The end is simple in mathematics. A theorem, to be complete, necessitates a conclusion. Likewise, with a narrative the end is habitually the climax of the plot. The end naturally comes. Does this happen in poetry? Not so easily.

I often have an idea for a poem and then mentally sketch the ideas and images that I wish to cover. The poem becomes a tableau in much the same way as a painting is both one and many things. With a painting there is generally no start or end. There is a focal point: a main thread of thought and expression. But it is hard to know when I have finished with the focal point and its supporting cast. Although a poem runs linearly its essence isn’t necessarily completed by the final line.

So how do I deal with this conflict? Redrafting is one method. Forcing myself to tackle the idea in a completely different way, just as a writing exercise, helps me see where gaps in the original may lie. Often I skip over details that are ultimately rewarding because the original style I adopted didn’t prompt them. Style and ideas can often fall into the same ruts.

Another exercise is to leave a draft and come back to it a week or so later. This can be a difficult decision to make sometimes. It can be tempting to keep running with something while the idea is ‘hot’. Running is an apt analogy here, because you can run yourself ragged chasing some sense of completion. You work so hard towards it that the sweat gets in your eyes and you have no way of recognising the finish line.

Recently, I drafted a poem in quite a stark format over which I intended overlay a distinctive and more verbose voice. After the draft I had really bad block and ended up not being able to commit to anything for over a month. I then came back to the draft with an open mind and found that the draft itself captured everything I originally intended. The toil and sweat had made me blind to the finished poem.

This month's favourites:
   Kacey Musgraves, Pageant Material
   Vladimir Nabokov, Despair
   Goodfellas (1990)