I'm meandering through The Crafty Poet: A Portable Workshop by Diane Lockward, and today this paragraph by Jeffrey Levine (a poet, publisher, and musician) is staying with me:
Here's what I know. Fully realized poems come from the body and appeal to the body. Words talk to each other with the full range of sounds and silences that life's music contains and fails to contain, embraced at either end by a line (that grid that gives the sentence its shape, that puts sufficient pressure on the words within to come alive). There, in those lines, guided by the gods of specificity and the muses of sensory details (those nine still hard-at-it daughters of Zeus), it is sound that gives life to a poem, gives space to its contents, gives shape to its denizens, and animates time itself, the push and pull of it, the pell-mell of it, the marking time of it, the very feel of movement is conveyed through the device of sound. Artfully done, the sounds of the line become the music of the line, and the music of the next line. They sing.