Brooke Forbes

If a poetry collection is a conversation with a friend,

Soft and subtle,

A journey of sorts,

A journal of sorts,

A beginning to a turning point,

A turning point to an end.

And on this journey if I arm my accomplice with the soothing sounds of words,

Stringing sentences together in the hope of sharing the art of ideas,

If this journey unwraps someone’s ideas of what builds moments and meaning, 

Of what forms fragments and linear thought,

If it marks time and pays homage to a process,

Then how,

Can I,

With the full knowledge of the tricks of the written word,

Edit a previous poem and keep its authenticity?

How can I erase a word or tighten a phrasing,

Without acknowledging,

That this time capsule,

This moment in my personal history,

Could also be erased, forgotten, miscommunicated.

And therefore our journey together could be somehow punctured,

Our movement through time and space maligned, pushed off track, like a hiker taking a stumbling fall. 

What then of form, you ask?

Of perfecting one’s trade?

Of practice and deliberation?

But I say, as we travel, there’s a conversation to be had around memory and communication, around building a product that marks time.

And in it,

We must remember,

To pay,

Homage to past missteps and mistakes.