Sometimes an idea grows in my mind and takes off at a tangent in directions not controlled by me. I pick up words and chew them over. I feel and touch and shape and mould them. I mix and savour, dissect and discard them. I find words hiding in forgotten places, unusual words now out of tune. I sift and search and sulk and mope. I gaze into space, chew pencils, can’t eat. At last a poem, like a pot thrown by a potter, tenderly coaxed and nurtured, moulded with love and care, takes life and shape and sings with melody. Easy isn’t it?