I remember considering the poem a puzzle, a thing to be fitted up and for which I thought I had all the pieces there, scattered about, but there.  I suppose to some degree this is still the case; the poem is always there, somewhere and capable of being its ultimate, but one doesn’t always come to it or come to it when one thinks one should.

This can be frustrating, but is deeply rewarding work, the gathering. Now, the poem is less certain. I do not see all the pieces or know what entirely has been gifted, if it has. I do not see the whole poem. I do not know the story at the first word and the movement is often slower and repeated overtime. This ‘process’ then, the  ‘movements’ and revelations that lead you to say this or that is the last of it, really is what makes it so. The process, the going over, the time. The poem then, is its unveiling.

Sometimes the poem comes from a line you hear in the breeze or a memory you thought irrelevant til now, a thing you’d forgotten was beautiful. Sometimes it takes someone pointing out a thing you never thought could be told, and then you find yourself in the drawing room, cutting and carving, trying to make it, to plant the first word.