In the past two years, as I have revised and reworked my manuscript of poems, “Confluence,” I have thought seriously about principles.  I have thought about ordering principles and about the principled act of walking outside each day.  I think of the Midwest, of sounds pinging against each other, and of story, and how these things matter to my poems.  I reflect on my lyric, its ties to traditional forms, and to natural sounds.  Many times, I desire an environment in which to discuss these questions, and to hone the poems that might be answers.  Although each writer needs some modicum of tranquility to write and revise, I also need community and guidance to make my poems into fully realized works.   A balance is needed to view the project panoramically—to “see” it, as Annie Dillard would say.

Capri’s shoreline from the side of the mountain.

Capri’s shoreline from the top of the mountain.

Surely time alone at my desk, or on a walk, allows me space to engage in the metacognitive act of following the strands of my poems to their ends; however, the idea of participating in the “Republic of Poetry,” as Martín Espada would say, is also exciting. This week, as I work with our other editors to make selections for the poetry section of Minerva Rising’s upcoming issue on Rebellion, I think about how conversing with other writers, known and unknown, through their words, informs my own work.  These poems allow me to “see” my pieces differently, and this is perhaps one of the greatest rewards of editorial work.