Last week I suddenly wrote a poem again after not having done any such audacious a thing for quite a while. Gone seem to be the days when I would sit for hours on end, brooding and broiling, invoking the Muse and yielding reams of poems, some of which I felt to be sublime; others that never really caught my imagination in the cold light of day when re-reading.
Am I still a poet? I think so. Perhaps more than the actual 'output', to use a decidedly a-poetic word, being a poet is perhaps a state of mind or a way of approaching the world. It's the extent to which you are able to see the wonder at work in the mystery of life itself. If that's still my criterion then I am most certainly still a poet. And I know it.
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