“The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.”
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The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life.
How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.
I want a fever, in poetry: a fever, and tranquillity.
But poetry is a way of language, it is not its subject or its maker's background or interests or hobbies or fixations. It is nearer to utterance than history.