Poets, think of your poem as a container on a workbench, which can store anything, especially nuts, bolts, screws, nails, lengths of thread and in one workshop I knew and loved, chicken eggs, because they had the run of the place, and they did so love these tins went they went a-laying. Here’s what those poems looked like a generation ago, and a generation before that and a generation before that. Everyone had one, or ten.
What containers do you use today? Because, gasp, we wouldn’t want our screws lying around loose, right? As you can see here, the bottom of a margarine tub (looking a little wounded) is trying its best to replace the roll-your-own tobacco tin in the world that came after roll-your-own poetry.
As evidenced by the sawdust on the left, saw-your-own poetry is still alive and well. Notice the chair part propping up the grinder. That’s the poet’s way!