Some Words of Hart Crane

Updated: Jul 24


It’s a mysterious process, how a poem starts and grows, what makes it take root, why this and not that.  And the writing, the building-up or building-down, from these words or those, to those finished quatrains or these couplets, to something free-form, or to some mix of all of them, all those choices guided by the inspired hand of—well, of something, art, God, intuition, “the wind that blows through me,” who knows its name?  In the end, we as writers or readers may not know exactly what happened, only that something happened, because the evidence is there before us, in the finished poem on the bounded white space of the page (or not so finished:  the poem, as Paul Valery says, is never finished, only abandoned).