And now I can’t remember what it was all about. I cannot remember one line.
I have the title ‘Water’s Edge’ – not terribly inspirational now I come to think of it, although edges and what one might term liminal spaces interest me – but I do not have the foggiest of the poem’s content.
I could just look it up in my files. I could just buy the collection, The Dance is New, that it’s just been published in. I will. I will do both. In fact, I am very intrigued to read all the poems in the collection… but for now, I would just like to sit, and see if my own comes back to me. It hasn’t so far, and it’s been over a week or so now.
There is a sort of purpose to all this. It’s exploring the disconnect between the poem and the poet. I am not saying I am a poet, but I do write poetry, and my relationship to it is different from my relationship with the prose. I don’t recognise my poetry at times. The prose I do, far more often. Some of the poems I write make me feel uncomfortable. And I never, for example, feel that I am ‘murdering my darlings’ when I edit a line of poetry. Prose? All the time.
I cannot draw any conclusions from this. I can only throw around the idea, for now, that the prose comes, overall, from a more conscious part of my mind. The poetry, from somewhere on the edge of the map.