April 16:
This is the big poem. This poem is the one I have been writing for four years. In most of that time, I had never conceived of this collection, of the possibility of attempting personas, allusions, mythology, or whatever else I have poured into this. But I was writing this poem all the same. I still don’t know all its words yet. This poem is the reason my bookshelf has lost any semblance of organization; it is the reason my copy of The Inferno sits at the bottom of my feet when I am writing.
I hope, by the end of this poem, I will have said everything I have been meaning to say. Even if it does not sound how I thought it would; it will still have all the words (or their best counterparts), so that I may tell you everything which I have kept hidden. It is likely that this poem won’t make very much sense. I suppose that will never be helped. It seems even in confession, I cannot help but hide.
Here, try reading what you can. Don’t worry, the words have already changed.
Foster, I would love to hear you write or talk a bit (maybe in a future CR?) about the process of using a typewriter instead of a computer or pen/paper to compose. How is this composition method informing the work? How would it be different or how would you understand it differently if written by hand? (I’m also curious how many past drafts of a poem you keep…)