I am not entirely comfortable with writing. Not alone or with others, not employing other sources or materials. Not as a person, writing, for I am called to pray, constantly, and have been so forever, since before time took shape as the passing of this world.
But I write and as I write I ask, is it okay to write. I hope it is okay. Fine. I am quite sure it is okay but ultimately, I cannot be comfortable with it. I do so, I write, of course, as I am propelled to do so. And I am conscious of no impulse or need or desire for words of doubt or apology. No, I am not sorry I write. Of course not. And this is about my understanding only. What I mean to say, to indicate, is that in writing I am one, composing; putting into form words from out of one or another additional form of correspondence.
So, I write. But what is that? I do not look to anyone to explain to me what it is, its value. That would be superfluous and selfish, a lion looking to other lions to comment on the meat I have brought to the ground; a satellite reflecting on transmissions to those who rely on the images transmitted. No, writing is more than this if it is speaking as one who is not one. I do hope this.
You would expect nothing less (or other...) of me (at this point!) then to say, to write, that poetry in form is a kind of admission. It is a means of confession. Of worth and loss, of presence and dependence.
To say at one and the same time, at the exact same moment, I am, and I am yours.
I have written poems in form, the block/box form, for 30 years. I was prompted by the double acrostics of Herbert, and now I too am baptised and confirmed, and I have published/confessed 20 manuscripts, and all of this with every other fact and circumstance I can recount makes perfecte sense. But this is not so much about me, as it is about you; you, who made me, you who read me.
We are one who love. In love we are one. As we render and as we read, we are one, in one. To know this, quite precisely, is perhaps a form with one end, in one beginning.