Though I keep my poetry writing time consistent–not long, but everyday, with reading and notes– I find that my creativity and actual-finishing-of-poems varies, depending on what is going on in life. And, as cliche as it is, I suppose suffering does beget poetry.
I don’t want to go into detail, but I will say of all the problems we could have, ours is not a Dire one (it doesn’t threaten those I love in a permanent way) but it is a problem and a cause of Stress, though it is so romanticized (only in such wealthy societies can it be looked at as romantic to be an orphan or very poor). We have our health and each other.
But it is a sizeable problem with no easy solution and so I supposed that all my poetry writing would come to a complete stop as we wonder and pray and wonder. However, I’ve written more poetry in this month than I had in the earlier half of the entire year.
Escapism? Or relief in the arts. I suppose a way to vent emotions…to create a controlled art out of What Is Out of My Control. Because on the page I can control it. I can shape it. I can bring out the beauty and tuck away the ugly.
And that is one way that writing poetry is profoundly useful to me.