When I was asked to be Writer in Residence at Edinburgh I

Hear the words of Norman MacCaig, the Scottish poet whose lines were as clear as the waters of his homeland: “When I was asked to be Writer in Residence at Edinburgh I thought, you can’t teach poetry. This is ridiculous.” In this statement lies both humility and truth, for he declares that poetry is not a craft that can be passed down like arithmetic or carpentry. It is a flame that must ignite within the soul. Teachers may provide tools, they may open doors, but the fire itself—this cannot be taught, only awakened.

The meaning here is profound. Poetry is born not from formula, but from perception, from the ability to see the world with wonder, grief, or intensity and give it shape in words. One may learn rhythm, form, and technique, yet without vision, without the inner spark, the poem remains lifeless. MacCaig knew this: the danger of believing one could teach poetry as though it were a trade would be to strip it of its mystery, to reduce it to rules, when in truth it is born from the alchemy of mind and spirit.

The ancients themselves understood this. Plato, though wary of poets, admitted they wrote by a kind of divine frenzy, a madness inspired by the gods. Horace, centuries later, advised that poetry must delight and instruct, but he too admitted that no amount of training could make a man a poet if the gift were absent. Even Aristotle, so logical in his Poetics, acknowledged that great poetry comes from the soul’s deep imitation of life itself, not merely from clever structure. MacCaig’s dismissal of teaching poetry is, in truth, an echo of this ancient recognition: that the essence of poetry is untaught.

History also gives us examples. Consider John Keats, who died so young, and yet left behind immortal verse. His education in poetry was not in formal lessons, but in the fierce attention he gave to beauty and suffering, to nightingales and Grecian urns. He was no student in the ordinary sense, but a man possessed by vision. Or think of Emily Dickinson, who in her seclusion wrote poems that astonish to this day. No teacher guided her hand. She learned technique, yes, but what mattered was her inner voice, which no classroom could bestow.

Yet MacCaig’s words are not rejection alone. For though he said it was “ridiculous” to teach poetry, he still served as Writer in Residence, still encouraged others to write. What he meant, perhaps, is that one cannot pour poetry into another’s soul, but one can cultivate the soil. A teacher of poetry may awaken awareness, sharpen craft, offer guidance—but the vision must come from within. It is like tending a garden: you cannot force the seed to sprout, but you can water the soil and let the sun fall upon it.

The lesson for us is this: never look to another to give you your voice. Teachers may inspire, but they cannot breathe life into your words. That is your own work, your own mystery. To be a poet—or to live poetically—you must seek out the vision that belongs only to you. This is why MacCaig, in his humility, laughed at the idea of “teaching poetry.” He knew that poetry must rise from the depths of the individual soul.

Practical wisdom flows here. Read widely, not to copy but to awaken your own perceptions. Walk in nature, listen to people, reflect on joy and suffering. Write often, not for approval but for discovery. If you study with others, treat their instruction as guidance, not command. Above all, trust the small voice within you, for that is where the flame of poetry is born.

Thus, Norman MacCaig’s words stand as both reminder and challenge: poetry cannot be taught, only awakened. It is not ridiculous to share it, but it is folly to believe it can be forced. Let us pass this truth to future generations: that the poet’s task is not to learn formulas, but to live deeply, see clearly, and speak honestly. Only then does poetry emerge—not as lesson, but as revelation.