Patricia Clark

I’m a creature of habit with writing poetry and it’s not simply for habit’s sake: there’s method to my madness and habit is just a path that takes me on the way to self-effacement (if that’s possible) and reverie; which the dictionary defines as 1.) “a state of dreamy meditation or fanciful musing, 2.) a daydream or 3.) a fantastic, visionary, or impractical idea.” The word’s roots come from Middle English and Old French: “to speak wildly” (see RAVE). Doesn’t that show a connection to the fanciful and to a touch of madness? I light a candle, peel a clementine, pour a cup of coffee—and I skate off on the glissando ice to find a topic, an image, a word with which to start. In this state I am a seeker after what is unknown to me when I begin—often this process involves travel or transport. I try to ride the magic carpet of language to see if it will take me some place unfamiliar, some place with a surprise or an insight. Don’t our best poets surprise us: I could end up, transformed, inside a blossom. I could end up anywhere—as Walt Whitman writes, “If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.”