Archives of American Art, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. Date: 2-15-39; Photographer: David Robbins; Artist: Philip Guston; Process of sketching a Mural; Location: 531 Grand Ave, Bklyn; World’s Fair.
When you’re in the room writing, there are a lot of people in there with you. Your teachers, friends, writers from history, critics…and one by one, if you’re really writing, they walk out. And if you’re really writing, you walk out.
—Adapted from a talk with Philip Guston
Note: Guston’s original comment concerned not writing, but painting. You can read it at Jim Finnegan’s wonderful, aphoristic blog, ursprache. In the photo, Guston is shown working on mural for the WPA Federal Art Project in connection with the 1939 New York World’s Fair.
Joseph Hutchison, Colorado Poet Laureate 2014-2019, has published 20 collections of poems and edited or co-edited three poetry anthologies. He currently directs two master’s-level programs for University College at the University of Denver: Professional Creative Writing and Arts & Culture Management. Joe lives with his wife, Melody Madonna, in the mountains southwest of Denver, Colorado, the city where he was born. 
Yes! I totally aspire to reach that state of painting nirvana. 🙂
Just a beautiful, honest poem by the incomparable Merwin, reaching out and in, beyond the self, calling on the unknown guide.
Yes indeed, Beth! Merwin puts it beautifully:
GIFT
W. S. Merwin
I have to trust what was given to me
if I am to trust anything
it led the stars over the shadowless mountain
what does it not remember in its night and silence
what does it not hope knowing itself no child of time
what did it not begin what will it not end
I have to hold it up in my hands as my ribs hold up my heart
I have to let it open its wings and fly among the gifts of the unknown
again in the mountain I have to turn
to the morning
I must be led by what was given to me
as streams are led by it
and braiding flights of birds
the gropings of veins the learning of plants
the thankful days
breath by breath
I call to it Nameless One O Invisible
Untouchable Free
I am nameless I am divided
I am invisible I am untouchable
and empty
nomad live with me
be my eyes
my tongue and my hands
my sleep and my rising
out of chaos
come and be given
GIFT
W. S. Merwin
I have to trust what was given to me
if I am to trust anything
it led the stars over the shadowless mountain
what does it not remember in its night and silence
what does it not hope knowing itself no child of time
what did it not begin what will it not end
I have to hold it up in my hands as my ribs hold up my heart
I have to let it open its wings and fly among the gifts of the unknown
again in the mountain I have to turn
to the morning
I must be led by what was given to me
as streams are led by it
and braiding flights of birds
the gropings of veins the learning of plants
the thankful days
breath by breath
I call to it Nameless One O Invisible
Untouchable Free
I am nameless I am divided
I am invisible I am untouchable
and empty
nomad live with me
be my eyes
my tongue and my hands
my sleep and my rising
out of chaos
come and be given
Guston’s statement reminds me that if I am really writing, I will let go the influences of other writers, even those I admire, and even let go of my own ego. Let the poem have its way. Trust my own imagination.
I always look to other writers, past and present, for inspiration. It’s a real connection, however invisible it may seem.