In a comment, Denny of Book of Life suggests that I allow my natural urge to “express itself through some objective correlative in poetry…”
Rather, I am sure, than pirouette across my morning backyard without a stitch on. My words would be more lovely and hardly raise an eyebrow either. I am channelling, it seems, as poetry in unrefined but flowing form directs my thoughts today. It takes me over, and I know you know the feeling, to a point where someone asks a question of me and it sounds as if uttered in a foreign tongue, like Poetrese. I sift the words into translation before I answer, knowing that the look of consternation I am getting will only deepen if I speak out words such as these.
Poetry then, is in itself another language, I believe.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology