“I was scuttling along in my usual furtive way, suspecting no ill, when a large invisible thumb descended from the sky and pressed down on the top of my head. A poem formed.”

— Margaret Atwood

On Writing Poetry (1995)
Context: The day I became a poet was a sunny day of no particular ominousness. I was walking across the football field, not because I was sports-minded or had plans to smoke a cigarette behind the field house — the only other reason for going there — but because this was my normal way home from school. I was scuttling along in my usual furtive way, suspecting no ill, when a large invisible thumb descended from the sky and pressed down on the top of my head. A poem formed. It was quite a gloomy poem: the poems of the young usually are. It was a gift, this poem — a gift from an anonymous donor, and, as such, both exciting and sinister at the same time. I suspect this is the way all poets begin writing poetry, only they don't want to admit it, so they make up more rational explanations. But this is the true explanation, and I defy anyone to disprove it.

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Margaret Atwood 348

Canadian writer 1939

John Hollander (1929–2013) American poet

“I paint from the top down. From the sky, then the mountains, then the hills, then the houses, then the cattle, and then the people.”

Grandma Moses (1860–1961) American artist

As quoted in Tampa Bay Magazine‎ (January/February 2008), p. 205

“I'm flat on the floor, with my head down low, where the sky can't rain on me anymore.”

Carrie Underwood (1983) American country music singer

From Flat on the Floor from the album, Carnival Ride (2007). [Misattributed: performer not credited as writer.]

“I never have restricted myself into a frame of a particular technique. My techniques are determined simultaneously along with the subjects of my works. It is similar to the works of a poet, the form of a poem is determined at the same time as its content.”

Guity Novin (1944) artist

Etelaat (1973), no. 14119, Thursday, June 7th, p. 7

“… my head in the rainclouds, my heart in the sky.”

Donna Tartt book The Goldfinch

Source: The Goldfinch

“Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
When you know that my poems are not poems,
Then we can speak of poetry.”

Ryōkan (1758–1831) Japanese Buddhist monk

Variant translation:
Who says my poems are poems?
My poems are not poems.
After you know my poems are not poems,
Then we can begin to discuss poetry!
"Zen Poetics of Ryokan" in Simply Haiku: A Quarterly Journal of Japanese Short Form Poetry (Summer 2006) http://www.hermitary.com/articles/ryokan_poetics.html
Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf : Zen Poems of Ryokan (1993)