forms could evolve but needed to be more distinct to be appreciated fully.
THThu Huyen
Finlay’s comment brings up an important point about the clarity of artistic forms. Can a form of poetry that relies heavily on the visual elements still be called 'poetry,' or does it become something else entirely? I’m curious if the problem lies in the execution of concrete poetry itself, or if it’s more about how audiences approach these forms. Are we too quick to label things as 'poetry' when they might better fit another genre?
TNVo thi ngoc
I understand Finlay’s frustration with the overuse and misinterpretation of concrete poetry. It seems like some artistic movements can get oversaturated, and the result is that the original intentions get lost. But how much of this confusion was due to how artists and critics categorized their work? Could there be room for both concrete and visual poetry to coexist, or do they need to be more clearly defined to be fully appreciated?
MLnguyen my linh
It’s interesting that Finlay points out the confusion between concrete poetry and visual poetry. I never thought about them being so different, but now I wonder—what defines each form so distinctly? Can concrete poetry ever truly exist without visual elements, or is it always going to overlap with the visual art world? I’m curious if Finlay thought that the blending of these forms diluted their impact or if it just created confusion.
LDle duy
Finlay’s frustration with concrete poetry makes me wonder—what went wrong with it? Was it too experimental, or was it misunderstood by its audience? I can see how the line between concrete poetry and visual poetry might blur, especially when both seek to explore the relationship between language and image. But how can we ensure that each form maintains its integrity? It sounds like Finlay is calling for a clearer distinction between these two styles.