Creating a poetry collection is such an interesting activity.
Like a poem, a collection needs to resonate back and forth within itself, so you experiment with groups of poems, chains of images, words that chime with other words. You try to listen to the tones of your own poems: their music, their temperature, where their hearts lie. You put certain poems together, thinking they'll get on well, but they spring apart, turn their backs on each other, make new friends. Some of them change direction or grow new lines. Many shrink, some to the point of disappearing. You walk away in search of a glass of water, or painkillers, or just to attend to another task. Yes, the washing up still needs to be done. You return to the collection, only to discover that it's no longer the same as it was when you left it. It implores you to think again. It announces it's changed its name. It's unwilling to go in the direction you have in mind; it has directions of its own. Above all, it insists on saying more than you thought you wanted it to say.
At least, that's how it's been for me when I try to herd my poems into a collection.
So this is by way of celebrating that I do have a new collection ready, about to go into the editorial process with Pindrop Press. I love it, in all its unruliness, and I hope readers will love it too. (Stands up from desk and does a creaky but happy little dance).
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