i’ve been busy lately, not only writing poetry, but doing it. The Soliloquy Poems have grappled on to me like pollen to a butterflies legs, dragging me into consideration of what i want them to do. i know myself: i get carried away when the dam busts or the flower sneezes & the ideas drain out. But i didn’t want that for these poems, i wanted tautness, density, for them to be packed like a Kimchi container, juice & scent seeping out from the cracks.
For an English poet, i’ve never really explored the dynamics of the sonnet, so i hope this sea change for the Soliloquy Poems, from an out-pouring of inwit, contemplation & observation, into this very durable & condensed form will be profitable for not only writing but doing poetry.
Every single one of them a euphemism
for abracadabra, every single one summons
with simple utterance, pressed & packed,
an object dense with self. It isn’t hard to understand
why Yeats & Hughes were dabblers in the Occult
: the command of the word like a gavel,
in their hands, out their mouths, especially potent
— young, tragic muses dropped their knickers,
both men’s countries gasped, ribs snapped open
from the heart’s pressure, popped out like Jack-
in-the-box. But such phenomena hinge on
a coming-to-terms with incantatory will
in words. To make rain fall i need but cast a word,
cloud gathers & a downpour, steeps the soil.