Peace, one and all…
Writing poetry is like trying to speak to the sky, or like trying to converse with the moon. Both are uncertain exercises, at best! Thus, the heart and centre of what I truly want to say remains unspoken, and the words I write become like liquid, flowing in all directions, assuming all manner of meanings beyond my original intent.
This is why others read all sorts of associations, colourings and meanings into the poetry they read. In some senses, they read their own meanings into each poem, as if they had written it themselves. Indeed, in a certain sense, to give a thing a particular meaning is to write it. Writing poetry (or anything for that matter) is almost a collaborative project, a shared enterprise between the author and the reader.
A kind of secret collusion occurs when a poem is released into the world. The moment it falls into the eyes of another, it takes on a life of its own. This life may, indeed, be close to one foreseen by the author when putting pen to paper. Then again, it may not. Like a child, a poem grows and moves beyond its author, its parent, and carves out its own nieche, its own way, in the world.