Form Is A Straitjacket In The Way

One Will Never Again Look At A Birch Tree, After The Robert Frost Poem, In Exactly The Same Way.

I Suppose For Whatever Reason I Actively Welcome Being Put Down, Something Which Perhaps Goes Back To My Upbringing - That Accusation Of Not Being Worthy Which Could Be Laid At One's Door.

The Point Of Poetry Is To Be Acutely Discomforting, To Prod And Provoke, To Poke Us In The Eye, To Punch Us In The Nose, To Knock Us Off Our Feet, To Take Our Breath Away.

Living At That Pitch, On That Edge, Is Something Which Many Poets Engage In To Some Extent.

Confusion Is What We're Living With - Not Being Able To Make Sense Of What's Happening To Us From Day To Day. Whereas Making Sense Is What We're Aiming For - Making Sense.