Maybe I’ll check out some Mark Doty poetry this winter, or this summer, or this fall, or this spring, whichever break we’re about to begin.
I’ve lost track, though I count down the remaining of each carefully and eagerly, like the soldier in his foxhole who counts down the hours to sunrise, knowing that, though a new assault approaches with the dawn, at least it beats fighting at nighttime.
That’s kind of how poetry is, when you think about it. Each cycle represents your moments of creativity. You battle each fiercely. For you, completion of something true, or telling, or vulnerable is victory, while defeat is knowing that you’ve done less than you know yourself capable in a moment you felt creative.
Those are the moments every writer dreads, between the sunrise of ideation and the dark night of a lack of inspiration; the moments you realize you could have won the day, but because you wasted the chance to triumph over the moment with your ideas, you rather forgot them, and will instead have to try and survive as a writer through the night.
God knows how long such darkness will last though.