A Thought On Poetry

I wonder how a poet thinks? Bound by circumstance or random occurrences, as they rise and fall like changes in weather, lost in the turmoil of cloud cover and threatening wind storms? If I were a poet perhaps I would know of it, and better understand and recognize the idiosyncrasies of time and space, word and phrase when feelings and emotions. love and hate rise and fall. I am neither Shakespeare, Browning, Frost nor Bly not even Whitman, Plath, Bishop, Yates or Hughes but surely their thought and imagery portrayed could tantalize and tweak my interest into some form of expression. A new generation rises, hopefully, I am one who often lacks conformity to form and meter, which might be best for each of us who must write the words most meanigful to us, cannot help but ring true to who we are within ourselves.