![]() For me, these trees are a symbol, a visual embodiment of the process. Every time I see these trees I am reminded of the poetic voice – how its spirit can be contorted, stretched, tested by the inflections of the wild. Yew trees surround the cabins there, and the continual slant of the wind has forced them into an unusually decrepit angle. I often visit the moors in West Yorkshire, habiting a mile or so from Haworth. Yet something crucial happens when this single tone is affected, or even altered by the presence of a second force, one outside of our control. Robert Graves stated that poets do not have an audience, that we’re ‘talking to a single person all the time’, and this is true. ![]() ![]() ![]() As a poet my concern lies with harnessing this inner music, but more directly and perhaps, most importantly, how my writing is influenced by the external music of the wild. ![]() Poetic form is, by definition, a kind of music – something that translates our inner measures, our private incantations, into language. Helen Calcutt listens to the tonal resonance of poetry in her article, ‘Outer Music and Inner Music: The Incantations of the Wild’. ![]()
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