5. How does a poem begin?
Well, it’s funny that, looking at the above answer, I would say that poetry is a constant but that the instance of a poem is not. As such, beginning a poem is a problem. It used to be that I would have to try and then perform moderately well or badly or procrastinate and engage in some of those moods and behaviours (esp. walking or travelling) in order to find the poem in media res and then conjure the myth of its beginning. Now I mostly have to just open a file with a title and one overheard phrase or another that has been distorted a little, and that is sort of like walking into an installation space and laying out materials for an exhibition. Then more elements are brought in and unloaded and aligned and the idea of building this temporary shelter for the poem presents its straightforward problems of connection and load bearing and the transfer of prospective weight. And this is the result of a constant situation of pressure; but that’s not really a poetry problem. At some point, the gestures enact a series of consequences and there is an ordeal, and that gives us the poem, which really doesn’t start beginning until that point; the rest is training and suspense.
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