"As I was finishing the late poems of Exiles, something in me began to feel stifled, dumb, inarticulate. My grand language failed to express or reveal crucial areas of feeling. I flailed about looking for other ways to make a noise. I had admired Marianne Moore's syllabics—keeping a syllable count, avoiding metrical feet. Holding onto the count of syllables as to a guardrail, I wrote a poem called “Je Suis Une Table.” I thought is was a poem of wit exploiting a language error--tables can't talk-but it wasn't; it was an outcry, complaining of habitual limitation or inhibition. This poem began a journey. Eventually, I no longer demanded that my poems explain themselves before they got written; I learned to trust the impetus, to ride the wave. The wave was feeling, expressed largely in long vowels. I worked by accepting an image compelled by rhythm and sound—without requiring that it explain its purpose."
I read Hall's book on my Kindle, that's why it has a location, rather than a page number. Love that Kindle!