In thinking about poetry and how it happens with me, how I write, Neruda seems to have best said what I feel in my soul and the way I write. Form for me follows the function. I hear the spirit and write the words. Then and only then do I tailor the form that it seems to need. There is no place for games or confusion in poetry. It is to be as simple and yet as complex as a well composed image. I would only hope that my works are as simply complex as Neruda’s.
And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.