A poem is—by its nature—an unconsummated sex act. The poet follows a kind of arousal, the desire to create a sensory moment in the reader and in him/herself that will exist, hovering in its enacted and enacting state, whenever he/she revisits the poem. And this sensory moment is designed—is defined—to remain always on the cusp of, at the brim of, just shy of any completion, satiety, and (resulting) tristesse. One can always dive back into the moment before completion just by sending the eyes back up the page, reforming the words with the tongue, beginning again.
Isn't that amazing?
Fellow Bloggers—JC, DD, LW, JAE, CB, RM, SM, SH, and DL—thanks for the invitation to this party! (This is raucus, and a bit surreal. I've never known a book, an anthology, to come to life before...).
Readers, All: Welcome to that in-media-res, that penultima, the Day before Valentine's Day blog!
-Jenny Factor
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