For me, it’s often a visceral experience. There is a twinge in my gut, a physical recognition that a line in another poet’s poem, in a piece of art, in a moment in nature, in an experience, in an exchange with a friend, or sometimes even just the usage of a single word, that signals to me that I have something to say, something that carries a sense of urgency and also potentiality, something that could be well expressed if I can meet the challenge and stick with the work until the “truth” or vitality or pleasure or pain of that moment is revealed.
Saturday 15 August 2020
Maureen Hynes : part five
How does a poem begin?
For me, it’s often a visceral experience. There is a twinge in my gut, a physical recognition that a line in another poet’s poem, in a piece of art, in a moment in nature, in an experience, in an exchange with a friend, or sometimes even just the usage of a single word, that signals to me that I have something to say, something that carries a sense of urgency and also potentiality, something that could be well expressed if I can meet the challenge and stick with the work until the “truth” or vitality or pleasure or pain of that moment is revealed.
For me, it’s often a visceral experience. There is a twinge in my gut, a physical recognition that a line in another poet’s poem, in a piece of art, in a moment in nature, in an experience, in an exchange with a friend, or sometimes even just the usage of a single word, that signals to me that I have something to say, something that carries a sense of urgency and also potentiality, something that could be well expressed if I can meet the challenge and stick with the work until the “truth” or vitality or pleasure or pain of that moment is revealed.
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