What has any poet to trust more than the feel of the thing?

“What has any poet to trust more than the feel of the thing? Theory concerns him only until he picks up his pen, and it begins to concern him again as soon as he lays it down.” Thus spoke John Ciardi, a poet of the twentieth century, but his words resound with the wisdom of all ages. In them he lays bare the mystery of creation: that art is born not from theory, but from the feel, the living pulse of inspiration that flows through the heart and into words. For theory is scaffolding, useful before and after, but in the moment of birth it is feeling, instinct, and fire that guide the hand.

The meaning of this saying is that creation cannot be caged by rules. A poet may study form, rhyme, and measure; he may discuss schools of thought and weigh the value of meter against free verse. Yet when he takes up the pen, none of these things command him. What commands him is the feel of the thing—the rhythm of his own blood, the sudden thunder of an image, the whisper of a line that insists on being written. Only afterward, when the poem is finished, may theory return to examine, to polish, to explain. But in the moment of creation, the poet must trust feeling above all.

The ancients knew this truth well. Homer, blind singer of Greece, did not weigh theory as he sang of Troy and Odysseus. His guide was not rule but the living current of memory and inspiration. Only centuries later did scholars dissect his verses into dactyls and hexameters. Likewise, the Hebrew prophets, whose words still thunder in scripture, did not pause to study rhetorical patterns before they spoke. They trusted the feel of the thing—the burning within them that demanded utterance. Theory came after; inspiration came first.

Consider the life of Vincent van Gogh, though he painted, not wrote. He studied, yes, but when he placed brush to canvas it was feeling that ruled—the swirl of a night sky, the blaze of sunflowers, the anguish of his own heart. Critics and theorists argued endlessly about his style, but his genius lay in his trust of instinct. He painted what he felt, not what he reasoned, and so his art speaks across centuries. Ciardi’s words mirror this truth: trust the inner current, for in it lies the soul of art.

And yet Ciardi does not dismiss theory entirely. He gives it its rightful place—before and after, as preparation and reflection. The poet may study to sharpen his tools, and he may analyze his work to refine it. But he warns us: do not let theory chain the act of creation itself. For when the poem is being born, hesitation is death. The poet must move with instinct, allowing the music within to pour forth unimpeded. Only then will the words carry life, breath, and power.

The lesson for us is profound. In whatever art or labor we pursue, there is a moment where thought must fall silent and feeling must take the lead. The craftsman learns his trade, the warrior studies his drills, the speaker rehearses his lines—but when the hour comes, he must act with instinct, trusting the feel of the thing. To cling to theory in the heat of the moment is to falter. To trust the body, the spirit, and the instinct shaped by practice is to triumph.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember Ciardi’s wisdom: learn your craft, yes, and honor theory. But when the moment of creation comes, set it aside. Trust the fire in your chest, the rhythm in your veins, the instinct born of practice. For it is not theory that breathes life into words, but feeling. And when the work is done, let theory return to sharpen and polish what inspiration has given. Thus shall your art live: born of feeling, refined by thought, yet never imprisoned by it.