Where Poetry Lives

Picture this... a new copy of the American magazine Poetry sits to my left, and photocopied poems sit to my right; isn’t that where good writing happens, in the gap between two things.

In our most recent session, my group of writers considered how truth often comes when things are brought together, or pulled apart, and the thing, that undefinable thing in the middle, is often where the most exciting things happen. We connected people with objects and places, and made ourselves into animals. We wrote our own adventures without any clear endings and only suggestions at what might happen.

Our group meets in Halifax, but many of us come from elsewhere, meeting in the middle. We meet from 5-7pm, that time when the day and the night are crossing each other on the street. We talk about place, but by place we really mean people, by people we really mean their absence, by absence we really mean our memories.

By memories, we mean the gap between what actually happened and what we wished had happened, what we really said and what we wished we’d said. What we experienced and what we chose to write down. The gap in between two things. Where poetry lives. 

In this picture, a new copy of the American magazine Poetry sits to my left, and photocopied poems sit to my right; isn’t that where good writing happens, in the gap between two things.

In our most recent session, my group of writers considered how truth often comes when things are brought together, or pulled apart, and the thing, that undefinable thing in the middle, is often where the most exciting things happen. We connected people with objects and places, and made ourselves into animals. We wrote our own adventures without any clear endings and only suggestions at what might happen.

Our group meets in Halifax, but many of us come from elsewhere, meeting in the middle. We meet from 5-7pm, that time when the day and the night are crossing each other on the street. We talk about place, but by place we really mean people, by people we really mean their absence, by absence we really mean our memories.

By memories, we mean the gap between what actually happened and what we wished had happened, what we really said and what we wished we’d said. What we experienced and what we chose to write down. The gap in between two things. Where poetry lives. 

Posted 2:56 PM | Permalink