For me, poems most often start with words and phrases, not ideas.

I might hear a word spoken aloud and think that there’s something interesting behind it, waiting to be heard.

Sometimes I start writing a poem by making a list of words or phrases that I want to include in it. Once I have enough words to fill a piece of scrap paper, I am ready to begin.

Then I start pulling words out of my list and using them in lines. I let the poem emerge in the way that feels most natural. I try to figure out the shape of the stanzas and enjambments based on what seems most aesthetically interesting in the moment of composition.

Sometimes I will get to a point where one line stands out and I say to myself, “oh this poem is about friendship” or “this poem is about how thinking is never finished.” When this happens during composition, I might start to reframe things a bit to let the idea come through more clearly.

But focusing too much on an idea or message feels dangerous. I’d rather write a poem that comes across as a pointless collection of odd phrases than write a poem that feels like it’s trying to convey an argument. After all, if I wanted to write an argument, I would write an essay.

I think of composition as a kind of phenomenology. We are constantly framing our experiences in relation to conventional linguistic frames. As part of this process, we rely on cliches and platitudes to understand our most profound inner moment. But if we slow down and look at the world through defamiliarized language, it’s possible to see the ordinary in a new way.

The more that I write poetry, the more I recognize the strangeness of language.