I’ve been reading a lot of new poetry from a lot of new sources lately. There is one pervasive thought that’s gone through my head, the more I read the stanzas, digest their stanzas, flow.

“Fuck, I lost so much feeling, haven’t I?”

I am really not trying to throw shade at any poet, I know people are bleeding the words they need out of their hearts and there is some pieces that are divine in quality. , I think to some extent I have lost that connection. I feel bloodless, and read things in such a detached, almost clinical mind.

So I’ve gone back to the beginning, and opened my ancient Word files filled with stuff from almost a decade-plus ago. A good amount of it is terrible, of course, but I can see that in those words created by misplaced teenage crushes and unnecessary angst there was a flavor of me that was more raw. I need that taste again.

That’s what I’m trying to reclaim at the moment. I’m taking back the old poems and dismantling them. This time around I’m working under two simple rules.

1. Remove all vestiges/instances of love. I don’t think about it at the moment, I see no point in talking about something that isn’t a part of me.
2. Try to keep to the rules of Imagism – clear concise portrayal of the image. Or to quote William Carlos Williams, “No ideas but in things”

The idea may not be new, nor some of the ideas. But something can grow from an object if it is taken apart are built into a new piece of art. At least, that’s what I hope.