Not long ago I wrote a series of poems in response to the collection, The Dream We Carry, by Olav Hauge, a Norwegian. He opened a door for me that I had not known stood closed. He deals in elementals. “A good poem,” he wrote, “should smell of tea, / or of raw earth and freshly cut wood.”
Art is a conversation with the past. Sometimes it is an argument.
—Frederick Smock, On Poetry: Palm-Of-The-Hand Essays (Broadstone Books, 2017)