There is a poem by Ted Hughes called Thought Fox.
In that poem Hughes talks about how the poem is written, the act of creation. I thought to myself what after the poem is written? What happens to the poet once s/he has created the product?
It’s not like Ford’s idea of mass production, is it? Creativity comes only when it wants to, like a lizard that suddenly lets itself out of camouflage and is known.
This is a part of a poem I wrote in response to that idea.
The page printed and then the poet
Disappears, goes to the fridge looks for something to eat,
Searches for the children, are they doing their homework?
Thinks about this life, the wrinkles and creases that make discomfort
A normal outcome.
Then hell fire
On a sofa between a novel or a movie
Suppose tomorrow I sit there
On that revolving chair
And the thoughts do not encircle the universe?