From a poem by Kate Barnes, “To a Skylark”:
needing someone on hand to defend them
from the words they mutter when they have no idea
what they're saying, when they're overcome
by the fumes that rise from the smoldering tinder
of their anxious natures.
A good explanation of what happens when writing a poem. I never know how it will turn out as I write it. I try to retain the point or theme, but sometimes the phrases take a turn and a different story is told, a different point made. They are almost always personal, and others who read them may not understand them – because they are ‘fumes that rise from the smoldering tinder’, and no one knows where the flames came from, or where they went.
Hell, half the time, neither do I.