Dismantling the poem.

What makes a poem right?

Through the years I have written a lot of poetry.  Each time, being a scribe changes.  With the differing face of the poet, comes the different end result of the poem.  Where does the umbilical chord get lost when it does?  How can you set out with your words gathered with one thing in mind when by the end there is no trace to the origin.  Sometimes when I write I feel like I start in a lush forest and end up barefoot in a desert, sand caked on my lips.  What I'm trying to say in a round about way that often times the connect between the first and last line is bridged by the reader and not the poet.  So is interpretation the key to a good poem and if so, does that mean that poetry should be left open for interpretation always without any distinct value?  As a writer, when you read a poem after having just written it, it's incredible how much better it may have sounded in your head.  I try to come to the table with my most honest voice and never compromise it, yet sometimes the entire destination is sabotaged by this narcissistic Napoleonic approach.  Never worry about a detail that is too private or shelter a detail but denote to it?  Poetry is unassuming and yet the word has taken on a very dramatic face over time.  Shakespeare's poetry touched a multitude of audiences and centuries of generations and his poetic pieces are still prominent in the twenty first century.  I want a poem that can give itself over to me and dazzle but still remain somewhat unknown.  Emily Dickinson was a master of the written word with her constant control over linguistics and grammatical technique.  I guess the point is to not just let go on the page without an idea you are trying to unearth but simultaneously not to try and control the poem.  I write for me and the more I write for myself the more honest my poems get.  I have found in writing poetry that I am a control freak, a disaster in many ways and at the same time a poignant and private human being.  Maybe in essence the poet and the poem never really go hand in hand but rather walk side by side, nodding at each other to acknowledge where they are different.