What Sparks Poetry is a series of original essays that explores experiences and ideas that spark the writing of new poems. In our series Language as Form, poets write about poetic language as patterned language—how words as sound, voice, sentence, and song become elements of form. Each Monday's delivery brings you a poem and an excerpt from the essay.
writings on the wall

I was the one who said
the ditch in the backyard was maybe a river
that had flowed from somewhere else and was flowing to
somewhere else

I was the one who said where are you now?

I was the one who told about the one whose photograph in
the book of Eakins’s photographs was of
a guy the perfection of his body was his doom, and
Shakespeare said so too

Right there before my eyes was the one who said
where are you now? Where
are you Anne? I was the one

Who saw how Aeneas lay there in the darkness watching the
light, the little motions of light moving around the ceiling
and telling him something

I was the one whose mother’s voice called out of the urn
beseeching

I was the one who said how the day light knocks at the lid in
vain

I said be keep to your self be close be wall all dark

I said good people are punished, like all the rest

I said the boats on the river are taking it easy

I said the brain in your head whispers

I said death lives in our words

I said how beautiful is the past, how few the implements,
and how carefully made

I was the one who said
her body witness is, so also is her voice

I said better not know too much too soon all about it

where rhymes with beware, I said

I said it is the body breathing,
the crib of knowing

I wish I could recall now the lines written across my dream is what
I said

I said the horse’s hooves know all about it, the sky’s statement of
oncoming darkness

The fumes on the roof are visible and drifting away like
martyred souls, I said

I said the knees of the committee touch each other under the
table, furtive in pleasure

I said
Eurydice, My Father

I said we huddle over the ice,
the two of us

To squeeze from a stone its juice is her art’s happiness is
what I said

I am the one who said,
I hum to myself myself in a humming dream

And how we’re caught, I said,
In language: in being, in feeling, in acting. I said, it’s
exacting

I said the sea upheld us, would not let us go nor drown us,
and we looked down say a million years, and there were the
fish

See, the dead bloom in the dark, I said

The nightjar feeds while flying softly, smiling, smiling, I said

I said revenant whitefaced Death is walking not knowing
whether

I said the formula on the blackboard said who are you

I said Utnapishtim said to Gilgamesh blink of an eye

I said where are you now    Where are you Anne

Stanza my stone my father poet said

vwx    stones and sticks

The day doesn’t know what day it is, I said

What’s in the way the sun shines down, I said

I cried in my mute heart,
What is my name and nature
from the book SOME THINGS I SAID / Grolier Press
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Cover image of David Ferry's book, Some Things I Said
What Sparks Poetry:
Heather Green on Language as Form


“In ‘Some Things I Said,’ David Ferry turns to his own work, his single-authored poems and translations, and draws forth a new poem in a new form, an elemental assemblage of fragments, lines sometimes presented almost exactly as they were in the source poem and other times altered.”
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Black-and-white portrait headshot of Ada Limon
"Stopping by with Ada Limón"

"It’s hard for me to know what anyone will experience when they read my poems. I know that I feel honored that anyone reads them at all. Perhaps a reader might feel less alone or more in tune with whatever is happening around them? Or maybe their mind will wander into a whole new beautiful place that has nothing to do with my poem, but even that would delight me because it would mean my poem ignited a memory or the imagination." 

via POETRY SOCIETY OF AMERICA
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