reading poetry, gulping down the meat
and juice of it, the salt and the sweet
in whole chunks not bothering to pick apart
the texture and the fine grained detail.
then worrying at the bones and the gristle,
the muscle and tendon, the inner guts of it,
the tenderness, the delicate dedicated
rhythm and the glue of rhyming.
building a poem, the sense shatters,
exhaustions of nothing,
untangling the words from thoughts that run,
the way that language comes,
exhalation of experience,
pleasure on the tongue.
Jane Wheeler went to art college over forty years ago, has made a living principally as a designer and maker of clothing, restarted her ceramics career ten years ago, sees writing as an important part of her creativity.