Read entry Maybe Every Case Is Different

A house seen through poor smoke in the compression of the forest your steps numb on the leaves. All sounds pressed in on you. Perhaps each door leads to some decadence in life. Where do poems happen I don t think they happen in language though I used to. A poem is a slippage of the mind. We imagine our choices leading us in slow succession through the world of desires. But all poets know language is lies. Look back and so much of our life is arbitrary so many desires pre lingual. They aren t the white noise of consciousness or the calamity of fact. They are the bridge. Poems at their best are where we un know. The best poems become strange to their author. All poets murder their children. Poets feel the world leaking into the poem with an arbitrary impact. Yet writing is also like opening some enormous steel doors into the roaring clanging furnace of consciousness. When poems begin there is no conviction no moral purpose no charge or truth no politics! no messiah. Where poems succeed the poet s hand has reinforced sometimes bolstered and sometimes converted the impulse. Most trudge over the crevasse. A few fall off mountains. Others freeze to death. Some thaw in time though they may have atrophied and withered their scent gone. All are shaped by the conditions of their birth and their manufacture. Even liberty has convention. The success of a poem lies in its reader.

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