The Grace Of My Home

Poetry starts at the border where the narrative stops. It ventures into regions of the unconscious where nothing is clear or distinctly defined; it navigates through the fog, collecting impressions, intuitions, and diffused emotions; it gives up the clarity of prose, with its extended metaphors, its inner monologues, and the “clear enigma” of its symbols, becoming lost in a darker and more dangerous world, where ideas are fleetingly illuminated by flashes of intuition and by sudden and frightening insights.