I’ve started collapsing and re-constructing poems, rather desperately, with the illogical but deeply felt sense I can somehow save the lives of the poets who couldn’t save their own.
Us writers, we’re always trying to word-craft our way to freedom and happiness. It’s even, often, that words are a lifeboat; we save our own lives by and in the writing.
But what if we’ve been making a mistake? What if that which we seek can only be found, not in in the words themselves, but the space around the words—in the hush of the gap after the final stanza? What if, instead of writing that narrative arc (Act 1, Act 2 and Act 3 and the denouement), we started with Act 3 and just stayed there…?
All will be explained.
Ariel is in the process of being re-found and re-imagined. With deep admiration and profound thanks to Sylvia Plath.
