Speaking of poetry has always meant speaking of love, these are twin mysteries. Knowing what the poem was there would be no need to write it.
Poetry has forever been the revelation of complexity, of affinity, of a love that might even be called cellular.
“Why poets in times of distress?” Holderlin asked, he for whom poetry was The House of Being. Therefore indispensable? Poetic experience, unutterable, that personal, intimate moment, absolutely gratuitous, must pass through the alchemical fire (the poet’s own body) to become the enigma of the poem, an incandescent union between words, those words that analogy reveals as being lovers.
For the poet, words are not inert, passive objects or forms, but living, complex beings, in constant mutation, guardians of all the uses that consciously or unawares have been made of them, capable of partial or total resurrections, more consonant or more vowel depending on their environment, either submissive (illusorily) or inventive, masked or daring, discreet or reserved, sound for the eye, in search of new affinities to fecundate them.
Having lost, by excess and deprivation, all subjectivity, launched into the impersonal space of everyone, could this speech become a source of inspiration for an unconceivable new knowledge, a new living?
Even in sorrow the poet, by transforming the consistency of sand into pure transparency, by disappearing, holding back nothing, being nothing more than the pane of glass where the other presses his brow, celebrates life, endlessly : he has no other role.

Susan Wise