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A poem has its own soul. As it comes through me, it takes what it needs to become itself, drawing from my resources of image, of language, and of experience. My context informs it—helps it fit into a particular time and place. Perhaps the poem has had many lives, but each time it's different.

My notebooks are full of words. Mostly, they're as transient as thoughts in the stream of mind. It's not always easy to recognize a poem when it's still unformed. I get clues. Something takes root and begins to grow. I may feel different physically. I may wake up in the night and have to go and write. I may get a mute hankering for something I can't quite put my finger on. Once in a while, a poem will fall fully formed onto the page.

I think a book is itself a poem. Except, I've never had a book "fall bright." Maybe, someday, one will.


Jane Munro's works copyright © to the author.


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