Mary Oliver’s poem, “Prayer,” (from “Thirst,” 2006) speaks volumes about praise-making and poem-making.  Yes, we love the blue iris, though possibly not before it’s sent up its skinny stalks and roused our attention, before the unfurling.  But what about the weeds that grow around it, the wild artichoke, and the skunk grass?  Glittering glass in the alleyway?

Paying attention, she suggests, is the way to go.  Looking closely at what’s there.  The grimy couch somebody set out on the sidewalk.  A fallen gate.  The way fog slips down from Twin Peaks to the city below.

Form arises out of function, and a poem, if it’s going to have any life at all, will shape itself, tell us which way it wants to go.  “Patch a few words together,” Oliver says, and don’t make them grandiose, as if you’re standing on a soapbox.  Consider a whisper as opposed to a shout.