I like the idea of ‘throwing’ a poem in the way you’d throw a pot, in pottery. I feel like the way I write now is to throw a lot of words onto the page, then work into them to sculpt a story or poem. I used to write very slowly, agonise over every word and edit as I went, but gradually I’ve trained myself into getting ideas down more quickly.
As I promised myself, I’ve been making more effort to write small stones (short, in-the-moment poems). Here are a couple I wrote in the last few days:
On long drives
we always looked out for windmills,
squatting on hillsides: voiceless sails poised
to catch a breeze.
Perhaps it was that silence
that made them so curious.
the slow torporous rhythm
of being read to sleep.