Poetry lives in the air. Of that I am convinced. Perhaps, as poets, what we do is to split time in two and step into that place where poetry is being born. Call it a place of"seed time" or galactic dust--whatever--just know that it exists.
Recently, I traveled to Europe, spending time in London and Paris. I couldn't help but feel--in the ancient rocks and on the cold winds of Stonehenge-- that some kind of poetry is being born.
The feeling was visceral. As though the poem of place and history will not be denied--the thoughts and emotions rooted in those who lived so long ago--was taking shape in its own longing. And that longing has a shape and weight and clarity.
And it was waiting--it waits--for us to call it forth.