For the last year and a half, I’ve been deep in poems from four decades, piled on table and floor, in folders and binders and notebooks, swirling around me in all possible forms, quite a few of them dating to before I had a computer: typewritten poems on onionskin paper adorned with erasures and white-out, carbon copies of poems, marked-up drafts, and even handwritten poems, as well as chapbooks, word-processed manuscripts in fat binder clips, and my several published volumes of poetry.
This isn’t exactly how I imagined the process of compiling Spells, my selected poems, would go. At one point I thought I‘d sit down with my published books and a pad of sticky notes to make the table of contents; later, after having talked with other poets about their experiences, it seemed that I might end up revising and rewriting many poems, trying to arrive at final versions before republishing them.
But it turned out that many of the poems I needed to include had not been published in books. And it also turned out that the effort I had put into making my poems “click shut like a box,” to use Yeats’ memorable analogy, seemed to have worked, even for poems dating as far back as the 1970s.
Bringing together the wildly different decades of my voice at last felt odd but familiar. I’ve often imagined the Muse inhabiting a timeless space where nothing ever changes, where I have travelled regularly to visit Her since childhood. Working with years’ worth of poems confirmed my sense that their words all come from the same place, and that I, therefore, also have a cohesiveness across time that I hadn’t claimed in the same way before.
In an interview I once compared my poetry to an ecosystem like a forest, where the words, images, and inspirations from imagined, started, completed, or published poems rot into the earth and nourish the roots of other poetic writings. As in an ecosystem, the connections between the various parts of SPELLS will not always be evident on the surface. But they are there, interpenetrating voices and styles that grow out of and inform each other, linking poems written at the same time but never before published together, or intimately connected though written far apart. Over the months of making false starts, settling on an organizing structure, choosing and discarding and arranging, creating a literary object for the future out of the fragments and threads of the past, it seems it wasn’t only a book I was creating but something more organic, more like an imagination—or even a self.