You have an idea. Or a phrase. A line. A whole stanza. And it’s banging around in your head. You have to get it out and on paper. Before you forget. You think you know where it’s going. Where you’ll end up. You’re off, headed in that direction, approaching your destination as if you were coasting downhill and, whoa, there’s a bump and wait, you’re veering off and wow, I didn’t see that coming.
Let it drive. Take the ride. Surprising? Kind of. Scary? Could be. A finisher? Time will tell. But the more you try to steer it back, the harder it kicks. The words won’t bend your way, the theme won’t stay on the road. And if you want it, need to know where it ends, you loosen the reins and let it run, or it will never sound Right, and you will turn the page on it and learn to live with a vague dissatisfaction.
Do you write the poem or does the poem write itself? Does it matter? Are we there yet?